Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker
Page 49
A Message to the Reader
To my Loving, and Loved Friends, and Fellows,
the Queen’s Majesty’s Servants.
Knowledge and reward dwell far asunder.Greatness lay once between them.But, in his stead, covetousness now.An ill neighbour, a bad benefactor, no paymaster to poets.By this hard housekeeping, or rather shutting up of liberality’s doors, merit goes a-begging, and learning starves.Books had wont to have patrons, and now patrons have books.The snuff that is lighted consumes that which feeds it.A sign the world hath an ill ear when no music is food, unless it strikes up for nothing.I have sung so, but will no more.A hue and cry follow his wit that sleeps tunes are sounding.But ’tis now the fashion, lords, look well.Gulls, swear well, but none, give well.I leave, therefore all for you, and all that this can be to you.Not in hope to have, but in recognition of what I have, as I think already, your loves.
Acknowledgement is part of payment sometimes, but it neither is, nor shall be, between you and me, a cancelling.I have cast mine eye upon many, but find none more fit, none more worthy, to patronize this, than you, who have protected it.Your cost, counsel, and labour, had been ill spent if a second should by my hand snatch from you this glory.No, when Fortune, in her blind pride, set her foot upon this imperfect building, as scorning the foundation and workmanship, you,gently razed it up, on the same columns, the frontispiece only a little more garnished.To you, therefore, deservedly is the whore frame consecrated.For I durst swear, if wishes and curses could have become witches, the neck of this harmless devil had long ago been broken.
But I am glad that ignorance, so insolent for being flattered, is not stripped naked, and her deformities discovered; and more glad, that envy sits maddingly gnawing her own snakes, whose stings she had armed to strike others.Feed let her so still.So, still let the other be laughed at.Whilst I, pitying the one and not dreading the other, send these my wishes flying into your bosoms.That the god of poets may never pester your stage with a Cherilus nor a Suffenus, males eminent in nothing but in long ears, in kicking and in bragging out calumnies, upon whore cruppers may be aptly pined, that moral of poor Ocnus making ropes in hell, whilst an ass stands by, and, as he twists, bites them in sunder.But if his versifying deity sends you any, I wish they may be such as are worthy to sit at the Table of the Sun.None else.
I wish a fair and fortunate day to your next new play, for the maker’s sake and your own, because such brave triumphs of poesy and elaborate industry, which my worthy friends muse hath there set forth, deserve a theatre full of very muses themselves to be spectators.To that fair day I wish a full, free, and knowing auditor.And to that full audience, one honest door-keeper.So, fare-well.
Yours.Tho: Dekker.
Prologue
Would ‘twere a custom that at all new plays
The makers sat o’th’ stage, either with bays
To have their works crown’d, or beaten in with hissing,
Pied and bold idiots, durst not then sit kissing
A muse’s cheek.Shame would base changeling’s wean
From sucking the mellifluous Hypocrene,
Who write as blind men shoot, by hap, not aim.
So, fools, by lucky throwing, oft win the game.
Phœbus has many bastards, true sons few.
I mean of those, whose quick clear eyes can view
Poesy’s pure essence, it being so divine,
That the sun’s fires, even when they brightest shine,
Or lightening, when most subtle Jove does spend it,
May as soon be approach’d, weighed, touch’d, or comprehended.
But ’tis with poets now, as ’tis with nations,
Th’ ill-favoured vices are the bravest fashions.
A play whose rudeness, Indians would abhor
If’t fill a house with fishwives, rare, they all roar.
It is not praise that is sought for, not, but pence,
Though dropp’d from greasy apron audience.
Clapp’d may he be with thunder that plucks bays
With such foul hands, and with squint eyes does gaze
On Pallas’ shield, not caring, so he gains
A cram’d third-day, what filth drops from his brains.
Let those that love Pan’s pipe dance still to Pan;
They shall but get long ears by it.Give me that man
Who, when the plague of an impostum’d brains,
Breaking out, infects a theatre and hotly reigns,
Killing the hearers hearts, that the vast rooms
Stand empty, like so many dead men’s tombs,
Can call the banish’d auditor home, and tie
His ear, with golden chains, to his melody,
Can draw with adamantine pen, even creatures
Forg’d out of th’ hammer, on tiptoe, to reach up
And, from rare silence, clap their brawny hands
T’applaud what their charm’d soul scarce understands.
That man give me, whose breast fill’d by the muses,
With raptures, into a second, them infuses,
Can give an actor sorrow, rage, joy, passion,
Whilst he again, by self same agitation,
Commands the hearers, sometimes drawing out tears,
Then smiles, and fills them both with hopes and fears.
That man give me.And to be such-a-one,
Our poet, this day, strives, or to be none,
Lend not, him, hands for pity, but for merit,
If he please, he’s crown’d; if not, his fate must bear it.
Act One, Scene One
ENTER, AT THE sound of hellish music, PLUTO and CHARNO.
PLUTO
Ha!
CHARON
So.
PLUTO
What so?
CHARON
I’ll be thy slave no longer.
PLUTO
What, slave?
CHARON
Hell’s drudge, her galley-slave.I ha’ wore
My flesh to th’ bones, bones marrowless, at the oar
Tugging to waft to thy Stygian empire, souls
Which, but for Charon, never had come in shoals,
Yet, swarm’d they near so, them on shore I set;
Hell gets by Charon, what does Charon get?
PLUTO
His fare.
CHARON
Scurvy fare!I’ll first cry garlic.
PLUTO
Do:
And make hell stink, as that does hither.
CHARON
If I do!
Some like that smell.My boat to shore I’ll pull,
Not work a stroke more.
PLUTO
How?
CHARON
Not touch a scull.
PLUTO
Why?
CHARON
I ha’ no doings.Grave’s-end-barge has more,
And carries as good as any are in hell.
I fear th’infernal rivers are frozen o’er,
So few by water come; else the whores that dwell
Next door to hell to about; besides, ’tis thought
That men to find hell now new ways have sought,
As Spaniards did to the Indies.Pluto, mend
My wages, or row thyself.
PLUTO
Ugly, grumbling slave!
Have I not rais’d thy price?Yet still dost crave?
Such bold brave beggars, heard of ne’er before,
Are thy fares now; they teach thee to beg more.
Thy fare was, first, a half-penny, then the souls gave thee
A penny, then three half-pence.We shall have thee,
As market folks in dearth, so damned deer,
Men will not come to hell, crying out th’are here
Worse rack’d then th’are in taverns.Why dost thou howl for money?
CHARON
For money.I’ll have two pence for each soul
I ferry over.I’m old, craz’d, stiff, and lam’d.
That
soul that’s not worth two pence would ‘twere damn’d!
PLUTO
Thou shalt not.
CHARON
I will have it, or lie still.
If Charon fill hell, hell shall Charon fill.
For ghosts not come not thronging to my boat,
But drop by one and one in; none of note
Are fares now.I had wont brave fellows to ply,
Who, hack’d and mangled, did in battle’s die.
But not these gallants which do walk hell’s rounds
Are fuller of diseases then of wounds.
If wounded any take my boat, they roar,
Being stab’d, either drunk, or slain about some whore.
That’s all the fight now.
PRODIGAL
[Within.] Charon!
PLUTO
Get thee gone,
Th’at call’d for.
PRODIGAL
[Within.] Charon!
CHARON
Bawl not.I’ll come anon.
Hags of hell gnaw thee with their foul furd-gums.
Pluto, no wonder if so few hither come.
PLUTO
Why?
CHARON
Gingerly; see, see.
One of thine own promoters, with hawk’s eyes
That should for prey be watching, here snoring lies.
PLUTO
With a mischief!Cabin’d!A fury.
CHARON
I’ll ferret out more.
RUFFMAN comes up; Fury enters.
Another; look; dancing, a bawd on’s knees.
Enter SHACKLE-SOUL comes up.
SHACKLE-SOUL
I do enquire if rich bawds carted be
On earth, as well as poor ones.I sleep not, Pluto.
PLUTO
Twist stronger knotted whips.I’ll wake you, slaves.
LURCHALL and another spirit comes up.
CHARON
Two of thy sumners dead drunk here too.
LURCHALL
Thou liest.
PRODIGAL
[Within.] Charon.
CHARON
I come.If I must work, let these
Thy prentices ply their occupation
T’uphold hell’s kingdom.More must work than one.[Exit.
PLUTO
Ha!Are there whipping-posts for such as dwell
In idleness on earth, and yet shall hell,
As if we took bribes here too, let such pass?
I’ll have you tawd, if not the world as ’twas?
Once mother of rapes, incests, and sodomies
Atheism, and blasphemies, plump boys indeed,
That suck’d our dam’s breast; is she now barren?Ha!
Is there a dearth of villains?
OMNES
More now than ever.
PLUTO
Is there such penury of man-kind, hell-hounds?
You can lie snoring.
RUFFMAN
Each land is full of rake-hells.
SHACKLE-SOUL
But shoals of sharks eat up the fish at sea.
LURCHALL
Brave pitchy villains there.
PLUTOYet you playing here.
OMNES
No, no, most awful Pluto.
PLUTO
Were you good hell-hounds, every day should be
A Simon-and-Jude, to crown our board with feasts
Of black-ey’d souls each minute.Were you honest devils
Each officer in hell should have at least
A brace of whores to his breakfast; above us dwell
Devils braver and more subtle then in hell.
OMNES
We’ll fill thy palace with them.
PLUTO
I’ll try that.Go.
Ruffman, take instantly a courtier’s shape
Of any country.Choose thine own disguise
And return swiftly.
RUFFMAN
Yes. [Exit.
PLUTO
Shackle-Soul, wear thou
A friar’s grave habit.
SHACKLE-SOUL
Well. [Exit.
PLUTO
Grumble, walk thou
In treble-ruffs like a merchant.
LURCHALL
So, ’tis done. [Exit.
PLUTO
The burrs of our litigious courts had wont
To crack with thronging pleaders, whose loud din
Shook the infernal hell, as if’t had been
An earthquake bursting from the deep abyss,
Or else Jove’s thunder, thrown at the head of Dis,
The god of gold, for hiding it below,
Thereby to tempt churls hither.Nor did we know
What a vacation meant; continual term
Fatten’d hell’s lawyers, and shall so again.
Enter RUFFMAN, SHACKLE-SOUL and LURCHALL, in different shapes.
RUFFMAN
Here.
SHACKLE-SOUL
Here.
LURCHELL
Command us.
PLUTO
Fly into the world,
As y’are in shapes transform’d, be so in name,
For men are out-sides only; be you the same.
Hie thee to Naples, Ruffman, thou shalt find
A prince there, newly crown’d, aptly inclin’d
To any bendings.Lest his youthful brows
Reach at stars only, weigh down his loftiest boughs
With leaden plomets, poison his best thought with taste
Of things most sensual; if the heart once wast
The body feels consumption; good or bad kings
Breed subjects like them.Clear streams flow from clear springs.
Turn therefore Naples to a puddle, with a civil
Much promising face, and well oil’d, play the court devil.
RUFFMAN
I’ll do’t in bravery; if as deep as hell
Thy large ears hear a land curse me, my part’s play’d well.
PLUTO
Fly, Shackle-Soul.
SHACKLE-SOUL
Whither?
PLUTO
To the friary,
Best fam’d in Naples for strict orders.Throw
What nets thou seest can catch them.Amongst them sow
Seeds of contention, or what-ever sin
They most abhor, sweat thou to bring that in.
SHACKLE-SOUL
A wolf in lamb-skin leaps into the rout.
Bell, book, and candle cannot curse me out.
I’ll curse faster than they.
PLUTO
Do.Grumble.
LURCHELL
Here.
PLUTO
Be thou a city-devil, make thy hands
Of harpies claws, which bring on courtier’s lands
Once fasten’d, ne’er let loose the merchant’s play,
And on the burse, see thou thy flag display
Of politic bankruptism.Train up as many
To fight under it, as thou canst, for now’s not any
That break, they’ll break their necks first.If, beside
Thou canst not through the whole city meet with pride,
Riot, lechery, envy, avarice, and such stuff,
Bring ’em all in couch’d; the gates are wide enough.
The spirit of gold instruct thee.Hence all.
OMNES
Fly.
PLUTO
Stay, lest you should want helper, at your calling
Any devils shall come: Starch-Hound, Tobacco-spawling,
Upshotten, Suckland, Glitterback, or any
Whom you shall need to employ; but call not many.
There’s but few good in hell.And stay, remember
We all meet to hear how you prosper.
OMNES
Where?
PLUTO
The tree
Blasted with goblins, that about whose root
Five mandrakes grow, i’th’ grove by Naples there.
Meet
there.
OMNES
We shall.
PLUTO
Our blessings with you bear.
RUFFMAN
Dread king of ghosts, we’ll ply our thrift so well,
Thou shalt be forc’d to enlarge thy jail of hell.
PLUTO
Be quick, th’art best.Let saucy mortals know
How ere they sleep, there’s one wakes here below.[Exeunt.
Act One, Scene Two
ENTER ALPHONSO, KING of Naples, crown’d, wearing robes imperial, swords of state, maces, &c., being borne before him by OCTAVIO, ASTOLFO, two Uncles, NARCISSO, JOVINELI, BRISCO, counts, with others; COUNT SPENDOLA meeting them.
SPENDOLA
One of those gallant troops went forth to meet
Your admir’d Mistress, Erminhild the fair,
Hath left your convoy with her on the way.
KING
And brings glad news of her being here this day.
Let cannons tell in thunder her arrival,
When she’s at hand, our self will meet her.
OMNES
On! [Flourish. He takes his seat; all kneel.
KING
Pray rise.Until about our brows were thrown
These sparkling beams, such adoration
Was not bestow’d on us; whom does the knee
Thus lowly worship?This idol, gold, or me?
Indeed, ’tis the world’s saint.If that you adore.
Go, pray to your coffers.None to us shall bow.
Give gold your knees.
OCTAVIO
Whose own voice doth allow
That subjects should to those who are supreme
Bend, as to God, all kings being like to him.
ASTOLFO
Thou wonder of thy time, I’ll pray no more
To thee of duty than has been before
And ever shall be pay’d to those sit high.
KING
Pray, mock not me with such idolatry.
Kings, Gods are, I confess, but gods of clay.
Brittle as you are, you as good as they,
Only in weight they differ.This poor dram,
Yet all but flesh and blood.And such I am.
If such, pray let me eat, drink, sleep, and walk,
Not look’d clean through, with superstitious eyes,
Not star’d at like a comet.As you go
Or speak or feed, unwondered at, let me so.
OCTAVIO
Not kings of ceremony.
KING
Uncle, what then?
Still they are kings.
OCTAVIO
But show like common men.
KING
Good uncle, know, no sun in this our sphere
Shall rule but we; let others shine as clear