Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

For dead, her beauty will no beauty have,

  But thy face looks most lovely in the grave.

  Enter the Prince of Cyprus and Agripyne.

  Gall. See where they come together, hand in hand.

  Orle. O watch, sweet Galloway, when their hands do part,

  Between them shalt thou find my murdered heart.

  Cypr. By this then it seems a thing impossible, to know when an English lady loves truly.

  Agrip. Not so, for when her soul steals into her heart, and her heart leaps up to her eyes, and her eyes drop into her hands, then if she say, Here’s my hand! she’s your own, — else never.

  Cyp. Here’s a pair of your prisoners, let’s try their opinion.

  Agrip. My kind prisoners, well encountered; the Prince of Cyprus here and myself have been wrangling about a question of love: my lord of Orleans, you look lean, and likest a lover — Whether is it more torment to love a lady and never enjoy her, or always to enjoy a lady whom you cannot choose but hate?

  Orle. To hold her ever in mine arms whom I loath in my heart, were some plague, yet the punishment were no more than to be enjoined to keep poison in my hand, yet never to taste it.

  Agrip. But say you should be compelled to swallow the poison?

  Orle. Then a speedy death would end a speeding misery. But to love a lady and never enjoy her, oh it is not death, but worse than damnation; ’tis hell, ’tis ——

  Agrip. No more, no more, good Orleans; nay then, I see my prisoner is in love too.

  Cypr. Methinks, soldiers cannot fall into the fashion of love.

  Agrip. Methinks a soldier is the most faithful lover of all men else; for his affection stands not upon compliment. His wooing is plain home-spun stuff; there’s no outlandish thread in it, no rhetoric. A soldier casts no figures to get his mistress’ heart; his love is like his valour in the field, when he pays downright blows.

  Gall. True, madam, but would you receive such payment?

  Agrip. No, but I mean, I love a soldier best for his plain dealing.

  Cypr. That’s as good as the first.

  Agrip. Be it so, that goodness I like: for what lady can abide to love a spruce silken-face courtier, that stands every morning two or three hours learning how to look by his glass, how to speak by his glass, how to sigh by his glass, how to court his mistress by his glass? I would wish him no other plague, but to have a mistress as brittle as glass.

  Gall. And that were as bad as the horn plague.

  Cypr. Are any lovers possessed with this madness?

  Agrip. What madmen are not possessed with this love? Yet by my troth, we poor women do but smile in our sleeves to see all this foppery: yet we all desire to see our lovers attired gallantly, to hear them sing sweetly, to behold them dance comely and such like. But this apish monkey fashion of effeminate niceness, out upon it! Oh, I hate it worse than to be counted a scold.

  Cypr. Indeed, men are most regarded, when they least regard themselves.

  Gall. And women most honoured, when they show most mercy to their lovers.

  Orle. But is’t not a miserable tyranny, to see a lady triumph in the passions of a soul languishing through her cruelty?

  Cypr. Methinks it is.

  Gall. Methinks ’tis more than tyranny.

  Agrip. So think not I; for as there is no reason to hate any that love us, so it were madness to love all that do not hate us; women are created beautiful, only because men should woo them; for ‘twere miserable tyranny to enjoin poor women to woo men: I would not hear of a woman in love, for my father’s kingdom.

  Cypr. I never heard of any woman that hated love.

  Agrip. Nor I: but we had all rather die than confess we love; our glory is to hear men sigh whilst we smile, to kill them with a frown, to strike them dead with a sharp eye, to make you this day wear a feather, and to-morrow a sick nightcap. Oh, why this is rare, there’s a certain deity in this, when a lady by the magic of her looks, can turn a man into twenty shapes.

  Orle. Sweet friend, she speaks this but to torture me.

  Gall. I’ll teach thee how to plague her: love her not.

  Agrip. Poor Orleans, how lamentably he looks: if he stay, he’ll make me surely love him for pure pity. I must send him hence, for of all sorts of love, I hate the French; I pray thee, sweet prisoner, entreat Lord Longaville to come to me presently.

  Orle. I will, and esteem myself more than happy, that you will employ me. [Exit.

  Agrip. Watch him, watch him for God’s sake, if he sigh not or look not back.

  Cypr. He does both: but what mystery lies in this?

  Agrip. Nay, no mystery, ’tis as plain as Cupid’s forehead: why this is as it should be.— “And esteem myself more than happy, that you will employ me.” My French prisoner is in love over head and ears.

  Cypr. It’s wonder how he ‘scapes drowning.

  Gall. With whom, think you?

  Agrip. With his keeper, for a good wager: Ah, how glad is he to obey! And how proud am I to command in this empire of affection! Over him and such spongy-livered youths, that lie soaking in love, I triumph more with mine eye, than ever he did over a soldier with his sword. Is’t not a gallant victory for me to subdue my father’s enemy with a look? Prince of Cyprus, you were best take heed, how you encounter an English lady.

  Cypr. God bless me from loving any of you, if all be so cruel.

  Agrip. God bless me from suffering you to love me, if you be not so formable.

  Cypr. Will you command me any service, as you have done Orleans?

  Agrip. No other service but this, that, as Orleans, you love me, for no other reason, but that I may torment you.

  Cypr. I will: conditionally, that in all company I may call you my tormentor.

  Agrip. You shall: conditionally, that you never beg for mercy. Come, my Lord of Galloway.

  Gall. Come, sweet madam.

  [Exeunt all except the Prince of Cyprus.

  Cypr. The ruby-coloured portals of her speech

  Were closed by mercy: but upon her eye,

  Attired in frowns, sat murdering cruelty.

  Re-enter Agripyne and listens.

  She’s angry, that I durst so high aspire.

  O, she disdains that any stranger’s breast

  Should be a temple for her deity:

  She’s full of beauty, full of bitterness.

  Till now, I did not dally with love’s fire:

  And when I thought to try his flames indeed,

  I burnt me even to cinders. O, my stars,

  Why from my native shore did your beams guide me,

  To make me dote on her that doth deride me?

  [Agripyne kneels: Cyprus walks musing.

  Agrip. Hold him in this mind, sweet Cupid, I conjure thee. O, what music these hey-hos make! I was about to cast my little self into a great love trance for him, fearing his heart had been flint: but since I see ’tis pure virgin wax, he shall melt his bellyful: for now I know how to temper him. [Exit; as she departs Cyprus spies her.

  Cypr. Never beg mercy? yet be my tormentor.

  I hope she heard me not: doubtless she did,

  And now will she insult upon my passions,

  And vex my constant love with mockeries.

  Nay, then I’ll be mine own physician,

  And outface love, and make her think that I

  Mourned thus, because I saw her standing by.

  What news, my Lord of Cornwall?

  Enter Cornwall.

  Cornw. This fair prince,

  One of your countrymen, is come to court,

  A lusty gallant brave, in Cyprus’ isle,

  With fifty bard horses prancing at his heels,

  Backed by as many strong-limbed Cypriots,

  All whom he keeps in pay: whose offered service,

  Our king with arms of gladness hath embraced.

  Cypr. Born in the isle of Cyprus? what’s his name?

  Cornw. His servants call him Fortunatus’ son.

  Cypr. Rich Fortunatus’ son? Is h
e arrived?

  Enter Longaville, Galloway, and Chester with jewels.

  Longa. This he bestowed on me.

  Chest. And this on me.

  Gall. And this his bounteous hand enforced me take.

  Longa. I prize this jewel at a hundred marks,

  Yet would he needs bestow this gift on me.

  Cypr. My lords, whose hand hath been thus prodigal?

  Gall. Your countryman, my lord, a Cypriot.

  Longa. The gallant sure is all compact of gold,

  To every lady hath he given rich jewels,

  And sent to every servant in the court

  Twenty fair English angels.

  Cypr. This is rare.

  Enter Lincoln.

  Linc. My lords, prepare yourselves for revelling,

  ’Tis the king’s pleasure that this day be spent

  In royal pastimes, that this golden lord,

  For so all that behold him, christen him,

  May taste the pleasures of our English court.

  Here comes the gallant, shining like the sun. [Trumpets sound.

  Enter Athelstane, Andelocia, Agripyne, Orleans, Ladies, and other Attendants, also Insultado. Music sounds within.

  Andel. For these your royal favours done to me,

  Being a poor stranger, my best powers shall prove,

  By acts of worth, the soundness of my love.

  Athelst. Herein your love shall best set out itself,

  By staying with us: if our English isle

  Hold any object welcome to your eyes,

  Do but make choice, and claim it as your prize. [The King and Cyprus confer aside.

  Andel. I thank your grace: would he durst keep his word,

  I know what I would claim. Tush, man, be bold,

  Were she a saint, she may be won with gold.

  Cypr. ’Tis strange, I must confess, but in this pride,

  His father Fortunatus, if he live,

  Consumes his life in Cyprus: still he spends,

  And still his coffers with abundance swell,

  But how he gets these riches none can tell. [The King and Agripyne confer aside.

  Athelst. Hold him in talk: come hither, Agripyne.

  Cypr. But what enticed young Andelocia’s soul

  To wander hither?

  Andel. That which did allure

  My sovereign’s son, the wonder of the place.

  Agrip. This curious heap of wonders, which an Empress

  Gave him, he gave me, and by Venus’ hand,

  The warlike Amorato needs would swear,

  He left his country Cyprus for my love.

  Athelst. If by the sovereign magic of thine eye,

  Thou canst enchant his looks to keep the circles

  Of thy fair cheeks, be bold to try their charms,

  Feed him with hopes, and find the royal vein,

  That leads this Cypriot to his golden mine.

  Here’s music spent in vain, lords, fall to dancing.

  Cypr. My fair tormentor, will you lend a hand?

  Agrip. I’ll try this stranger’s cunning in a dance.

  Andel. My cunning is but small, yet who’ll not prove

  To shame himself for such a lady’s love?

  Orle. These Cypriots are the devils that torture me.

  He courts her, and she smiles, but I am born

  To be her beauty’s slave, and her love’s scorn.

  Andel. I shall never have the face to ask the question twice.

  Agrip. What’s the reason? Cowardliness or pride?

  Andel. Neither: but ’tis the fashion of us Cypriots, both men and women, to yield at first assault, and we expect others should do the like.

  Agrip. It’s a sign, that either your women are very black, and are glad to be sped, or your men very fond, and will take no denial.

  Andel. Indeed our ladies are not so fair as you.

  Agrip. But your men more venturous at a breach than you, or else they are all dastardly soldiers.

  Andel. He that fights under these sweet colours, and yet turns coward, let him be shot to death with the terrible arrows of fair ladies’ eyes.

  Athelst. Nay, Insultado, you must not deny us.

  Insultad. Mi corazon es muy pesado, mi anima muy atormentada. No por los Cielos: El pie de Español no hace musica en tierra ingles.

  Cypr. Sweet Insultado, let us see you dance.

  I have heard the Spanish dance is full of state.

  Insultad. Verdad, señor: la danza española es muy alta,

  Majestica, y para monarcas: vuestra Inglesa,

  Baja, fantastica, y muy humilde.

  Agrip. Doth my Spanish prisoner deny to dance? He has sworn to me by the cross of his pure Toledo, to be my servant: by that oath, my Castilian prisoner, I conjure you to show your cunning; though all your body be not free, I am sure your heels are at liberty.

  Insultad. Nolo quiero contra deseo; vuestro ojo hace conquista á su prisionero: Oyerer la a pavan española; sea vuestra musica y gravidad, y majestad: Paje, daime tabacco, toma my capa, y my espada. Mas alta, mas alta: Desviaios, desviaios, compañeros, mas alta, mas alta. [He dances.

  Athelst. Thanks, Insultado.

  Cypr. ’Tis most excellent.

  Agrip. The Spaniard’s dance is as his deeds be, full of pride.

  Athelst. The day grows old, and what remains unspent,

  Shall be consumed in banquets. Agripyne,

  Leave us a while, if Andelocia please,

  Go bear our beauteous daughter company.

  And. Fortune, I thank thee: now thou smil’st on me. [Exeunt Agripyne, Andelocia, and Ladies.

  Athelst. This Cypriot bears a gallant princely mind.

  My lord, of what birth is your countryman?

  Think not, sweet prince, that I propound this question,

  To wrong you in your love to Agripyne:

  Our favours grace him to another end.

  Nor let the wings of your affection droop,

  Because she seems to shun love’s gentle lure.

  Believe it on our word, her beauty’s prize

  Only shall yield a conquest to your eyes.

  But tell me what’s this Fortunatus’ son?

  Cypr. Of honourable blood, and more renowned

  In foreign kingdoms, whither his proud spirit,

  Plumed with ambitious feathers, carries him,

  Than in his native country; but last day

  The father and the sons were, through their riots,

  Poor and disdained of all, but now they glister

  More bright than Midas: if some damnèd fiend

  Fed not his bags, this golden pride would end.

  Athelst. His pride we’ll somewhat tame, and curb the head

  Of his rebellious prodigality:

  He hath invited us, and all our peers,

  To feast with him to-morrow; his provision,

  I understand, may entertain three kings.

  But Lincoln, let our subjects secretly

  Be charged on pain of life that not a man

  Sell any kind of fuel to his servants.

  Cypr. This policy shall clip his golden wings,

  And teach his pride what ’tis to strive with kings.

  Athelst. Withdraw awhile: [Exeunt all except Athelstane.

  None filled his hands with gold, for we set spies,

  To watch who fed his prodigality:

  He hung the marble bosom of our court,

  As thick with glist’ring spangles of pure gold,

  As e’er the spring hath stuck the earth with flowers.

  Unless he melt himself to liquid gold,

  Or be some god, some devil, or can transport

  A mint about him, by enchanted power,

  He cannot rain such showers. With his own hands

  He threw more wealth about in every street,

  Than could be thrust into a chariot.

  He’s a magician sure, and to some fiend,

  His soul by infernal covenants has he s
old,

  Always to swim up to the chin in gold.

  Be what he can be, if those doting fires,

  Wherein he burns for Agripyne’s love,

  Want power to melt from him this endless mine,

  Then like a slave we’ll chain him in our tower,

  Where tortures shall compel his sweating hands

  To cast rich heaps into our treasury. [Exit.

  SCENE II. — The same.

  MUSIC SOUNDING STILL; a curtain being drawn, Andelocia is discovered sleeping in Agripyne’s lap; she has his purse, and she and another lady tie another like it in its place, and then rise from him. Enter Athelstane.

  Agrip. I have found the sacred spring that never ebbs.

  Leave us: [Exit Lady.] But I’ll not show’t your majesty

  Till you have sworn by England’s royal crown,

  To let me keep it.

  Athelst. By my crown I swear,

  None but fair Agripyne the gem shall wear.

  Agrip. Then is this mine: see, father, here’s the fire

  Whose gilded beams still burn, this is the sun

  That ever shines, the tree that never dies,

  Here grows the Garden of Hesperides;

  The outside mocks you, makes you think ’tis poor,

  But entering it, you find eternal store.

  Athelst. Art sure of this? How didst thou drive it out?

  Agrip. Fear not his waking yet, I made him drink

  That soporiferous juice which was composed

  To make the queen, my mother, relish sleep,

  When her last sickness summoned her to Heaven.

  He sleeps profoundly: when his amorous eyes

  Had singed their wings in Cupid’s wanton flames,

  I set him all on fire, and promised love,

  In pride whereof, he drew me forth this purse,

  And swore, by this he multiplied his gold.

  I tried and found it true: and secretly

  Commanded music with her silver tongue,

  To chime soft lullabies into his soul,

  And whilst my fingers wantoned with his hair,

  T’entice the sleepy juice to charm his eyes,

  In all points was there made a purse, like his,

  Which counterfeit is hung in place of this.

  Athelst. More than a second kingdom hast thou won.

  Leave him, that when he wakes he may suspect,

  Some else has robbed him; come, dear Agripyne,

  If this strange purse his sacred virtues hold,

  We’ll circle England with a wall of gold. [Exeunt.