Spring. Thou to whose tunes
The five nice senses dance; thou that dost spin
Those golden threads all women love to wind,
And but for whom man would cut-off mankind, —
Delight, not base, but noble, touch thy lyre,
And fill my court with brightest Delphic fire.
Del. Hover, you wing’d musicians, in the air!
Clouds, leave your dancing! no winds stir but fair!
Health. Leave blustering, March!
Song by Delight.
What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
’Tis Philomell the Nightingale.
Jugg, jugg, jugg, term she cries,
And, hating earth, to heaven she flies.
[The cuckow is heard.
Ha, ha! hark, hark! the cuckows sing
Cuckow, to welcome in the Spring.
Brave prick-song! who is’t now we hear?
’Tis the lark’s silver leer-a-leer.
Chirup the sparrow flies away;
For he fell to’t ere break of day.
[The cuckow again.
Ha, ha! hark, hark! the cuckows sing
Cuckow! to welcome in the Spring.
Spring. How does my sun-born sweetheart like his queen,
Her court, her train?
Ray. Wondrous; such ne’er were seen.
Health. Fresher and fresher pastimes! one delight
Is a disease to th’ wanton appetite.
Del,’ Music, take Echo’s voice, and dance quick rounds
To thine own times in repercussive sounds.
[An echo of cornets.
Spring,. Enough! I will not weary thee. [Exit Del.
Pleasures, change!
Thou as the Sun in a free zodiac range.
Re-enter DELIGHT.
Del. A company of rural fellows, fac’d
Like lovers of your laws, beg to be grac’d
Before your highness, to present their sport.
Spring. What is’t?
Del. A morris.
Spring. Give them our court.
Stay, these dull birds may make thee stop thine ear;
Take thou my lightning, none but laurel here
Shall scape thy blasting: whom thou wilt confound,
Smite; let those stand who in thy choice sit crown’d.
Ray. Let these, then, I may surfeit else on sweets;
Sound sleeps do not still lie in princes’ sheets.
Spring. Beckon the rurals in; the country-gray
Seldom ploughs treason: shouldst thou be stol’n away
By great ones, — that’s my fear.
Ray. Fear it not, lady;
Should all the world’s black sorceries be laid
To blow me hence, I move not.
Enter the Morris-dancers.
Spring. I am made
“that word the earth’s empress.
A DANCE.
Are not
These sports too rustic?
Ray. No; pretty and pleasing.
Spring. My youngest girl, the violet-breathing
May,
Being told by Flora that my love dwelt here,
Is come to do you service: will you please
To honour her arrival?
Ray. I shall attend.
Spring. On, then; [Exeunt Morris-dancers. and bid my rosy-finger’d May
Rob hills and dales, with sweets to strow his way.
[Exit, followed by Youth and Health.
Enter FOLLY, and whispers RAYBRIGHT.
Ray. An empress, say’st thou, fall’n in love with me?
Fol. She’s a great woman, and all great women wish to be empresses; her name, the Lady Humour.
Ray. Strange name! I never saw her, knew her not:
What kind of creature is she?
Fol. Creature! of a skin soft as pomatum, sleek as jelly, white as blanched almonds; no mercer’s wife ever handled yard with a prettier [hand]; breath sweet as a monkey’s; lips of cherries, teeth of pearl, eyes of diamond, foot and leg as —
Ray. And what’s thy name?
Fol. ’Tis but a folly to tell it; my name is Folly.
Ray. Humour and Folly! To my listening ear
The lady’s praises often have been sung;
Thy trumpet, sounding forth her graceful beauties,
Kindles high flames within me to behold her.
Fol. She’s as hot as you for your heart
Ray. This lady, call’d the Spring, is an odd trifle.
Fol. A green-sickness thing. I came by the way of a hobby-horse letter-of-attomey, sent by my lady as a spy to you. Spring, a hot lady! a few fields and gardens lass. Can you feed upon salads and tansies? eat like an ass upon grass every day? At my lady’s comes to you now a goose, now a woodcock; nothing but fowl; fowl pies, platters all covered with fowl; and is not fowl very good fare?
Ray. Yea, marry, is’t, sir; the fowl being kept clean.
My admiration wastes itself in longings
To see this rare piece: I’ll see her: what are kings,
Were not their pleasures varied? shall not mine, then?
Should day last ever, ’twould be loath’d as night;
Change is the sauce that sharpens appetite.
The way? I’ll to her.
Fol. The way is windy and narrow; for, look you,
I do but wind this comet, and if another answer it, she comes.
Ray. Be quick, then.
[Folly winds his cornet, and is answered from without.
Enter HUMOUR, followed by a Soldier, a Spaniard, an Italian Dancer, and a French Tailor.
Hum. Is this that flower the Spring so dotes upon?
Fol. This is that honeysuckle she sticks in her ruff.
Hum. [aside’] A bedfellow for a fairy!
Ray. Admir’d perfection,
You set my praises to so high a tune,
My merits cannot reach ’em.
Hum. My heart-strings shall, then,
As mine eye gives that sentence on thy person,
And never was mine eye a corrupt judge.
That judge to save thee would condemn a world,
And lose mankind to gain thee: ’tis not the Spring,
With all her gaudy arbours, nor perfumes
Sent up in flattering incense to the Sun,
For shooting glances at her, and for sending
Whole quires of singers to her every mom,
With all her amorous fires, can heat thy blood
As I can with one kiss.
Ray. The rose-lipp’d dawning
Is not so melting, so delicious:
Turn me into a bird, that I may sit
Still singing in such boughs.
Hum. What bird?
Fol. A ring-tail.
Hum. Thou shalt be turn’d to nothing but to mine,
My Mine of pleasures, which no hand shall rifle
But this, which in warm nectar bathes the palm. —
Invent some other tires! Music! — stay, — none! —
Fol. Hoyday!
Hum. New gowns, fresh fashions! I’m not brave enough
To make thee wonder at me.
Ray. Not the Moon,
Riding at midnight in her crystal chariot,
With all her courtiers in their robes of stars,
Is half so glorious.
Hum, This feather was a bird-of-paradise;
Shall it be yours?
Ray. No kingdom buys it from me.
Fol. Being in fool’s paradise he must not lose his bauble.
Ray. I’m wrapt —
Fol. In your mother’s smock.
Ray. I’m wrapt above man’s being, in being spher’d
In such a globe of rarities: but say, lady,
What these are that attend you?
Hum. All my attendants
Shall be to thee sworn servants.
Fol. Folly is sworn to him already never to leave him.
Ray. He?
Fol. A
French gentleman, that trails a Spanish pike; a tailor.
Tail. Wee, mounsieur; hey! nimbla upon de crosscaper; me take a de measure of de body from de top a de noddle to de heel and great-toe; O, dish be fine! dis collar is cut out in anger scurvy: O, dis beeshes pincha de burn; me put one French yard into de toder hose.
Fol. No French yards; they want a[n English] yard at least.
Ray. Shall I be brave, then?
Hum. Golden as the sun.
Ray. What’s he that looks so smickly?
Fol. A flounder in a frying-pan, still skipping; one that loves mutton so well, he always carries capers about him; his brains lie in his legs, and his legs serve him to no other use than to do tricks, as if he had bought ’em of a juggler: he’s an Italian dancer, his name —
Dan. Signor Lavolta, messer mio; me tesha all de bella corantoes, gagliardas, pianettas, capeorettas, amorettas, dolche dolche, to declamante do bona-robas de Toscana.
Ray. I ne’er shall be so nimble.
Fol. Yes, if you pour quicksilver into your shinbones, as he does.
Ray. This now?
Fol. A most sweet Spaniard.
Span. A confecianador, which in your tongue is a comfit-maker, of Toledo. I can teach sugar to slip down your throat a million of ways —
Fol. And the throat has but one in all; O, Toledo!
Span. In conserves, candies, marmalades, sincadoes, ponadoes, marablane, bergamoto, aranxues muria, limons, berengenas of Toledo, oriones, potatoes of Malaga, and ten millions more.
Fol. Now ’tis ten millions! a Spaniard can multiply.
Span. I am your servidor.
Ray. My palate pleas’d too! — What’s this last?
Sold. I am a gun that can roar, two stilettoes in one sheath; I can fight and bounce too. My lady, by me, presents this sword and belt to you.
Ray. Incomparable mistress!
Hum. Put them on.
Sold. I’ll drill you how to give the lie, and stab in the punto; if you dare not fight, then how to vamp a rotten quarrel without ado.
Ray. How! dare not fight! there’s in me the Sun’s fire.
Hum. No more of this: — [Dances] — awake the music! Oyes! music!
Ray. No more of this: — this sword arms me for battle.
Hum. Come, then, let thou and I rise up in arms;
The field, embraces; kisses, our alarms.
Fol. A dancer and a tailor! yet stand still? Strike up. [Music. A dance.
Re-enter SPRING, HEALTH, YOUTH, DELIGHT.
Spring. O, thou enticing strumpet! how durst thou
Throw thy voluptuous spells about a temple
That’s consecrate to me?
Hum. Poor Spring, goody herbwife!
How dar’st thou cast a glance on this rich jewel
I ha’ bought for my own wearing?
Spring. Bought! art thou sold, then?
Ray. Yes, with her gifts; she buys me with her graces.
Health. Graces! a witch!
Spring. What can she give thee? —
Ray. All things.
Spring. Which I for one bubble cannot add a sea to?
Fol. And show him a hobby-horse in my likeness.
Spring. My Raybright, hear me; I regard not these.
Ray. What dowry can you bring me?
Spring. Dowry! ha!
Is’t come to this? am I held poor and base?
A girdle make, whose buckles, stretch’d to th’ length,
Shall reach from th’ arctic to th’ antarctic pole;
What ground soe’er thou canst with that enclose
I’ll give thee freely: not a lark, that calls
The morning up, shall build on any turf
But she shall be thy tenant, call thee lord,
And for her rent pay thee in change of songs.
Ray. I must turn birdcatcher.
Fol. Do you think to have him for a song?
Hum. Live with me still, and all the measures
Play’d-to by the spheres I’ll teach thee;
Let’s but thus dally, all the pleasures
The moon beholds her man shall reach thee.
Ray. Divinest!
Fol. Here’s a lady!
Spring. Is’t come to who gives most?
The selfsame bay-tree into which was turn’d
Peneian Daphne I have still kept green;
That tree shall now be thine; about it sit
All the old poets with fresh laurel crown’d,
Singing in verse the praise of chastity;
Hither when thou shalt come, they all shall rise,
Sweet cantos of thy love and mine to sing,
And invoke none but thee as Delian king.
Ray. Live by singing ballads!
Fol. O, base! turn poet? I would not be one myself.
Hum. Dwell in mine arms; aloft we’ll hover,
And see fields of armies fighting:
O, part not from me! I’ll discover
There all but books of fancy’s writing.
Del. Not far off stands the Hippocrenian well
Whither I’ll lead thee; and but drinking there,
To welcome thee Nine Muses shall appear,
And with full bowels of knowledge thee inspire.
Ray. Hang knowledge! drown your Muse[s]!
Fol. Ay, ay, or they’ll drown themselves in sack and claret
Hum. Do not regard their toys;
Be but my darling, age to free thee
From her curse shall fall a-dying;
Call me thy empress, Time to see thee
Shall forget his art of flying.
Ray. O, my all excellence!
Spring [to Health]. Speak thou for me; I am fainting.
Health. Leave her; take this, and travel through the world;
I’ll bring thee into all the courts of kings,
Where thou shalt stay, and learn their languages;
Kiss ladies, revel out the nights in dancing,
The day [in] manly pastimes; snatch from Time
His glass, and let the golden sands run forth
As thou shalt jog them; riot it, go brave;
Spend half a world, my queen shall bear thee out:
Yet all this while, though thou climb hills of years,
Shall not one wrinkle sit upon thy brow,
Nor any sickness shake thee; Youth and Health,
As slaves, shall lackey by thy chariot-wheels:
And who for two such jewels would not sell
Th’ East and West Indies? both are thine, so that —
Ray. What?
Fol. All lies! gallop o’er the world, and not grow old nor be sick? a lie! One gallant went but into France last day, and was never his own man since; another stept but into the Low Countries, and was drunk dead under the table; another did but peep into
England, and it cost him more in good-morrows, blown up to him under his window by drums and trumpets, than his whole voyage; besides he run mad upon’t.
Hum. Here’s my last farewell: ride along with me;
I’ll raise by art out of base earth a palace,
* * * * a crystal stream,
Whither thyself, waving * * * *
Shalt call together the most glorious spirits
Of all the kings that have been in the world;
And they shall come, only to feast with thee.
Ray. Rare!
Hum. At one end of this palace shall be heard
That music which gives motion to the heaven;
And in the midst Orpheus shall sit and weep
For sorrow that his lute had not the charms
To bring his fair Eurydice from hell:
Then, at another end, —
Ray. I’ll hear no more:
This ends your strife; you only I adore. [To Hum.
Spring. O, I am sick at heart! unthankful man,
’Tis thou hast wounded me; farewell!
[Spring is led in by Delight.
Ray. Farewell.
&n
bsp; Fol. Health, recover her; sirrah Youth, look to her.
Health. That bird that in her nest sleeps out the spring
May fly in summer; but — with sickly wing.
[Exeunt Health and Youth.
Ray. I owe thee for this pill, doctor.
Hum. The Spring will die, sure.
Ray. Let her!
Hum. If she does,
Folly here is a kind of a foolish poet,
And he shall write her epitaph.
Ray. Against the morning
See it, then, writ, and I’ll reward thee for it.
Fol. It shall not need.
Ray. ’Tis like it shall not need;
This is your Folly?
Hum. He shall be ever yours.
Fol. I hope ever to be mine own folly; he’s one of our fellows.
Hum. In triumph now I lead thee; — no, be thou
Cæsar,
And lead me.
Ray. Neither; we’ll ride with equal state
Both in one chariot, since we have equal fate.
Hum. Each do his office to this man, your lord;
For though Delight and Youth and Health should leave him,
This ivory-gated palace shall receive him. [Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I. The confines of Spring and Summer.
Enter RAYBRIGHT melancholy.
Ray. O, my dear love the Spring, I’m cheated of thee!
Thou hadst a body, the four elements
Dwelt never in a fairer; a mind princely;
Thy language, like thy singers, musical.
How cool wert thou in anger! in thy diet
How temperate, and yet sumptuous! thou wouldst not waste
The weight of a sad violet in excess,
Yet still thy board had dishes numberless:
Dumb beasts even lovèd thee; once a young lark
Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes
Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies.
Enter FOLLY.
Fol. I ha’ done, my lord; my Muse has pumped hard for an epitaph upon the late departed Spring, and here her lines spring up.
Ray. Read.
Fol. Read! so I will, please you to reach me your high ears.
Here lies the blithe Spring
Who first taught birds to sing,
Yet in April herself fell a-crying;
Then May growing hot,
A sweating-sickness she got,
And the first of June lay a-dying.
Yet no month can say
But her merry daughter May
Stuck her coffin with flowers great plenty;
The cookoo sung in verse
An epitaph der her hearse,
But assure you the lines were not dainty.
Ray. No more are thine, thou idiot! hast thou none
To poison with thy nasty jigs but mine,
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 187