Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

SCENE I. The garden of SPRING.

  ACT III.

  SCENE I. The confines of Spring and Summer.

  SCENE II. Near the SUMMER’S court.

  SCENE III. The court of SUMMER.

  ACT IV.

  SCENE I. The court of AUTUMN.

  ACT V.

  SCENE I. The court of WINTER.

  THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

  THOMAS WRIOTHESLEY,

  EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, LORD WRIOTHESLEY, OF TITCHFIELD,

  ETC.

  MY LORD,

  HERODOTUS reports, that the Egyptians, by wrapping their dead in glass, present them lively to all posterity; but your lordship will do more, by the vivifying beams of your acceptation revive the parents of this orphan poem, and make them live to eternity. While the stage flourished, the poem lived by the breath of general applauses, and the virtual fervour of the court; but since hath languished for want of heat, and now, near shrunk-up with cold, creeps, with a shivering fear, to extend itself at the flames of your benignity. My lord, though it seems rough and forlorn, it is the issue of worthy parents, and we doubt not but you will find it accomplished with their virtue. Be pleased, then, my lord, to give it entertainment; the more destitute and needy it is, the greater reward may be challenged by your charity; and so, being sheltered under your wings, and comforted by the sunshine of your favour, it will become proof against the injustice of time, and, like one of Demetrius’ statues, appear fresher and fresher to all ages. My lord, were we not confident of the excellence of the piece, we should not dare to assume an impudence to prefer it to a person of your honour and known judgment; whose hearts are ready sacrifices to your name and honour; being, my lord, your lordship’s most humble and most obligedly submissive servants,

  THEOPHILUS BIRD,

  ANDREW PENNEYCUICKE.

  READER,

  IT is not here intended to present thee with the perfect analogy betwixt the world and man, which was made for man; nor their co-existence, the world determining with man: this, I presume, hath been by others treated on: but, drawing the curtain of this moral, you shall find him in his progression as followed!:

  THE FIRST SEASON.

  Presents him in the twilight of his age,

  Not potgun-proof, and yet he’ll have his page:

  This small knight-errant will encounter things

  Above his perch, and like the partridge springs.

  THE SECOND SEASON.

  Folly, his squire, the Lady Humour brings,

  Who in his ear far sweeter novels sings.

  He follows them; forsakes the April queen,

  And now the noontide of his age is seen.

  THE THIRD SEASON.

  As soon as, nerv’d with strength, he becomes weak,

  Folly and Humour do his reason break;

  Hurry him from his noontide to his even:

  From summer to his autumn he is driven.

  THE FOURTH SEASON.

  And now the winter, or his nonage, takes him,

  The sad remembrance of his errors wakes him;

  Folly and Humour fain he’d cast away,

  But they will never leave him till he’s clay:

  Thus man as clay descends, ascends in spirit;

  Dust goes to dust, the soul unto its merit.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  PHŒBUS, the Sun.

  RAYBRIGHT, the Sun’s Darling.

  Lady SPRING.

  Her attendants:

  YOUTH

  DELIGHT

  HEALTH

  SUMMER.

  PLENTY.

  POMONA.

  CUPID.

  FORTUNE.

  AUTUMN.

  BACCHANALIAN.

  BOUNTY.

  WINTER.

  CONCEIT.

  DETRACTION.

  TIME.

  PRIEST OF THE SUN.

  Lady HUMOUR.

  FOLLY.

  ÆOLUS.

  A Soldier, a Spaniard, an Italian Dancer, a French Tailor, a Forester, Masquers, Clowns, &c.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. A temple with an altar.

  RAYBRIGHT DISCOVERED ASLEEP.

  Enter the Priest of the Sun.

  Priest. Let your tunes, you sweet-voic’d spheres,

  O’ertake him:

  Charm his fancies, ope his ears;

  Now wake him! [Music within.

  SONG.

  Fancies are but streams

  Of vain pleasure:

  They who by their dreams

  True joys measure,

  Feasting starve, laughing weep,

  Playing smart; whilst in sleep

  Fools, with shadows smiling,

  Wake and find

  Hopes like wind,

  Idle hopes, beguiling.

  Thoughts fly away; time hath pass’d ’em:

  Wake now, awake! see and taste ’em!

  Ray. [waking] That I might ever slumber, and enjoy

  Contents as happy as the soul’s best wishes

  Can fancy or imagine. ’Tis a cruelty

  Beyond example to usurp the peace

  I sat enthron’d in: who was’t pluck’d me from it?

  Priest. Young man, look hither.

  Ray. Good, I envy not

  The pomp of your high office; all preferment

  Of earthly glories are to me diseases,

  Infecting those sound parts which should preserve

  The flattering retribution to my thankfulness.

  The times are better to me; there’s no taste

  Left on the palate of my discontent

  To catch at empty hopes, whose only blessedness

  Depends on being miserable.

  Priest. Raybright,

  Thou draw’st thy great descent from my grand patron,

  The Sun, whose priest I am.

  Ray. For small advantage.

  He who is high-born never mounts yon battlemen[ts]

  Of sparkling stars, unless he be in spirit

  As humble as the child of one that sweats

  To eat the dear-earn’d bread of honest thrift

  Priest. Hast thou not flow’d in honours?

  Ray. Honours! I’d not be baited with my fears

  Of losing ’em, to be their monstrous creature

  An age together: ’tis, beside, as comfortable

  To die upon th’ embroidery of the grass

  Unminded, as to set a world at gaze,

  Whilst from a pinnacle I tumble down

  And break my neck, to be talk’d of and wonder’d at

  Priest. You have worn rich habits.

  Ray. Fine ass-trappings!

  A pedlar’s heir turn’d gallant follows fashion,

  Can by a cross-legg’d tailor be transform’d

  Into a jack-an-apes of passing bravery.

  ’Tis a stout happiness to wear good clothes,

  Yet live and die a fool! — mew!

  Priest You’ve had choice

  Of beauties to enrich your marriage-bed.

  Ray. Monkeys and paraquitoes are as pretty

  To play withal, though not indeed so gentle.

  Honesty’s indeed a fine jewel, but the Indies

  Where ‘t grows is hard to be discover’d: ‘troth, sir,

  I care for no long travels with lost labour.

  Priest. Pleasures of every sense have been your servants,

  Whenas you’ve commanded them.

  Ray. To threaten ruin,

  Corrupt the purity of knowledge, wrest

  Desires of better life to those of this,

  This scurvy one, this life scarce worth the keeping!

  Priest. ’Tis melancholy and too fond indulgence

  To your own dull’d affections sway your judgment;

  You could not else be thus lost, or suspect

  The care your ancestor the Sun takes of ye.

  Ray. The care! the scorn he throws on me.

  Priest. Fie, fie!

  Have you been sent out into strange[r] lands,

/>   Seen courts of foreign kings, by them been grac’d,

  To bring home such neglect?

  Ray. I’ve reason fort.

  Priest. Pray show it.

  Ray. Since my coming home I’ve found

  More sweets in one unprofitable dream

  Than in my life’s whole pilgrimage.

  Priest. Your fantasy

  Misleads your judgment vainly. Sir, in brief,

  I am to tell you how I have receiv’d

  From your progenitor, my lord the Sun,

  A token, that he visibly will descend

  From the celestial orb, to gratify

  All your wild longings.

  Ray. Very likely! when, pray?

  The world the whiles shall be beholding to him

  For a long night; new-married men will curse,

  Though their brides tickle fort: O, candle and lantern

  Will grow to an excessive rate i’ th’ city!

  Priest. These are but flashes of a brain disorder’d:

  Contain your float of spleen in seemly bounds;

  Your eyes shall be your witness.

  Ray. He may come.

  Enter TIME, whipping FOLLY in rags before him.

  Time. Hence, hence, thou shame of nature, mankind’s foil!

  Time whips thee from the world, kicks thee and scorns thee.

  Pol. Whip me from the world! why whip? am I a dog, a cur, a mongrel? baw-waw! do thy worst; I defy thee. [Sings.

  I will roar and squander,

  Cozen and be drunk too;

  I’ll maintain my pander,

  Keep my horse and punk too;

  Brawl and scuffle.

  Shift and shuffle.

  Swagger in my potmeals;

  Damn-me’s rank with;

  Do mad prank with

  Roaring-boys and Oatmeals.

  Pox o’ time., I care not;

  Being past, ’tis nothing, m be free and spare not;

  Sorrows are lifts loathing.

  Melancholy

  Is but folly;

  Mirth and youth are plotters:

  Time, go hang thee!

  I will bang thee,

  Though I die in totters.

  And what think you of this, you old doting, motheaten, bearded rascal? as I am Folly by the mother’s side, and a true-bred gentleman, I will sing thee to death, if thou vex me. Cannot a man of fashion, for his pleasure, put on, now and then, his working-day robes of humility, but he must presently be subject to a beadle’s rod of correction? Go, mend thyself, cannibal! ’tis not without need; I am sure the times were never more beggarly and proud: waiting-women flaunt it in cast suits, and their ladies fall for ’em; knaves over-brave wise men, while wise men stand with cap and knee to fools. Pitiful Time! pitiful Time!

  Time. Out, foul, prodigious, and abortive birth!

  Behold, the sand-glass of thy days is broke.

  Fol. Bring me another; I’ll shatter that too.

  Time. No, thou’st misspent thy hours, lavished], fool-like,

  The circuit of thy life in ceaseless riots;

  It is not therefore fit that thou shouldst live

  In such a court as the Sun’s majesty

  Vouchsafes t’ illuminate with his bright beams.

  Fol. In any court, father baldpate, where my grannam the Moon shows her horns, except the Consistory Court; and there she need not appear, cuckolds carry such sharp stilettos in their foreheads. I’ll live here, and laugh at the bravery of ignorance, maugre thy scurvy and abominable beard.

  Time. Priest of the Sun, ’tis near about the minute

  Thy patron will descend; scourge hence this trifle:

  Time is ne’er lost, till, in the common schools

  Of impudence, time meets with wilful fools. [Exit.

  Fol. Farewell 1538! I might have said 5000; but the other’s long enough o’ conscience to be honest conditioned — pox on him! it’s a notable railing whipper, of a plain Time-whipper.

  Priest. You heard the charge he left

  Fol. Ay, ay, he may give a charge; he has been a petty court-holder ever since he was a minute old; he took you for a foreman of a jury.

  Ray. Pray, sir, what are you?

  Fol. No matter what: what are you?

  Ray. Not as you are, I thank my better fates;

  I am grandchild to the Sun.

  Fol. And I am cousin-german, some two or three hundred removes off, to the Moon, and my name is Folly.

  Ray. Folly, sir! of what quality?

  Fol. Quality! any quality in fashion; drinking, whoring, singing, dancing, dicing, swearing, roaring, foisting, lying, cogging, canting, et cœtera. Will you have any more?

  Ray. You have a merry heart, if you can guide it.

  Fol. Yes, ‘faith, so, so: I laugh not at those whom

  I fear; I fear not those whom I love; and I love not any whom I laugh not at: pretty strange humour, is’t not?

  Ray. To any one that knows you not, it is.

  Priest. You must avoid.

  Fol. Away, away! I have no such meaning, indeed, la! [Music of recorders.

  Priest. Hark, the fair hour is come; draw to the altar,

  And, with amazement, reverence, and comfort,

  Behold the broad-ey’d lamp of heaven descending!

  Stand!

  The SUN appears above.

  Fol. O, brave!

  Priest. Stand!

  SONG.

  Glorious and bright l lo, here we bend

  Before thy throne; trembling attend

  Thy sacred pleasures: be pleas’d, then,

  To shower thy comforts down, that men

  May freely taste in life’s extremes

  The influence of thy powerful beams?

  Ray. Let not my fate too swiftly run,

  Till thou acknowledge me thy son:

  O, there’s no joy even from the womb

  Of frailty, till we be call’d home.

  Fol. Now am I an arrant rascal, and cannot speak one word for myself, if I were hanged.

  Sun. Raybright!

  Priest. It calls ye; answer.

  Ray. Lord and father!

  Sun. We know thy cares; appear to give release:

  Boldly make thy demands, for we will please

  To grant Whate’er thou su’st for.

  Ray. Fair-beam’d sir!

  I dare not greedily prefer

  Eternity of earth’s delights

  Before that duty which invites

  My filial piety: in this

  Your love shall perfect my heart’s bliss,

  If I but for one only year

  Enjoy the several pleasures here,

  Which every season in his kind

  Can bless a mortal with.

  Sun. I find

  Thy reason breeds thy appetite, and grant it;

  Thou masterist thy desire, and shalt not want it. —

  To the Spring-garden let him be convey’d,

  And entertain’d there by that lovely maid;

  All the varieties the Spring can show

  Be subject to his will.

  Priest. Light’s lord, we go.

  [Exeunt Priest and Ray.

  Pol. And I will follow, that am not in love with such fopperies. [Exit.

  Sun. We must descend, and leave awhile our sphere,

  To greet the world. — Ha! there does now appear

  A circle in this round of beams that shine

  As if their friendly lights would darken mine:

  No, let ’em shine-out still, for these are they

  By whose sweet favours, when our warmths decay,

  Even in the storms of winter, daily nourish

  Our active motions, which in summer flourish,

  By their fair quickening dews of noble loves:

  O, may you all, like stars, whilst swift time moves,

  Stand fix’d in firmaments of blest content!

  Meanwhile [the] recreations we present

  Shall strive to please: — I have
the foremost tract;

  Each Season else begins and ends an Act.

  [The Sun disappears.

  ACT II.

  SCENE I. The garden of SPRING.

  ENTER SPRING, RAYBRIGHT, YOUTH, HEALTH, and DELIGHT.

  Spring. Welcome! The mother of the year, the

  Spring,

  That mother on whose back Age ne’er can sit,

  For Age still waits on her; that Spring, the nurse

  Whose milk the Summer sucks, and is made wanton;

  Physician to the sick, strength to the sound,

  By whom all things above and under ground

  Are quicken’d with new heat, fresh blood, brave vigour, —

  That Spring on thy fair cheeks in kisses lays

  Ten thousand welcomes, free as are those rays

  From which thy name thou borrow’st, — glorious name,

  RAYBRIGHT, as bright in person as in fame!

  Ray. Your eyes amaz’d me first, but now mine ears

  Feel your tongue’s charm; in you move all the spheres.

  O, lady! would the Sun, which gave me life,

  Had never sent me to you!

  Spring. Why? all my veins

  Shrink up, as if cold Winter were come back,

  And with his frozen beard had numb’d my lips,

  To hear that sigh fly from you.

  Ray. Round about me

  A firmament of such full blessings shine,

  I in your sphere seem a star more divine

  Than in my father’s chariot should I ride

  One year about the world in all his pride.

  Spring. O, that sweet breath revives me! if thou never

  Part’st hence, — as part thou shalt not, — be happy ever!

  Ray. I know I shall.

  Spring. Thou, to buy whose state

  Kings would lay down their crowns, fresh Youth, wait,

  I charge thee, on my darling.

  Youth. Madam, I shall,

  And on his smooth cheek such sweet roses set,

  You still shall sit to gather them; and when

  Their colours fade, [like] brave shall spring agen.

  Spring. Thou, without whom they that have hills of gold

  Are slaves and wretches, Health, that canst nor be sold

  Nor bought, I charge thee make his heart a tower

  Guarded, for there lies the Spring’s paramour.

  Health. One of my hands is writing still in heaven,

  For that’s Health’s library; t’other, on the earth,

  Is physic’s treasurer, and what wealth those lay

  Up for my queen, all shall his will obey.

  Ray. Mortality, sure, falls from me.