Jan. Let not thy tongue go so: sit down to work,
And, that our labour may not seem so long,
We’ll cunningly beguile it with a song.
Bab. Do, master, for that’s honest cozenage.
THE SONG.
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
Oh, sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
Oh, punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O, sweet content! O, sweet, &c.
Foot. Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney.
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O, sweet content!
Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?
O, punishment!
Then he that patiently want’s burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O, sweet content! &c.
Foot. Work apace, apace, &c.
Enter LAUREO.
Bab. Weep, master; yonder comes your son.
Jan. Laureo, my son! oh, Heaven, let thy rich hand
Pour plenteous showers of blessing on his head!
Lau. Treble the number fall upon your age.
Sister!
Gri. Dear brother Laureo, welcome home.
Bab. Master Laureo, Janiculo’s son, welcome home. How do the nine muses — Pride, Covetousness, Envy, Sloth, Wrath, Gluttony, and Lechery? You, that are scholars, read how they do.
Lau. Muses! these, fool, are the seven deadly sins.
Bab. Are they? mass, methinks it’s better serving them than your nine muses, for they are stark beggars.
Jan. Often I have wish’d to see you here.
Lau. It grieves me that you see me here so soon.
Jan. Why, Laureo, dost thou grieve to see thy father, Or dost thou scorn me for my poverty?
Bab. He needs not, for he looks like poor John himself. Eight to a neck of mutton — is not that your commons? — and a cue of bread.
Lau. Father, I grieve my young years to your age Should add more sorrow.
Jan. Why, son, what’s the matter?
Lau. That which to think on makes me desperate.
I, that have charg’d my friends, and from my father
Pull’d more than he could spare; I, that have liv’d
These nine years at the university,
Must now, for this world’s devil, this angel of gold,
Have all those days and nights to beggary sold:
Through want of money what I want I miss.
Who is more scorn’d than a poor scholar is?
Bab. Yes, three things — age, wisdom, and basketmakers.
Gri. Brother, what mean these words?
Lau. Oh, I am mad
To think how much a scholar undergoes,
And in the end reaps nought but penury!
Father, I am enforc’d to leave my book,
Because the study of my book doth leave me
In the lean arms of lank necessity.
Having no shelter, ah me! but to fly
Into the sanctuary of your aged arms.
Bab. A trade, a trade! follow basket-making: leave books, and turn blockhead.
Jan. Peace, fool. Welcome, my son: though I am poor,
My love shall not be so. Go, daughter Grissil,
Fetch water from the spring to seeth our fish,
Which yesterday I caught; the cheer is mean,
But be content. When I have sold these baskets,
The money shall be spent to bid thee welcome.
Grissil, make haste; run and kindle fire.
[Exit GRISSIL.
Bab. Go, Grissil; I’ll make fire, and scour the kettle: it’s a hard world when scholars eat fish upon flesh days.
[Exit BABULO.
Lau. Is’t not a shame for me, that am a man,
Nay more, a scholar, to endure such need,
That I must prey on him whom I should feed.
Jan. Nay, grieve not, son; better have felt worse woe.
Come, sit by me. While I work to get bread,
And Grissil spin us yam to clothe our backs,
Thou shalt read doctrine to us for the soul.
Then, what shall we three want? nothing, my son;
For when we cease from work, even in that while,
My song shall charm grief’s ears, and care beguile.
[Re-Enter GRISSIL, running, with a pitcher.
Gri. Father, as I was running to fetch water,
I saw the marquess, with a gallant train,
Come riding towards us. Oh, see where they come!
Enter MARQUESS, PAVIA, MARIO, LEPIDO, two ladies, and some other attendants.
Mar. See where my Grissil (and her father) is!
Methinks her beauty, shining through those weeds,
Seems like a bright star in the sullen night.
How lovely poverty dwells on her back!
Did but the proud world note her as I do,
She would cast off rich robes, forswear rich state,
To clothe them in such poor habiliments.
Father, good fortune ever bless thine age.
Jan. All happiness attend my gracious lord.
Mar. And what wish you, fair maid? —
Gri. That your high thoughts
To your contentment may be satisfied.
Mar. Thou would’st wish so, knew’st thou for what I come. —
Brother of Pavia, behold this virgin. —
Mario, Lepido, is she not fair?
Pa. Brother, I have not seen so mean a creature,
So full of beauty.
Mar. Were but Grissil’s birth
As worthy as her form, she might be held
A fit companion for the greatest state.
Lau. O, blindness! So that men may beauty find,
They ne’er respect the beauties of the mind.
Mar. Father Janiculo, what’s he that speaks?
Jan. A poor despised scholar, and my son.
Mar. This is no time to hold dispute with scholars.
Tell me, in faith, old man, what dost thou think,
Because the marquess visits thee so oft?
Jan. The will of princes subjects must not search:
Let it suffice your grace is welcome here.
Mar. And I’ll requite that welcome, if I live. —
Grissil, suppose a man should love you dearly,
As I know some that do, would you agree
To quittance true affection with the like?
Gri. None is so fond to fancy poverty.
Mar. I say there is. — Come, lords, stand by my side.
Nay, brother, you are sped, and have a wife;
Then give us leave, that are all bachelors. —
Now, Grissil, eye us well, and give your verdict,
Which of us three you hold the properest man?
Gri. I have no skill to judge proportions.
Mar. Nay, then you jest. Women have eagle’s eyes
To pry even to the heart; and why not you?
Come, we stand fairly; freely speak your mind,
For, by my birth, he whom thy choice shall bless
Shall be thy husband.
Ma. What intends your grace?
Lep. My lord, I have vow’d to lead a single life.
Mar. A single life! this cunning cannot serve.
Do not I know you love her? I have heard
Your passions spent for her, your sighs for her.
Mario to the wonder of her beauty
Compil’d a sonnet.
Ma. I, my lord, write sonnets?
Mar. You did entreat me to entreat her father,
That you might have his daughter to your wife.
Lep. To any one I willingly resign
All interest in her which doth l
ook like mine.
Ma. My lord, I swear she ne’er shall be my bride.
I hope she’ll swear so, too, being thus denied.
Mar. Both of you turn’d apostates in love!
Nay then, I’ll play the cryer: once, twice, thrice!
Speak, or she’s gone else. No? — since ‘twill not be,
Since you are not for her, yet she’s for me.
Pa. What mean you, brother?
Mar. Faith, no more but this;
By love’s most wond’rous metamorphosis,
To turn this maid into your brother’s wife.
Nay, sweet heart, look not strange s I do not jest,
But to thine ears mine amorous thoughts impart;
Gwalter protests he loves you with his heart.
Lau. The admiration of such happiness
Makes me astonish’d.
Gri. Oh, my gracious lord,
Humble not your high state to my low birth,
Who am not worthy to be held your slave,
Much less your wife.
Mar. Grissil, that shall suffice,
I count thee worthy. — Old Janiculo,
Art thou content that I shall be thy son?
Jan. I am unworthy of so great a good.
Mar. Tush, tush! talk not of worth: in honest terms,
Tell me if I shall have her? for, by Heaven,
Unless your free consent allow my choice,
To win ten kingdoms I’ll not call her mine.
What’s thy son’s name?
Jan. Laureo, my gracious lord.
Mar. I’ll have both your consents. — I tell ye, lords,
I have wooed the virgin long: oh, many an hour
Have I been glad to steal from all your eyes
To come disguis’d to her. I swear to you,
Beauty first made me love, and virtue woo.
I lov’d her lowliness, but when I tried
What virtues were entempled in her breast,
My chaste heart swore that she should be my bride.
Say, father, must I be forsworn or no?
Jan. What to my lord seems best, to me seems so.
Mar. Laureo, what’s your opinion?
Lau. Thus, my lord:
If equal thoughts durst both your states confer,
Her’s is too low, and you too high for her.
Mar. What says fair Grissil now?
Gri. This doth she say:
As her old father yields to your dread will,
So she her father’s pleasure must fulfil.
If old Janiculo make Grissil yours,
Grissil must not deny; yet had she rather
Be the poor daughter still of her poor father.
Mar. I’ll gild that poverty, and make it shine
With beams of dignity: this base attire
These ladies shall tear off, and deck thy beauty
In robes of honour, that the world may say
Virtue and beauty was my bride to-day.
Ma. This mean choice will distain your nobleness.
Mar. No more, Mario: then, it doth disgrace
The sun to shine on me.
Lep. She’s poor, and base.
Mar. She’s rich; for virtue beautifies her face.
Pa. What will the world say, when the trump of fame
Shall sound your high birth with a beggar’s name?
Mar. The world still looks asquint, and I deride
His purblind judgment: Grissil is my bride. —
Janiculo, and Laureo, father, brother,
You and your son, graced with our royal favour,
Shall live to outwear time in happiness.
[Re]Enter BABULO.
Bab. Master, I have made a good fire. Sirrha Grissil, the fish —
Jan. Fall on thy knees, thou fool: see, here’s our duke.
Bab. I have not offended him; therefore I’ll not duck an he were ten dukes. I’ll kneel to none but God and my prince.
Lau. This is thy prince. Be silent, Babulo.
Bab. Silence is a virtue: marry, ’tis a dumb virtue. I love virtue that speaks, and has a long tongue, like a bell-weather, to lead other virtues after it. If he be a prince, I hope he is not prince over my tongue. Snails! wherefore come all these? Master, here’s not fish enough for us. Sirrha Grissil, the fire burns out.
Mar. Tell me, my love, what pleasant fellow is this?
Gri. My aged father’s servant, my gracious lord.
Bab. How? my love! master, a word to the wise, scilicet me, my love.
Mar. What’s his name?
Bab. Babulo, sir, is my name.
Mar. Why dost thou tremble so? we are all thy friends.
Bab. It’s hard, sir, for this motley jerkin to find friendship with this fine doublet.
Mar. Janiculo, bring him to court with thee.
Bab. You may be ashamed to lay such knavish burden upon old age’s shoulders: but I see they are stooping a little; all cry down with him. He shall not bring me, sir; I’ll carry myself.
Mar. I pray thee do: I’ll have thee live at court.
Bab. I have a better trade, sir -basket-making.
Mar. Grissil, I like thy man’s simplicity:
Still shall he be thy servant — Babulo, Grissil, thy mistress, now shall be my wife.
Bab. I think, sir, I am a fitter husband for her.
Mar. Why shouldst thou think [so]? I will make her rich.
Bab. That’s all one, sir: beggars are fit for beggars, gentlefolks for gentlefolks. I am afraid that this wonder of the rich loving the poor will last but nine days. — Old master, bid this merry gentleman home to dinner. — You shall have a good dish of fish, sir. — And thank him for his good will to your daughter Grissil; for I’ll be hanged if he do not, as many rich cogging merchants now-a-days do, when they have got what they would, give her the bells, let her fly.
Gri. Oh, bear, ray lord, with his intemperate tongue.
Mar. Grissil, I take delight to hear him talk.
Bab. Ay, ay; you are best take me up for your fool. Are not you he that came speaking so to Grissil here? Do you remember how I knock’d you once, for offering to have a lick at her lips?
Mar. I do remember it, and for thy pains A golden recompense I’ll give to thee.
Bab. Why do, and I’ll knock you as often as you list.
Mar. Grissil, this merry fellow shall be mine.
But we forget ourselves; the day grows old.
Come, lords, cheer up your looks, and with fair smiles
Grace our intended nuptials. Time may
Come, When all-commanding love your hearts subdue,
The marquess may perform as much for you.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I. — An open place in the City of Saluzzo.
ENTER FARNEZE, URCENZE; and RICE meeting them, running.
Far. Rice! How now, man? whither art thou galloping?
Rice. Faith, even to find a full manger; my teeth water till I be munching. I have been at the cutler’s to bid him bring away Sir Owen’s rapier, and I am ambling home thus fast, for fear I am driven to fast.
Urc. But, sirrah Rice, when’s the day? will not thy master, Sir Owen, and Signor Emulo fight?
Rice. No; for Signor Emulo has warn’d my master to the court of conscience, and there’s an order set down that the coward shall pay my master good words weekly, till the debt of his choler be run out.
Far. Excellent! But did not Emulo write a challenge to Sir Owen?
Rice. No: he sent a terrible one; but he gave a sexton of a church a groat to write it, and he set his mark to it, for the gull can neither write nor read.
Urc. Ha, ha! not write and read! why, I have seen him pull out a bundle of sonnets, written, and read them to ladies.
Far. He got them by heart, Urcenze, and so deceiv’d the poor souls, as a gallant whom I know cozens others; for my brisk spangled baby will come into a stationer’s shop, call for a stool and a cushion, and then asking for some Gr
eek poet, to him he falls, and there he grumbles God knows what, but I’ll be sworn he knows not so much as one character of the tongue.
Rice. Why, then it’s Greek to him.
Far. Ha, ha! Emulo not write and read!
Rice. Not a letter, an you would hang him.
Urc. Then he’ll never be saved by his book.
Rice. No, nor by his good works, for he’ll do none. Signors both, I commend you to the skies; I commit you to God. Adieu.
Far. Nay, sweet Rice, a little more.
Rice. A little more will make me a great deal less. Housekeeping, you know, is out of fashion; unless I ride post, I kiss the post. In a word, I’ll tell you all: challenge was sent, answered no fight, no kill, all friends, all fools, Emulo coward, Sir Owen brave man. Farewell: dinner, hungry, little cheer, great, great stomach, meat, meat, meat, mouth, mouth, mouth! adieu, adieu, adieu!
[Exit.
Urc. Ha, ha! adieu, Rice. Sir Owen, belike, keeps a lean kitchen.
Far. What else, man? that’s one of the miserable vows he makes when he’s dubbed; yet he doth but as many of his brother knights do, keep an ordinary table for him and his long coat follower.
Urc. That long coat makes the master a little king; for, wheresoever his piece of a follower comes hopping after him, he’s sure of a double guard.
Far. I’ll set some of the pages upon thy skirts for this, Urc. I shall feel them no more than so many fleas; therefore I care not. But, Farneze, you’ll prove a most accomplish’d coxcomb.
Far. Ah, old touch, lad! this younker is right Trinidado, pure leaf tobacco, for indeed he’s nothing: puff, reek; and would be tried, not by God and his country, but by fire, the very soul of his substance, and needs would convert into smoke.
Urc. He’s steel to the back, you see, for he writes challenges.
Far. True, and iron to the head. Oh, there’s a rich leaden mineral amongst his brains, if his skull were well digg’d. Sirrah Urcenze, this is one of those changeable silk gallants, who, in a very scurvy pride, scorn all scholars and read no books but a looking-glass, and speak no language but sweet lady,” and “sweet signior,” and chew between their teeth terrible words, as though they would conjure, as “compliment,” and “projects,” and “ fastidious,” and “capricious,” and “ misprision,” and “the sintheresis of the soul,” and such like raise-velvet terms.
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 111