Linc. This doctor comes to mock your majesty.
Andel. No, by my trat la, but me lova musha musha merymant: come, madam, pre-artely stand still, and letta me feel you. Dis horn, O ’tis pretty horn, dis be facile, easy for pull de vey; but, madam, dis O be grand, grand horn, difficil, and very deep; ’tis perilous, a grand laroone. But, madam, prea be patient, we shall take it off vell.
Athelst. Thrice have we pared them off, but with fresh pain,
In compass of a thought they rise again.
Andel. It’s true, ’tis no easy mattra, to pull horn off, ’tis easy to pull on, but hard for pull off; some horn be so good fellow, he will still inhabit in de man’s pate, but ’tis all one for tat, I shall snap away all dis. Madam, trust dis down into your little belly.
Agrip. Father, I am in fear to taste his physic.
First let him work experiments on those.
Andel. I’ll sauce you for your infidelity.
In no place can I spy my wishing hat. [Aside.
Longa. Thou learned Frenchman, try thy skill on me,
More ugly than I am, I cannot be.
Montr. Cure me, and Montrose wealth shall all be thine.
Andel. ’Tis all one for dat! Shall do presently, madam, prea mark me. Monsieur, shamp dis in your two shaps, so, now Monsieur Long-villain; dis so; now dis; fear noting, ’tis eshelent medicine! so, now cram dis into your guts, and belly; so, now snap away dis whoreson four divela; Ha, ha, is no point good? [Pulls Longaville’s horns off.
Athelst. This is most strange.
Was’t painful, Longaville?
Longa. Ease took them off, and there remains no pain.
Agrip. O try thy sacred physic upon me.
Andel. No by my trat, ’tis no possibla, ’tis no possibla, al de mattra, all de ting, all de substance, all de medicine, be among his and his belly: ’tis no possibla, till me prepare more.
Athelst. Prepare it then, and thou shalt have more gold
From England’s coffers, than thy life can waste.
Andel. I must buy many costly tings, dat grow in Arabia, in Asia, and America, by my trat ’tis no possibla till anoder time, no point.
Agrip. There’s nothing in the world, but may for gold
Be bought in England; hold your lap, I’ll rain
A shower of angels.
Andel. Fie, fie, fie, fie, you no credit le dockature? Ha, but vel, ’tis all one for tat: ’tis no mattera for gold! vel, vel, vel, vel, vel, me have some more, prea say noting, shall be presently prepara for your horns.
(Aside.) She has my purse, and yonder lies my hat,
Work, brains, and once more make me fortunate. —
Vel, vel, vel, vel, be patient, madam, presently, presently! Be patient, me have two, tree, four and five medicines for de horn: presently, madam, stand you der, prea wid all my art, stand you all der, and say noting, — so! nor look noting dis vey. So, presently, presently, madam, snip dis horn off wid de rushes and anoder ting by and by, by and by, by and by. Prea look none dis vey, and say noting. [Takes his hat.
Athelst. Let no man speak, or look, upon his life.
Doctor, none here shall rob thee of thy skill.
Andel. So, taka dis hand: winck now prea artely with your two nyes: why so.
Would I were with my brother Ampedo! [Exit with Agripyne.
Agrip. Help, father, help, I am hurried hence perforce.
Athelst. Draw weapons, where’s the princess? follow him,
Stay the French doctor, stay the doctor there. [Cornwall and others run out, and presently re-enter.
Cornw. Stay him! ‘s heart, who dare stay him? ’tis the devil
In likeness of a Frenchman, of a doctor.
Look how a rascal kite having swept up
A chicken in his claws, so flies this hell-hound
In th’ air with Agripyne in his arms.
Orle. Mount every man upon his swiftest horse.
Fly several ways, he cannot bear her far.
Gall. These paths we’ll beat. [Exeunt Galloway and Orleans.
Linc. And this way shall be mine. [Exit.
Cornw. This way, my liege, I’ll ride. [Exit.
Athelst. And this way I:
No matter which way, to seek misery. [Exit.
Longa. I can ride no way, to out-run my shame.
Montr. Yes, Longaville, let’s gallop after too;
Doubtless this doctor was that Irish devil,
That cozened us, the medicine which he gave us
Tasted like his Damasco villany.
To horse, to horse, if we can catch this fiend,
Our forkèd shame shall in his heart blood end.
Longa. O how this mads me, that all tongues in scorn,
Which way soe’er I ride, cry, ‘ware the horn! [Exeunt.
SCENE II. — An open Space near London: a Prison and a Pair of Stocks in the background.
ENTER ANDELOCIA WITH Agripyne, Ampedo and Shadow following.
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia, pity me,
Take off this infamy, or take my life.
Andel. Your life? you think then that I am a true doctor indeed, that tie up my living in the knots of winding sheets: your life? no, keep your life, but deliver your purse: you know the thief’s salutation,— “Stand and deliver.” So, this is mine, and these yours: I’ll teach you to live by the sweat of other men’s brows.
Shad. And to strive to be fairer than God made her.
Andel. Right, Shadow: therefore vanish, you have made me turn juggler, and cry “hey-pass,” but your horns shall not repass.
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Andelocia is a nettle: if you touch him gently, he’ll sting you.
Shad. Or a rose: if you pull his sweet stalk he’ll prick you.
Andel. Therefore not a word; go, trudge to your father. Sigh not for your purse, money may be got by you, as well as by the little Welshwoman in Cyprus, that had but one horn in her head; you have two, and perhaps you shall cast both. As you use me, mark those words well, “as you use me,” nay, y’are best fly, I’ll not endure one word more. Yet stay too, because you entreat me so gently, and that I’ll make some amends to your father, — although I care not for any king in Christendom, yet hold you, take this apple, eat it as you go to court, and your horns shall play the cowards and fall from you.
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Nay, away, not a word.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! ‘Ware horns! [Exit Agripyne, weeping.
Andel. Why dost thou laugh, Shadow?
Shad. To see what a horn plague follows covetousness and pride.
Amp. Brother, what mysteries lie in all this?
Andel. Tricks, Ampedo, tricks, devices, and mad hieroglyphics, mirth, mirth, and melody. O, there’s more music in this, than all the gamut airs, and sol fa res, in the world; here’s the purse, and here’s the hat: because you shall be sure I’ll not start, wear you this, you know its virtue. If danger beset you, fly and away: a sort of broken-shinned limping-legged jades run hobbling to seek us. Shadow, we’ll for all this have one fit of mirth more, to make us laugh and be fat.
Shad. And when we are fat, master, we’ll do as all gluttons do, laugh and lie down.
Andel. Hie thee to my chamber, make ready my richest attire, I’ll to court presently.
Shad. I’ll go to court in this attire, for apparel is but the shadow of a man, but shadow is the substance of his apparel. [Exit Shadow.
Andel. Away, away, and meet me presently.
Amp. I had more need to cry away to thee.
Away, away with this wild lunacy,
Away with riots.
Andel. Away with your purity, brother, y’are an ass. Why doth this purse spit out gold but to be spent? why lives a man in this world, to dwell in the suburbs of it, as you do? Away, foreign simplicity, away: are not eyes made to see fair ladies? hearts to love them? tongues to court them, and hands to feel them? Out, you stock, you stone, you log’s end: Are not legs made to dance, and shall
mine limp up and down the world after your cloth-stocking-heels? You have the hat, keep it. Anon I’ll visit your virtuous countenance again; adieu! Pleasure is my sweet mistress, I wear her love in my hat, and her soul in my heart: I have sworn to be merry, and in spite of Fortune and the black-browed Destinies, I’ll never be sad. [Exit.
Amp. Go, fool; in spite of mirth, thou shalt be sad.
I’ll bury half thy pleasures in a grave
Of hungry flames; this fire I did ordain
To burn both purse and hat: as this doth perish,
So shall the other; count what good and bad
They both have wrought, the good is to the ill
As a small pebble to a mighty hill.
Thy glory and thy mischiefs here shall burn;
Good gifts abused to man’s confusion turn.
Enter Longaville and Montrose with Soldiers.
Longa. This is his brother: soldiers, bind his arms.
Montr. Bind arms and legs, and hale the fiend away.
Amp. Uncivil: wherefore must I taste your spite?
Longa. Art thou not one of Fortunatus’ sons?
Amp. I am, but he did never do you wrong.
Longa. The devil thy brother has; villain, look here.
Montr. Where is the beauteous purse and wishing hat?
Amp. My brother Andelocia has the purse,
This way he’ll come anon to pass to court.
Alas, that sin should make men’s hearts so bold,
To kill their souls for the base thirst of gold.
The wishing hat is burnt.
Montr. Burnt? Soldiers, bind him.
Tortures shall wring both hat and purse from you.
Villain, I’ll be revenged for that base scorn
Thy hell-hound brother clapped upon my head.
Longa. And so will Longaville.
Away with him!
Montr. Drag him to yonder tower, there shackle him,
And in a pair of stocks lock up his heels,
And bid your wishing cap deliver you.
Give us the purse and hat, we’ll set thee free,
Else rot to death and starve.
Amp. Oh tyranny, you need not scorn the badge which you did bear:
Beasts would you be, though horns you did not wear.
Montr. Drag hence the cur: come, noble Longaville,
One’s sure, and were the other fiend as fast,
Their pride should cost their lives: their purse and hat
Shall both be ours, we’ll share them equally.
Longa. That will be some amends for arming me.
Enter Andelocia, and Shadow after him.
Montr. Peace, Longaville, yonder the gallant comes.
Longa. Y’are well encountered.
Andel. Thanks, Lord Longaville.
Longa. The king expects your presence at the court.
Andel. And thither am I going.
Shad. Pips fine, fine apples of Tamasco, ha, ha, ha!
Montr. Wert thou that Irishman that cozened us?
Shad. Pips fine, ha, ha, ha! no not I: not Shadow.
Andel. Were not your apples delicate and rare?
Longa. The worst that e’er you sold; sirs, bind him fast.
Andel. What, will you murder me? help, help, some help!
Shad. Help, help, help! [Exit Shadow.
Montr. Follow that dog, and stop his bawling throat.
Andel. Villains, what means this barbarous treachery?
Longa. We mean to be revenged for our disgrace.
Montr. And stop the golden current of thy waste.
Andel. Murder! they murder me, O call for help.
Longa. Thy voice is spent in vain; come, come, this purse,
This well-spring of your prodigality.
Andel. Are you appointed by the king to this?
Montr. No, no; rise, spurn him up! know you who’s this?
Andel. My brother Ampedo? Alas, what fate
Hath made thy virtues so unfortunate?
Amp. Thy riot and the wrong of these two lords,
Who causeless thus do starve me in this prison.
Longa. Strive not y’are best, villains, lift in his legs.
Andel. Traitors to honour, what do you intend?
Longa. That riot shall in wretchedness have end.
Question thy brother with what cost he’s fed,
And so assure thou shall be banqueted. [Exeunt Longaville and Montrose.
Amp. In want, in misery, in woe and care,
Poor Ampedo his fill hath surfeited:
My want is famine, bolts my misery,
My care and woe should be thy portion.
Andel. Give me that portion, for I have a heart
Shall spend it freely, and make bankrupt
The proudest woe that ever wet man’s eyes.
Care, with a mischief! wherefore should I care?
Have I rid side by side by mighty kings,
Yet be thus bridled now? I’ll tear these fetters,
Murder! cry, murder! Ampedo, aloud.
To bear this scorn our fortunes are too proud.
Amp. O folly, thou hast power to make flesh glad,
When the rich soul in wretchedness is clad.
Andel. Peace, fool, am I not Fortune’s minion?
These bands are but one wrinkle of her frown,
This is her evening mask, her next morn’s eye
Shall overshine the sun in majesty.
Amp. But this sad night will make an end of me.
Brother, farewell; grief, famine, sorrow, want,
Have made an end of wretched Ampedo.
Andel. Where is the wishing hat?
Amp. Consumed in fire.
Andel. Accursèd be those hands that did destroy it;
That would redeem us, did we now enjoy it.
Amp. Wanton, farewell! I faint, Death’s frozen hand
Congeals life’s little river in my breast.
No man before his end is truly blest. [Dies.
Andel. O miserable, miserable soul!
Thus a foul life makes death to look more foul.
Re-enter Longaville and Montrose with a halter.
Longa. Thus shall this golden purse divided be,
One day for you, another day for me.
Montr. Of days anon, say, what determine you,
Shall they have liberty, or shall they die?
Longa. Die sure: and see, I think the elder’s dead.
Andel. Ay, murderers, he is dead. O sacred Wisdom,
Had Fortunatus been enamourèd
Of thy celestial beauty, his two sons
Had shined like two bright suns.
Longa. Pull hard, Montrose.
Andel. Come you to strangle me? are you the hangman?
Hell-hounds, y’are damned for this impiety.
Fortune, forgive me! I deserve thy hate;
Myself have made myself a reprobate.
Virtue, forgive me! for I have transgressed
Against thy laws; my vows are quite forgot,
And therefore shame is fallen to my sin’s lot.
Riches and knowledge are two gifts divine.
They that abuse them both as I have done,
To shame, to beggary, to hell must run.
O conscience, hold thy sting, cease to afflict me.
Be quick, tormentors, I desire to die;
No death is equal to my misery.
Cyprus, vain world and vanity, farewell.
Who builds his Heaven on earth, is sure of hell. [Dies.
Longa. He’s dead: in some deep vault let’s throw their bodies.
Montr. First let us see the purse, Lord Longaville.
Longa. Here ’tis, by this we’ll fill this tower with gold.
Montr. Frenchman, this purse is counterfeit.
Longa. Thou liest.
Scot, thou hast cozened me, give me the right,
Else shall thy bosom be my weapon’s grave.
Montr. Villain, thou shalt
not rob me of my due. [They fight.
Enter Athelstane, Agripyne, Orleans, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Lincoln, and Shadow with weapons at one door: Fortune, Vice, and their Attendants at the other.
All. Lay hands upon the murderers, strike them down.
Fortune. Surrender up this purse, for this is mine.
All. Are these two devils, or some powers divine?
Shad. O see, see, O my two masters, poor Shadow’s substances; what shall I do? Whose body shall Shadow now follow?
Fortune. Peace, idiot, thou shalt find rich heaps of fools,
That will be proud to entertain a shadow.
I charm thy babbling lips from troubling me.
You need not hold them, see, I smite them down
Lower than hell: base souls, sink to your heaven.
Vice. I do arrest you both my prisoners.
Fortune. Stand not amazed, you gods of earth, at this,
She that arresteth these two fools is Vice,
They have broke Virtue’s laws, Vice is her sergeant,
Her jailer and her executioner.
Look on those Cypriots, Fortunatus’ sons,
They and their father were my minions,
My name is Fortune.
All. O dread deity!
Fortune. Kneel not to me: if Fortune list to frown,
You need not fall down, for she’ll spurn you down;
Arise! but, fools, on you I’ll triumph thus:
What have you gained by being covetous?
This prodigal purse did Fortune’s bounteous hand
Bestow on them, their riots made them poor,
And set these marks of miserable death
On all their pride, the famine of base gold
Hath made your souls to murder’s hands be sold,
Only to be called rich. But, idiots, see
The virtues to be fled, Fortune hath caused it so;
Those that will all devour, must all forego.
Athelst. Most sacred Goddess!
Fortune. Peace, you flatterer.
Thy tongue but heaps more vengeance on thy head.
Fortune is angry with thee, in thee burns
A greedy covetous fire, in Agripyne
Pride like a monarch revels, and those sins
Have led you blind-fold to your former shames,
But Virtue pardoned you, and so doth Fortune.
Athelst. and Agrip. All thanks to both your sacred deities.
Fortune. As for these metal-eaters, these base thieves,
Who rather than they would be counted poor,
Will dig through hell for gold, — you were forgiven
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 16