Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

  In France I long have liv’d, and know the garb

  Of the French mountebanks, whose apish gesture,

  Although in them I hold ridiculous,

  Myself shall practise.

  Sap. For a doctor’s man,

  You see I’m fitted; foot by foot I’ll walk,

  And meet all dangers sent against your breast.

  Ang. I thank thee, noble friend; let’s then to

  court.

  The pangs a lover suffers are but short.

  Enter FLORENCE, PISA, NICOLETTO, PHILIPPO, TORNELLI, PIERO, met by an, old NURSE.

  Flor. How now, Nurse, how does my Fiametta?

  Nurse. Oh, my sweet lord, she’s at it again, at it again I

  Flor. Who are with her? Call for more help.

  Nurse. More help! alas, there’s my Lady Vanni with her, and ladies upon ladies, and doctors upon doctors, but all cannot do.

  Pisa. Bow does it take her, Nurse?

  Nurse. Oh, sweet princess, it takes her all over with a pricking; first about her stomach, and then she heaves and heaves, that no one man with all his weight can keep her down.

  Pier. At this I wonder, that her sickness makes her doctors fools.

  Nic. He that she finds most ease in, is Dr. Jordan.

  Flor. I will give half my dukedom for her health.

  Nic. Well, well, if death do take her, he shall have the sweetest bed-fellow that ever lay by lean man’s side.

  Flor. I entreat thee, Nurse, be tender over her Nurse. Tender, quoth a? I’m sure my heels are grown as hard as hoofs, with trotting for her; I’ll put you in one comfort.

  Flor. What’s that, Nurse?

  Nurse. In her greatest conflict she’s had a worthy feeling of herself. — [Exit.

  Flor. So, so, I’m glad of it. My Lord of Pisa,

  Under this common blow, which might have strook

  The strongest heart here, pray do hot you shrink.

  Pisa. Sickness is life’s retainer, sir; and I

  (What is not to be shun’d) bear patiently;

  But had she health as sound as hath the spring,

  She wou’d to me prove sickly autumn still.

  Flor. Oh, say not so.

  Pisa. I find it; for being loyal,

  As the touch-needle to one star still turning,

  I lose that star; my faith is paid with scorning.

  Who then with eagle’s wings of faith and truth,

  Would in her sun-beams play away his youth,

  And kiss those flames, which burn but out mine eyes,

  With scalding rivers of her cruelties?

  Flor. ’Tis but her wayward sickness casts this eye

  Of slightness on you. —

  Pisa. ’Tis, my lord, her hate;

  For when death sits even almost on her brows,

  She spreads her arms abroad to welcome him,

  When in my bridal bed I find a grave.

  Enter MUTIO.

  Flor. Now, Mutio?

  Mut. There’s a Frenchman come to court,

  A profess’d doctor, that has seen the princess,

  And will on her recovery pawn his life.

  Flor. Comfort from heaven, I hope; let’s see this doctor. —

  Enter ANGELO dressed like a — BAPTISTA attending as his Man. —

  Flor. Welcome, good doctor: have you seep my daughter?

  Restore her health, and nothing in my dukedom

  Shall be too dear for thee; how do you judge her?

  Ang. Be me trat, my lord, I find her a very bad lady, and no well.

  Flor. Piero, take the Duke of Pisa pray, and be your sister’s visitants.

  Pier. Sir, we shall, if the duke please.

  Pisa. The poisoned may drink gall.

  [Exeunt Piero and Pisa

  Flor. Attend the duke. —

  CARGO enters with a Letter, which he delivers NICOLETTO.

  Car. The party, sir.

  Nic. Thou shalt have Caesar’s pay — my coach!

  Car. Old January goes to He with May.

  [Exeunt Nicoletto and Cargo.

  Flor. Doctor, I thus have singled you to sound

  The depth of my girl’s sickness; that if no skill

  Of man can save her, I against heaven’s will’

  May arm my breast with patience; therefore be free.

  Ang. By my tra’ and fa’, my lor’, me no point can play de hound, and fawn upon de most puissant Roi in de world; a Frenchman bear de brave mind for dat.

  Flor. So, so, I like him better.

  Ang. Me gra tank you; now for de malady of de princess; me one, two, tre time, feel her pulse, and ron up and down all de oder parts of her body, and find noting but dat she be trobla with le gran desire of de man.

  Flor. A great desire of a man?

  Ang. A my trat ’tis verament, she longa to do some ting in love upon le gentlehom.

  Flor. Doctor, thou hit’st her heart; ’tis there she’s wounded,

  By a poison’d arrow, shot from a villain’s hand;

  One Angelo of the Lotti family;

  And till that head be pluck’d out she will pine,

  Unless control’d by some deep art of thine.

  Ang. All tings possibela me sail undergo, me ha’ read Gallen, Hippocrates, Avicena, but no point can peek out le remedy for de madam in de briars of love.

  Flor. No medicine you say in any of them for love?

  Ang. Ay me, trat not worth a louse: only in my peregrination about le grand globe of de world, me find out a fine trick for make a de man and voman do, dat is tickla in love.

  Flor. The man and woman do? how do, how do?

  Ang. To be cura, and all whole admirable veil.

  Flor. As how pray?

  Ang. Me have had under my fingera many brave wench, and most noble gentle dames, dat have be much troubla, upon de wild come in de tail for de man.

  Flor. Very good.

  Ang. And be my tra my lord, by experiment me find dat de heart of de man — you understanda me.

  Flor. Yes, yes, the heart of the man.

  Ang. Wee, wee, de heart of de man being all dry as peppera —

  Flor. So, so.

  Ang. And rub upon de ting (vat you call it) sail make it moulder all to crumble and dust.

  Flor. Oh, oh, a grater.

  Ang. Ee by my tra you say veil, ruba de man’s dry heart upon de grater, and drink de powder in de pot le vine, by de gentlevoman, and by garsblot, she presentamently kick up de heel at de man she lova.

  Flor. Excellent!

  Ang. No point more remembra, but cry out le French poo upon le varlet.

  Flor. So she will hate her lover.

  Ang. Begar, as myself hate le puzcat, cry mew at my shin; and will have de rombling a de gut, for de other gentlehom.

  Flor. Thou com’st up close to me now, my brave doctor.

  Ang. Begar me hope so, and derfore, my lord apply le desperate medicine to le perilous malady; and have dis Angelo be cut in de troat, and be manslaughtered.

  Flor. You then advise me to have Angelo slain?

  Ang. Wee.

  Flor. And then to have my daughter drink his heart?

  Ang. Wee, wee.

  Flor. Grated and dried, and so —

  Ang. Wee, wee, wee.

  Flor. I wou’d I grip’d it fast now in this hand,

  And eat it panting hot, to teach a peasant

  To climb above his being; doctor, he dies.

  Ang. Knocka de pate down begar.

  Flor. But stay, stay, he’s fled Florence; it will be — .

  A work to find him first out, and being found,

  A task to kill him; for our gallants speak

  Much of his worth; the varlet is valiant.

  Ang. No matera for dat; for two, tree, four crown, dar be rascals sail run him in on de backshide.

  Flor. He shall be sought for, and being found, he dies.

  Ang: Pray, my lor’, suffera le princess and me for be in private. Le doctor uses for toucha de ooman.
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  Flor. Do so, whilst I for Angelo’s death use speed,

  For till I have his heart, mine own must bleed.

  [Exit.

  Enter BAPTISTA.

  Ang. Oh, my Baptista!

  Bap. I have heard the thunder aim’d at your life.

  Ang. And it will strike me dead,

  With a most sudden and invisible blow.

  Bap. Now that you see his vengeance apt to fall,

  Fly from it.

  Ang. How? —

  Bap. By fair and free access,

  Open your dangers to your mistress’s eyes;

  Were she stark mad, so she be mad for love,

  You’ll bring her to her wits, if wisely now

  You put her into th’ way; gold barr’d with locks,

  Is best being stolen; steal her then.

  Ang. ’Tis but a rack at most,

  Oh, on what boisterous seas is true love tost!

  ACT III. SCENE I.

  TRUMPETS SOUNDING. ENTER an Usher hare, perfuming a Room: afterwards SIGNIOR TORRENTI gorgeously attired, attended by a Company of Gallants.

  Tor. This room smells.

  1 Gal. It has been new perfumed.

  Tor. Then ’tis your breeches; stand off — and shines there (say you) a sun in our horizon, full as glorious as we ourself?

  2 Gal. So cry the common people.

  Tor. The common people are rascals, lying devils;

  Dunghills, whose savour poisons brave mens’ fames:

  That ape of greatness (imitating me)

  I mean that slavish Lord Jacomo,

  Shall die a beggar, if at the year’s end,

  His total of expense dares equal mine;]

  How is his house built?

  1 Gal. Admirable fair.

  Tor. Fair? I’ll gild mine (like Pompey’s theatre)

  All o’er to outshine his; the richest hangings

  Persian, or Turk, or Indian slaves can weave,

  Shall from my purse be bought at any rates;

  I’ll pave my great hall with a floor of clouds,

  Wherein shall move an artificial sun,

  Reflecting round about me golden beams,

  Whose flames shall make the room seem all on fire,

  And when ’tis night, just as that sun goes down,

  A silver moon shall rise, drawn up by stars,

  And as that moves, I standing in her orb,

  Will move with her, and be that man i’ th’ moon,

  So mock’d in old wives’ tales; then over head,

  A roof of woods, and forests full of deer,

  Trees growing downwards, full of singing choirs;

  And this I’ll do that men with praise may crown

  My fame, for turning the world upside down:

  And what brave gallants are Gentili’s guests?

  1 Gal. The Lord Jacomo Gentili feeds

  All beggars at his table.

  Tor. Hang Jacomo! My board shall be no manger for poor jades To lick up provender in.

  2 Gal. He welcomes soldiers.

  Tor. Let soldiers beg and starve, or steal and hang.

  Wou’d I had here ten thousand soldiers’ heads,

  Their sculls set all in silver, to drink healths

  To his confusion, first invented war;

  And (the health drunk) to drown the bowls i’ th’ sea;

  That very name of soldier makes me shrug,

  And think I crawl with vermin; give me lutes;

  Mischief on drums! for soldiers, fetch me whores?

  These are mens’ bliss, those every kingdom’s sores;

  We gave in charge to search through all the world

  For the best cooks, rarest musicians,

  And fairest girls, that will sell sin for gold.

  Black Cleopatra’s cheek; only to drink

  A richer pearl, than that of Anthony’s;

  That fame (where his name stands) might put down mine.

  Oh, that my mother had been Paris’ whore!

  And I had liv’d to see a Troy on fire,

  So that by that brave light, I might have danc’d

  But one lavolta with my courtezan.

  Enter FOURTH GALLANT.

  4 Gal. Pattern of all perfection breath’d in man!

  There’s one without, before your excellence

  Desires access.

  Tor. What creature?

  4 Gal. Your own brother;

  At least he terms himself so.

  Tor. Is he brave?

  4 Gal. He’s new come from sea.

  Tor. ’Tis true, that Jason

  Rigg’d out a fleet to fetch the golden fleece;

  ’Tis a brave boy, all elemental fire;

  His ships are great with child of Turkish treasure,

  And here shall be delivered; marshal him in

  Like the sea’s proud commander; give our charge.

  Omnes. Sound drums and trumpets for my lord! Away!

  [Torent’s brother, bare and is ushered in by the — Torenti starts, so that his hat falls an attendant takes it up and offers it to him.

  Tor. Thou whoreson peasant, know me! burn that windfall!

  It comes not to my head that drops so low. —

  Another!

  1 Gal. Hats for my lord!

  [Three or four hats are brought in.

  Tor. It smells of earth; stood it again so high,

  My head would on a dunghill seem to lie.

  How now! what scarecrow’s this?

  Bro. Scarecrow? thy brother;

  His blood clear as thine own, but that it smokes not,

  With perfum’d fires as thine doth.

  Tor. Has the poor snake a sting? can he hiss?

  What begs the rogue for?

  Bro. Vengeance,

  From the just thunderer to throw Lucifer down;

  How high soever thou rearest thy Babel brows,

  To thy confusion I this language speak:

  I am thy father’s son.

  Tor. Ha, ha, the skipper raves.

  Bro. The aw’d Venetian, on St. Mark’s proud day,

  Never went forth to marry the rich sea,

  With casting in her lap a ring of gold,

  In greater bravery, than myself did freight ‘

  A fleet of gallant youthful Florentines,

  All vow’d to rescue Rhodes from Turkish slavery:

  We went, and waded up in our own-bloods,

  Till most of us were drown’d —

  Tor. Fair riddance on you.

  Bro. Where such a peacock durst not spread his plumes;

  We fought, and those that fell left monuments

  Of unmatch’d valour to the whole race of man;

  They that were ta’en (‘mongst whom myself was chief)

  Were three years chain’d up to the tugging oar;

  See here the relics of that misery;

  If thou would’st know more, read it on my back,

  Printed with the bull’s pizzle

  Tor. Hang the dog!

  What tellest thou me of pizzles?

  Bro. ’Tis thy brother tells thee so, note me.

  Tor. I know thee not;

  Set mastiffs on him! worry him from my gates!

  Bro. The first unhappy breath I drew, mov’d here,

  And here I’ll spend my last, ere brav’d from hence;

  Here I’ll have meat and clothes.

  Tor. Kick the cur out.

  Bro. Who dares?

  Take from that sumpter-horse’s back of thine,

  Some of those gaudy trappings to clothe mine,

  And keep it from the keen air; fetch me food,

  You fawning spaniels!

  1 Gal. Some spirit of the buttery.

  2 Gal. It should be by his hunger.

  Bro. I am starv’d,

  Thirsty, and pin’d to the bare bones; here I’ll eat,

  At thine own scornful board, on thine own meat;

  Or tear it from thy throat as ’tis chewing down.


  Tor. I’ll try that; if my dinner be prepared,

  Serve me in my great state along this way;

  And as you pass, two there with pistols stand,

  To kill that rav’nous vulture, if he dare thrust

  His talons forth to make one dish his prey.

  [Exeunt all but the brothers.

  Bro. Now view my face, and tho’ perhaps you sham’d

  To own so poor a brother, let not my heart-strings

  In sunder crack, if we now being lone,

  You still disdain me.

  Tor. Wretch! I know thee not,

  And loathe thy sight.

  Bro. Slave! thou shalt know me then.; —

  I’ll beat thy brains out with my galley-chain.

  Tor. Wilt murder thine own brother?

  Bro. Pride doth itself confound;

  What with both hands the devil strove to have bound,

  Heaven with one little finger hath untied;

  This proves that thou may’st fall, because one blast

  Shakes thee already; fear not, I’ll not take

  The whip out of your hand; and tho’ thou break’st

  Laws of humanity and brotherhood,

  I’ll not do so; but as a beggar should —

  (Not as a brother) knock I at the gate

  Of thy hard heart for pity to come forth,

  And look upon my wretchedness. A shot

  [Kneels.

  Tore to the keel that galley where I row’d;

  Sunk her; the men slain, I by diving ‘scaped,

  And sat three leagues upon a broken mast,

  Wash’d with the salt tears of the sea, which wept

  In pity to behold my misery.

  Tor. Pox on your tarry misery! —

  Bro. And when heaven’s bless’d hand hal’d me to a shore

  To dry my wet limbs, was I forc’d to fire,

  A dead man’s straw bed thrown into the street.

  Tor. Foh! thou’rt infectious.

  Bro. Oh, remember this!

  He that does good deeds here, waits at a table

  Where angels are his fellow servitors. —

  Tor. I am no robin red-breast to bring straws

  To cover such a corse.

  Bro. Thou art turn’d devil.

  (Trumpets sound.) Enter an armed, after him a Company with covered Dishes; Coronets on their Heads; two with Pistols to guard it.

  Tor. Where’s thy great stomach; eat; stand! let him chose

  What dish he likes.

  [Brother snatches a pistol: all fly off.

  Bro. This then, which I’ll carve up

  On thy base bosom: see, thou trivial fool,

  Thou art a tyrant (o’er me) of short reign,

  This cock outcrows thee, and thy petty kings;

  Thou’rt a proud bird, but fly est with rotten wings;