Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES, by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: What do I give for the pope and his riches
Last Line: Curtain
Alternate Author Name(s): Marks, Lionel S., Mrs.
Subject(s): England - Social Life And Customs; Famous People


CHARACTERS

WILLIAM HERBERT, Son of the Earl of Pembroke
SIMEON DYER, A Puritan
TOBIAS, Host of 'The Bear and The Angel'
WAT BURROW, A bear-ward
DICKON, A little boy, son of Tobias
CHIFFIN, A ballad-monger
A PRENTICE
A PLAYER, Master Wm. Shakespeare of the Lord Chamberlain's Company
MISTRESS MARY FYTTON, A maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth
MISTRESS ANNIE HUGHES, Also of the Court
TAVERNERS and PRENTICES
TIME: — An autumn afternoon in the year 1599 A.D.
PLACE: — South London

SCENE: Interior of 'The Bear and the Angel,' South London. At back, the centre

entrance gives on a short alley-walk which joins the street beyond at a right
angle. To right and left of this doorway, casements. Front, to the right, a
door
opening upon the inn-garden; a second door on the right, towards the back,
leading to a tap-room. Opposite this, left, a door leading into a buttery.
Left,
opposite the garden-door, a large chimney-piece with a smouldering
wood-fire. A
few seats; a lantern (unlighted) in a corner. In the
foreground, to the
right, a long and narrow table with several mugs of ale upon it, also a lute.
At one end of the table WAT BURROW is finishing his ale and holding
forth to the PRENTICE (who thrums the lute) and a group of taverners,
some smoking. At the farther end of the table SIMEON DYER observes all
with
grave curiosity. TOBIAS and DICKON draw near. General noise.
Prentice (singing)
What do I give for the Pope and his riches!
I's my ale and my Sunday breeches;
I's an old master, I's a young lass,
And we'll eat green goose, come Martinmas!
Sing Rowdy Dowdy,
Look ye don't crowd me:
I's a good club,
— So let me pass!
Dickon
Again! again!
Prentice
Sing Rowdy —
Wat (finishing his beer)
Swallow it down.
Sling all such froth and follow me to the Bear!
They stay for me, lined up to see us pass
From end to end o' the alley. Ho! You doubt?
From Lambeth to the Bridge!
Prentices
'Tis so; ay.
Taverners
Come, follow! Come.
Wat
Greg's stuck his ears
With nosegays, and his chain is wound about
Like any May-pole. What? I tell ye, boys,
Ye have seen no such bear, a Bear o' Bears,
Fit to bite off the prophet, in the show,
With seventy such boys.
(Pulling Dickon's ear) Bears, say you, bears?
Why, Rursus Major, as your scholars tell,
A royal bear, the greatest in his day,
The sport of Alexander, unto Nick —
Was a ewe-lamb dyed black; no worse, no worse!
To-morrow come and see him with the dogs;
He'll not give way, — not he!
Dickon
To-morrow's Thursday!
To-morrow's Thursday!
Prentice
Will ye lead by here?
Tobias
Ay, that would be a sight. Wat, man, this way!
Wat
Ho, would you squinch us? Why, there be a press
O' gentry by this tide to measure Nick
And lay their wagers, at a blink of him,
Against to-morrow! Why, the stairs be full.
To-morrow you shall see the Bridge a-creak,
The river — dry with barges, — London gape,
Gape! While the Borough buzzes like a hive
With all their worships! Sirs, the fame o' Nick
Has so pluckt out the gentry by the sleeve,
'Tis said the Queen would see him.
Tobias
Ay, 'tis grand.
Dickon
O-oh, the Queen?
Prentice
How now? What man art thou to lead a bear,
Forgetting both his quality and hers!
Drink all; drink to the Queen.
Tobias
Ay, now.
Wat
To her! —
You, boy, put by this saying with your pint:
'The Queen, her high and glorious majesty!'
Simeon (gravely)
Long live the Queen!
Wat
Maker of golden laws
For baitings! She that cherishes the Borough
And shines upon our pastimes. By the mass!
Thank her for the crowd to-morrow. But for her,
We were a homesick handful of brave souls
That love the royal sport. These mouthing players,
These hookers, would'a' spoiled us of our beer —
Prentice
Lying by to catch the gentry at the stairs, —
All pressing towards Bear Alley —
Wat
To run 'em in
At stage-plays and show-fooleries on the way;
Stage-plays, with their tart-nonsense and their flags,
Their 'Tamerlanes' and 'Humors' and what not!
My life on't, there was not a man of us
But fared his Lent, by reason of their fatness,
And on a holiday ate not at all!
Tobias (solemnly)
'Tis so; 'tis so.
Wat
But when she heard it told
How lean our sport was grown, she damns stage-plays
O'Thursday. So: Nick gets his turn to growl!
Prentice
As well as any player.
[With a dumb show of ranting among the taverners
Wat
Players? — Hang them!
I know'em, I. I've been with 'em. ... I was
As sweet a gentlewoman, in my voice,
As any of your finches that sings small.
Tobias
'Twas high.
Enter The Player followed by Chiffin, the ballad-monger. He looks
worn
and tired.
Wat (lingering at the table)
I say, I've played.
... There's not one man
Of all the gang — save one ... Ay, there be one
I grant you, now! ... He used me in right sort;
A man worth better trades.
[Seeing The Player
— Lord love you, sir!
Why, this is you indeed. 'Tis a long day, sir,
Since I clapped eyes on you. But even now
Your name was on my tongue, as pat as ale!
You see me off. We bait to-morrow, sir;
Will you come see? Nick's fresh, and every soul
As hot to see the fight as 'twere to be —
Man Daniel, baited with the lions!
Tobias
Sir,
'Tis high ... 'tis high.
Wat
We show him in the street
With dogs and all, ay, now, if you will see.
The Player
Why, so I will. A show and I not there?
Bear it out bravely, Wat. High fortune, man!
Commend me to thy bear.
[Drinks and passes him the cup
Wat
Lord love you, sir!
'Twas ever so you gave a man godspeed. ...
And yet your spirits flag; you look but palely.
I'll take your kindness, thank ye.
(Turning away.) In good time!
Come after me and Nick, now. Follow all;
Come boys, come, pack!
[Exit Wat, still descanting. Exeunt most of the taverners, with
the
Prentice. Simeon Dyer draws near The Player, regarding him gravely.
Chiffin sells ballads to those who go out. Dickon is about to follow them
,
when Tobias holds him by the ear.
Tobias
What? Not so fast, you there!
Who gave you holiday? Bide by the inn; —
Tend on our gentry. [Exit after the crowd.
Chiffin
Ballads, gentlemen?
Ballads, new ballads?
Simeon (to The Player)
With your pardon sir,
I am gratified to note your abstinence
From this deplorable fond merriment
Of baiting of a bear.
The Player
Your friendship then,
Takes pleasure in the heaviness of my legs.
Save I am weary, I would see the bear.
Nay, rest you happy; malt shall comfort us.
Simeon
You do mistake me. I am —
Chiffin
Ballad, sir?
'How a Young Spark would Woo a Tanner's Wife,
And She Sings Sweet in Turn.'
Simeon (indignant)
Abandoned poet!
Chiffin (indignant)
I'm no such thing! —
An honest ballad, sir,
No poetry at all.
The Player
Good, sell thy wares.
Chiffin
'A Ballad of a Virtuous Country-Maid
Forswears the Follies of the Flaunting Town' —
And tends her geese all day, and weds a vicar.
Simeon
A godlier tale, in sooth. But speak, my man;
If she be virtuous, and the tale a true one,
Can she not do't in prose?
The Player
Beseech her, man.
'Tis scandal she should use a measure so.
For no more sin than dealing out false measure
Was Dame Sapphira slain.
Simeon
You are with me, sir'
Although methinks you do mistake the sense
O' that you have read. ... This jigging, jogtrot rime,
This ring-me-round, debaseth mind and matter,
To make the reason giddy —
Chiffin (to The Player)
Ballad, sir?
'Hear All!' A fine brave ballad of a Fish
Just caught off Dover; nay, a one-eyed fish,
With teeth in double rows!
The Player
Nay, nay, go to.
Chiffin
'My Fortune's Folly,' then; or 'The True Tale
Of an Angry Gull'; or 'Cherries Like Me Best.'
'Black Sheep, or How a Cut-Purse Robbed His Mother';
'The Prentice and the Dell!' ... 'Plays Plays not Fair,'
Or how a gentlewoman's heart was took
By a player, that was king in a stage-play. ...
'The Merry Salutation,' — 'How a Spark
Would Woo a Tanner's Wife!' — 'The Direful Fish' —
Cock's passion, sir! not buy a cleanly ballad
Of the great fish, late ta'en off Dover coast,
Having two heads and teeth in double rows?
Salt fish catched in fresh water? ...
'Od's my life!
What if, or salt or fresh? A prodigy!
A ballad like 'Hear All!' — And me and mine,
Five children and a wife would bait the devil,
My lap the water out o' Lambeth Marsh
Before he'll buy a ballad! My poor wife,
That lies a-weeping for a tansy-cake!
Body o'me, shall I smack ale again?
The Player
Why, here's persuasion; logic, arguments.
Nay, not the ballad. Read for thine own joy.
I doubt not but it stretches, honest length,
From Maid Lane to the Bridge and so across.
But for thy length of thirst —
(Giving him a coin) That touches near.
Chaffin (apart)
A vagrom player, would not buy a tale
O' the Great Fish with the twy rows o' teeth!
Learn you to read! [Exit
Simeon
Thou seemest, sir, from that I have overheard,
A man, as one should grant, beyond thy calling. ...
I would I might assure thee of the way,
To urge thee quit this painted infamy.
There may be time, seeing thou art still young,
To pluck thee from the burning. How are ye 'stroyed,
Ye foolish grasshoppers! Cut off, forgotten,
When moth and rust corrupt your flaunting shows,
The Earth shall have no memory of your name!
Dickon
Pray you, what's yours?
Simeon
I am called Simeon Dyer.
[There is the sudden uproar of a crowd in the distance. It continues at

intervals for some time.
Prentices
Hey, lads?
Some noise beyond: Come, cudgels, come!
Come on, come on, I'm for it.
[Exeunt all but The Player, Simeon, and Dickon
Simeon
Something untoward, without: or is it rather
The tumult of some uproar incident
To this vicinity?
The Player
It is an uproar
Most incident to bears.
Dickon
I would I knew!
The Player (holding him off at arm's length)
Hey boy? We would have tidings of the bear:
Go thou, I'll be thy surety. Mark him well.
Omit no fact; I would have all of it:
What manner o' bear he is, — how bears himself;
Number and pattern of ears, and eyes what hue;
His voice and fashion o' coat. Nay, come not back,
Till thou hast all. Skip, sirrah!
[Exit Dickon
Simeon
Think, fair sir.
Take this new word of mine to be a seed
Of thought in that neglected garden-plot,
Thy mind, thy worthier part. Nay, think!
The Player
Why, so;
Thou hast some right, friend; now and then it serves.
Sometimes I have thought, and even now, sometimes,
... I think.
Simeon (benevolently)
Heaven ripen thought unto an harvest! [Exit
[The Player alone, rises, stretches his arms, and paces the floor
wearily
The Player
Some quiet now. ... Why should I thirst for it,
Alone with the one man of all living men
I have least cause to honor. ... She is too false —
At last, to keep a spaniel's loyalty.
I do believe it. And by my own soul,
She shall not have me, what remains of me
That may be beaten back into the ranks.
I will not look upon her. ... Bitter Sweet.
This fever that torments me day by day —
Call it not love — this servitude, this spell
That haunts me like a sick man's fantasy,
With pleading of her eyes, her voice, her eyes —
It shall not have me. I am too much stained:
But, God or no God, yet I do not live
And have to bear my own soul company,
To have it stoop so low. She looks on Herbert.
Oh, I have seen! But he, — he must withstand her!
For my sake, yes, for my sake! — I'll not doubt
His honor; nor the love he hath to me; —
As Jonathan to David. — I'll not doubt.
He knows what I have suffered, — suffer still —
Although I love her not. Her ways, her ways.
It is her ways that eat into the heart
With beauty more than Beauty; and her voice,
That silvers o'er the meaning of her speech
Like moonshine on black waters. Ah, uncoil! ...
He's the sure morning after this dark dream;
Wide daylight and west wind of a lad's love;
With all his golden pride, for my dull hours,
Still climbing sunward. Sink all loves in him!
And cleanse me of this cursèd, fell distrust
That marks the pestilence. 'Fair, kind, and true.'
Lad, lad. How could I turn from friendliness
To worship such false gods? ...
'Fair, kind, and true.' And yet, if She were true, —
To me, though false to all things else; — one truth,
So one truth lived —. One truth! O beggared soul,
— Foul Lazarus, so starved it can make shift
To feed on crumbs of honor! — Am I this?
[Enter Anne Hughes. She has been running, in evident terror, and
stands against the closed door looking about her
Anne
Are you the inn-keeper?
[The Player turns and bows courteously
Nay, sir, your pardon.
I saw you not ... And yet your face, methinks, —
But — yes, I'm sure. ...
But where's the inn-keeper?
I know not where I am, nor where to go!
The Player
Madam, it is my fortune that I may
Procure you service. (Going towards the door)
[The uproar sounds nearer
Anne
Nay! what if the bear —
The Player
The bear?
Anne
The door! The bear is broken loose.
Did you not hear? I scarce could make my way
Through that rank crowd, in search of some safe place.
You smile, sir! But you had not seen the bear, —
Nor I, this morning. Pray you, hear me out, —
For surely you are gentler than the place.
I came ... I came by water ... to the Garden,
Alone, ... from bravery, to see the show
And tell of it hereafter at the Court!
There's one of us makes count of all such'scapes, —
('Tis Mistress Fytton). She will ever tell
The sport it is to see the people's games
Among themselves, — to go incognita
And take all, as it is not for the Queen,
Gallants and rabble! But by Banbury Cross,
I am of tamer mettle! — All alone,
Among ten thousand noisy watermen;
And then the foul ways leading from the Stair;
And then ... no friends I knew, nay, not a face.
And my dear nose beset, and my pomander
Lost in the rout, — or else a cut-purse had it:
And then the bear breaks loose! Oh, 'tis a day
Full of vexations, nay, and dangers too.
I would I had been slower to outdo
The pranks of Mary Fytton. ... You know her, sir?
The Player
If one of my plain calling may be said
To know a maid-of-honor. (More lightly) And yet more: —
My heart has cause to know the lady's face.
Anne (blankly)
Why, so it is. ... Is't not a marvel, sir,
The way she hath? Truly, her voice is good. ...
And yet, — but oh, she charms; I hear it said.
A winsome gentlewoman, of a wit, too.
We are great fellows; she tells me all she does;
And, sooth, I listen till my ears be like
To grow, for wonder. Whence my 'scape, today!
Oh, she hath daring for the pastimes here;
I would — change looks with her, to have her spirit!
Indeed, they say she charms Some one, by this.
The Player
Some one. ...
Anne
Hast heard?
Why, sure my Lord of Herbert,
Ay, Pembroke's son. But there I doubt, — I doubt.
He is an eagle will not stoop for less
Than kingly prey. No bird-lime takes him.
The Player
He hath shown many favors to us players.
Herbert. ...
Anne
Ah, now I have you!
The Player
Surely, gracious madam;
My duty; ... what besides?
Anne
This face of yours.
'Twas in some play, belike. (Apart) ... I took him for
A man it should advantage me to know!
And he's a proper man enough. ... Ay me!
[When she speaks to him again it is with encouraging condescension
Surely you've been at Whitehall, Master Player?
The Player (bowing)
So.
Anne
And how oft? And when?
The Player
Last Christmas tide;
And Twelfth Day eve, perchance. Your memory
Freshens a dusty past. ... The hubbub's over.
Shall I look forth and find some trusty boy
To attend you to the river?
Anne
I thank you, sir.
[He goes to the door and steps out into the alley, looking up and down.

The noise in the distance springs up again.
(Apart.) 'Tis not past sufferance. Marry, I could stay
Some moments longer, till the streets be safe.
Sir, sir!
The Player (returning)
Command me, madam.
Anne
I will wait
A little longer, lest I meet once more
That ruffian mob, or any of the dogs.
These sports are better seen from balconies.
The Player
Will you step hither? There's an arbored walk
Sheltered and safe. Should they come by again,
You may see all, an't like you, and be hid.
Anne
A garden there? Come, you shall show it me.
[They go out into the garden on the right, leaving the door shut. Enter

immediately, in great haste, Mary Fytton and William Herbert, followed

by Dickon, who looks about and seeing no one, goes to setting things in
order.
Mary
Quick, quick! ... She must have seen me. Those big eyes,
How could they miss me peering as she was
For some familiar face? She would have known,
Even before my mask was jostled off
In that wild rabble ... bears and bearish men!
Herbert
Why would you have me bring you?
Mary (gaily)
Why? Ah, why!
Sooth, once I had a reason: now'tis lost, —
Lost! Lost! Call out the bell-man.
Dickon (seriously)
Shall I so?
Herbert
Nay. nay; that were a merriment indeed,
To cry us through the streets! (To Mary) You riddling charm.
Mary
A riddle, yet? You almost love me, then.
Herbert
Almost?
Mary
Because you cannot understand.
Alas, when all's unriddled, the charm goes.
Herbert
Come, you're not melancholy?
Mary
Nay, are you?
But should Nan Hughes haveseen us, and spoiled all —
Herbert
How could she so?
Mary
I know not ... yet I know
If she had met us, she could steal To-day,
Golden To-day.
Herbert
A kiss; and so forget her.
Mary
Hush, hush, — the tavern-boy there.
(To Dickon) Tell me, boy, —
(To Herbert) Some errand, now; a roc's egg! Strike thy wit.
Herbert
What is't you miss? Why, so. The lady's lost
A very curious reason, wrought about
With diverse broidery.
Mary
Nay,'twas a mask.
Herbert
A mask, arch-wit? Why will you mock yourself
And all your fine deceits? Your mask, your reason,
Your reason with a mask!
Mary
You are too merry.
(To Dickon) A mask it is, and muffler finely wrought
With little amber points all hung like bells.
I lost it as I came, somewhere. ...
Herbert
Somewhere
Between the Paris Gardens and the Bridge.
Mary
Or below Bridge, — or haply in the Thames!
Herbert
No matter where, so you do bring it back.
Fly, Mercury! Here's feathers for thy heels.
[Giving coin
Mary (aside)
Weights, weights! [Exit Dickon
[Herbert looks about him, opens the door of the tap-room, grows
troubled.
She watches him with dissatisfaction, seeming to warm her feet by the fire
meanwhile.
Herbert (apart)
I know this place. We used to come
Together, he and I ...
Mary (apart)
Forgot again.
O the capricious tides, the hateful calms,
And the too eager ship that would be gone
Adventuring against uncertain winds,
For some new, utmost sight of Happy Isles!
Becalmed, — becalmed ... But I will break this calm.
[She sees the lute on the table, crosses and takes it up, running her
fingers over the strings very softly. She sits
Herbert
Ah, mermaid, is it you?
Mary
Did you sail far?
Herbert
Not I; no, sooth. (Crossing to her)
Mermaid, I would not think.
But you —
Mary
I think not. I remember nothing.
There's nothing in the world but you and me;
All else is dust. Thou shalt not question me;
Or if, — but as a sphinx in woman-shape:
And if thou fail at answer, I shall turn,
And rend thy heart and cast thee from the cliff.
[She leans her head back to kiss him
So perish all who guess not what I am! ...
Oh, but I know you: you are April-Days.
Nothing is sure, but all is beautiful!
[She runs her fingers up the strings, one by one, and listens,
speaking
to the lute
Is it not so? Come, answer. Is it true?
Speak, sweeting, since I love thee best of late,
And have forsook my virginals for thee.
All's beautiful indeed and all unsure?
'Ay' ... (Did you hear?) He's fair and faithless? 'Ay.'
(Speaking with
the lute)
Herbert
Poor oracle, with only one reply! —
Wherein 'tis unlike thee.
Mary
Can he love aught
So well as his own image in the brook,
Having once seen it?
Herbert
Ay!
Mary
The lute saith 'No.' ...
O dullard! Here were tidings, would you mark.
What said I? Oracle, could he love aught
So dear as his own image in the brook,
Having once looked? ... No, truly.
(With sudden abandon) Nor can I!
Herbert
O leave this game of words, you thousand-tongued.
Sing, sing to me. So shall I be all yours
Forever; — or at least till you be still! ...
I used to wonder he should be thy slave:
I wonder now no more. Your ways are wonders;
You have a charm to make a man forget
His past and yours, and everything but you.
Mary (speaking with her eyes on his face)
'When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white' —
How now?
Herbert
How now! That song ... thou wilt sing that?
Mary
Marry, what mars the song?
Herbert
Have you forgot
Who made it?
Mary
Soft, what idleness. So fine? —
So rude? And bid me sing! You get but silence;
Or, if I sing, — beshrew me, it shall be
A dole of song, a little starveling breath
As near to silence as a song can be.
[She sings under-breath, fantastically
Say how many kisses be
Lent and lost twixt you and me?
'Can I tell when they begun?'
Nay, but this were prodigal:
Let us learn to count withal.
Since no ending is to spending,
Sum our riches, one by one.
'You shall keep the reckoning,
Count each kiss while I do sing.'
Herbert
Oh, not these little wounds. You vex my heart;
Heal it again with singing, — come, sweet, come.
Into the garden! None shall trouble us.
This place has memories and conscience too:
Drown all, my mermaid. Wind them in your hair
And drown them, drown them all.
[He swings open the garden-door for her. At the same moment Anne's
voice is heard approaching.
Anne (without)
Some music there?
Herbert
Perdition! Quick, — behind me, love.
[Swinging the door shut again, and looking through the crack
Mary
'Tis she —
Nan Hughes, 'tis she! How came she here? By heaven,
She crosses us to-day. Nan Hughes lights here
In a Bank tavern! Nay, I'll not be seen.
Sooner or later it must mean the wreck
Of both ... should the Queen know.
Herbert
The spite of chance!
She talks with some one in the arbor there ...
Whose face I see not. Come, here's doors at least.
[They cross hastily. Mary opens the door on the left and looks
within.
Mary
Too thick. ... I shall be penned. But guard you this
And tell me when they're gone. Stay, stay; — mend all.
If she have seen me, — swear it was not I.
Heaven speed her hence, with her new bodyguard!
[Exit, closing door. Herbert looks out into the garden
Herbert
By all accursèd chances, — none but he!
[Retires up to stand beside the door, looking out of casement.
Reënter from the garden, Anne, followed by The Player.
Anne
No,'twas some magic in my ears, I think.
There's no one here. (Seeing Herbert)
But yes, there's some one here: —
The innkeeper. Are you —
Saint Catherine's ruff!
My Lord of Herbert. Sir, you could not look
More opportune. But for this gentleman —
Herbert (bowing)
My friend, this long time since, —
Anne
Marry, your friend?
The Player (regarding Herbert searchingly)
This long time since.
Anne
Nay, is it so, indeed?
(To Herbert) My day's fulfilled of blunders! O sweet sir,
How can I tell you? But I'll tell you all,
If you'll but bear me escort from this place
Where none of us belongs. Yours is the first
Familiar face I've seen this afternoon!
Herbert (apart)
A sweet assurance.
(Aloud.) But you seek ... you need
Some rest — some cheer, some — Will you step within? [Pointing to
the tap-room
The tavern is deserted, but —
Anne
Not here!
I've been here quite an hour. Come, citywards,
To Whitehall! I have had enough of bears
To quench my longing till next Whitsuntide.
Down to the river, pray you.
Herbert
Sooth, at once?
Anne
At once, at once.
(To The Player) I crave your pardon, sir,
For sundering your friendships. I've heard say
Some woman ever crosses 'twixt two men,
To their confusion. You shall drink amends
Some other day. I must be safely home.
The Player (half reassured)
It joys me that your trials have found an end;
And for the rest, I wish you prosperous voyage;
Which needs not, with such halcyon weather toward.
Herbert (apart)
It cuts: and yet he knows not. Can it pass?
(To him) Let us meet soon. I have — I know not what
To say — nay, no import; but chance has parted
Our several ways too long. To leave you thus,
Without a word —
Anne (pettishly)
You are in haste, my lord!
By the true faith, here are two friends indeed!
Two lovers crossed: and I, — 'tis I that bar them!
Pray tarry, sir. I doubt not I may light
Upon some link-boy to attend me home,
Or else a drunken prentice with a club,
Or that patched keeper strolling from the Garden
With all his dogs along; or failing them,
A pony with a monkey on his back,
Or, failing that, a bear! Some escort, sure,
Such as the Borough offers! I shall look
Part of a pageant from the Lady Fair,
And boast for three full moons, 'Such sights I saw!'
Truly, 'tis new to me: but I doubt not
I shall trick out a mind for strange adventure,
As high as — Mistress Fytton!
Herbert
Say no more,
Dear lady! I entreat you pardon me
The lameness of my wit. I'm stark adream;
You lighted here so suddenly, unlooked for
Vision in Bankside! Let me hasten you,
Now that I see I dream not. It grows late.
Anne
And can you grant me such a length of time?
Herbert
Length? Say Illusion! Time? Alas, 'twill be
Only a poor half-hour, (loudly) a poor half-hour!
(Apart) Could she hear that, I wonder?
The Player (bowing over Anne's hand)
Not so, madam;
A little gold of largess, fallen to me
By chance.
Herbert (to him)
A word with you —
(Apart) O, I am gagged!
Anne (to The Player)
You go with us, sir?
[He moves towards door with them
The Player
No, I do but play
Your inn-keeper.
Herbert (apart, despairingly)
The eagle is gone blind.
[Exeunt all three, leaving the doors open. They are seen to go down the

walk together. At the street they pause, The Player bowing slowly, then
turning back towards the inn; Anne holding Herbert's arm. Within, the
door on the left opens slightly, then Mary appears.
Mary
'Tis true. My ears caught silence, if no more.
They're gone. ...
[She comes out of her hiding-place and opens the left-hand casement to
see Anne disappearing with Herbert.
She takes him with her! He'll return?
Gone, gone, without a word; and I was caged, —
And deaf as well. O, spite of everything!
She's so unlike ... How long shall I be here
To wait and wonder? He with her — with her!
[The Player, having come slowly back to the door, hears her voice.
Mary
darts towards the entrance to look after Herbert and Anne. She sees
him and recoils. She falls back step by step, while he stands with his hands
upon the door-posts, impassive.
You! ...
The Player
Yes. ... [After a pause
And you.
Mary
Do you not ask me why
I'm here?
The Player
I am not wont to shun the truth:
But yet I think the reason you could give
Were too uncomely.
Mary
Nay; —
The Player
If it were truth. ...
If it were truth! Although that likelihood
Scarce threatens.
Mary
So. Condemned without a trial.
The Player
O speak the lie now. Let there be no chance
For my unsightly love, bound head and foot,
Stark, full of wounds and horrible, to find
Escape from out its charnel-house; to rise
Unwelcome before eyes that had forgot,
And say it died not truly. It should die.
Play no imposture: leave it, — it is dead.
I have been weak in that I tried to pour
The wine through plague-struck veins. It came to life
Over and over, drew sharp breath again
In torture such as't may be to be born,
If a poor babe could tell. Over and over,
I tell you, it has suffered resurrection,
Cheating its pain with hope, only to die
Over and over; — die more deaths than men
The meanest, most forlorn, are made to die
By tyranny or nature. ... Now I see all
Clear. And I say, it shall not rise again.
I am as safe from you as I were dead.
I know you.
Mary
Herbert —
The Player
Do not touch his name.
Leave that; I saw.
Mary
You saw? Nay, what?
The Player
The whole
Clear story. — Not at first. While you were hid,
I took some comfort, drop by drop, and minute
By minute. (Dullard!) Yet there was a maze
Of circumstance that showed even then to me,
Perplext and strange. You here, unravel it.
All's clear: you are the clew. [Turning away
Mary (going to the casement)
(Apart) Caged, caged!
Does he know all? Why were those walls so dense?
(To him) Nan Hughes hath seized the time to tune your mind
To some light gossip. Say, how came she here?
The Player
All emulation, thinking to match you
In high adventure: — liked it not, poor lady!
And is gone home, attended.
Reënter Dickon
Dickon (to Mary)
They be lost! —
Thy mask and muffler; — 'tis no help to search.
Some hooker would'a' swallowed 'em, be sure,
As the whale swallows Jonas, in the show.
Mary
'Tis nought: I care not.
Dickon (looking at the fire)
Hey, it wants a log.
[While he mends the fire, humming, The Player stands by him taking
thought.
Mary speaks apart, going to the casement again to look out.
Mary (apart)
I will have what he knows. To cast me off: —
Not thus, not thus. Peace, I can blind him yet,
Or he'll despise me. Nay, I will not be
Thrust out at door like this. I will not go
But by mine own free will. There is no power
Can say what he might do to ruin us,
To win Will Herbert from me, — almost mine,
And I all his, all his — O April-Days! —
Well, friendship against love? I know who wins.
He is grown dread. ... But yet he is a man.
[Exit Dickon into tap-room
(To The Player, suavely) Well, headsman?
[He does not turn
Mind your office: I am judged.
Guilty, was it not so? ... What is to do,
Do quickly. ... Do you wait for some reprieve?
Guilty, you said. Nay, do you turn your face
To give me some small leeway of escape?
And yet, I will not go ...
[Coming down slowly
Well, headsman? ...
You ask not why I came here, Clouded Brow,
Will you not ask me why I stay? No word?
O blind, come lead the blind! For I, I too
Lack sight and every sense to linger here
And make me an intruder, where I once
Was welcome, oh most welcome, as I dreamed!
Look on me, then. I do confess, I have
Too often preened my feathers in the sun,
And thought to rule a little, by my wit.
I have been spendthrift with men's offerings
To use them like a nosegay, — tear apart,
Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, until
I found the heart all bare, the curious heart
I longed to see, for once, and cast away.
And so, at first, with you. ... Ah, now I think
You're wise. There's nought so fair, so ... curious,
So precious-rare to find, as honesty.
'Twas all a child's play then; a counting-off
Of petals. Now I know. ... But ask me why
I come unheralded, and in a mist
Of circumstance and strangeness. Listen, love, —
Well then, dead love, if you will have it so.
I have been cunning, cruel, — what you will:
And yet the days of late have seemed too long
Even for summer! Something called me here.
And so I flung my pride away and came, —
A very woman for my foolishness! —
To say once more, — to say ...
The Player
No, I'll not ask.
What lacks? I need no more; you have done well.
'Tis rare. There is no man I ever saw
But you could school him. Women should be players.
You are sovran in the art: feigning and truth
Are so commingled in you. Sure, to you
Nature's a simpleton hath never seen
Her own face in the well. Is there aught else,
To ask of my poor calling?
Mary
I have deserved it
In other days. Hear how I can be meek.
I am come back; a foot-worn runaway,
Like any braggart boy. Let me sit down
And take Love's horn-book in my hands again,
And learn from the beginning; — by the rod,
If you will scourge me, love! Come, come, forgive.
I am not wont to sue: and yet to-day
I am your suppliant, I am your servant,
Your link-boy, yes, your minstrel: so, — wilt hear?
[Takes up the lute, and gives a last look out of the casement.
The tumult in the streets is all apart
With the discordant past. The hour that is,
Shall be the only thing in all the world.
(Apart.) I will be safe. He'll win not Herbert from me!
[Crossing to him
Will you have music, good my lord?
The Player (catching the lute from her)
Not that,
Not that! By heaven, you shall not. ... Nevermore.
Mary
So ... But you speak at last. You are, forsooth,
A man. And you shall use me as my due: —
A woman, not the wind about your ears;
A woman, whom you loved.
The Player (half-apart, still holding the lute)
Why were you not
That beauty that you seemed? ... But had you been,
'Tis true, you would have had no word for me, —
No looks of love.
Mary
The man reproaches me?
The Player
Not I — not I. ... Will Herbert, what am I
To lay this broken trust to you? — To you,
Young, free, and tempted: April on his way,
Whom all hands reach for, and this woman here
Had set her heart upon!
Mary (with sudden fury)
What fantasy!
Surely he must have been from town of late,
To see the gude-folk! And how fare they, sir?
Reverend yeoman, say, how thrive the sheep?
What did the harvest yield you? — Did you count
The cabbage heads? and find how like ... nay, nay!
But our gude-wife, did she bid in the neighbors
To prove them that her husband was no myth?
Some Puritan preacher, nay, some journeyman,
To make you sup the sweeter with long prayers?
This were a rare conversion, by my soul!
From sonnets unto sermons: — eminent!
The Player
Oh, yes, your scorn bites truly: sermons next.
There is so much to say. But it must be learned;
And I require hard schooling, dream too much
On what I would men were, — but women most.
I need the cudgel of the task-master
To make me con the truth. Yes, blind, you called me,
And 'tis my shame I bandaged mine own eyes
And held them dark. Now, by the grace of God,
Or haply because the devil tries too far,
I tear the blindfold off, and I see all.
I see you as you are; and in your heart
The secret love sprung up for one I loved,
A reckless boy who has trodden on my soul —
But that's a thing apart, concerns not you.
I know that you will stake your heaven and earth
To fool me, — fool us both.
Mary (with some interest)
Why were you not
So stern a long time since? You're not so wise
As I have heard them say.
The Player (standing by the chimney)
Wise? Oh, not I.
Who was so witless as to call me wise?
Sure he had never bade me a good-day
And seen me take the cheer. ...
I was your fool
Too long. ... I am no longer anything.
Speak: What are you?
Mary (after a pause)
The foolishest of women:
A heart that should have been adventurer
On the high seas; a seeker in new lands,
To dare all and to lose. But I was made
A woman.
Oh, you see; — could you see all!
What if I say ... the truth is not so far,
[Watching him
Yet farther than you dream. If I confess ...
He charmed my fancy ... for the moment, — ay
The shine of his fortunes too, the very name
Of Pembroke? ... Dear my judge, — ah, clouded brow
And darkened fortune, be not black to me!
I'd try for my escape; the window's wide,
No one forbids, and yet I stay — I stay.

Oh, I was niggard, once, unkind — I know,
Untrusty: loved, unloved you, day by day:
A little and a little, — why, I knew not,
And more, and wondered why; — then not at all! —
Drank up the dew from out your very heart,
Like the extortionate sun, to leave you parched;
Till, with as little grace, I flung all back
In gust of angry rain! I have been cruel.
But the spell works; yea, love, the spell, the spell
Fed by your fasting, by your subtlety
Past all men's knowledge. ... There is something rare
About you that I long to flee and cannot: —
Some mastery ... that's more my will than I.
[She laughs softly. He listens, looking straight ahead, not at her,
motionless but suffering evidently. She watches his face and speaks with
greater
intensity. Here she crosses nearer and falls on her knees.
Ah, look: you shall believe, you shall believe.
Will you put by your Music? Was I that?
Your Music, — very Music? ... Listen, then,
Turn not so blank a face. Thou hast my love.
I'll tell thee so, till thought itself shall tire
And fall a-dreaming like a weary child; ...
Only to dream of you, and in its sleep
To murmur You. ... Ah, look at me, love, lord ...
Whom queens would honor. Read these eyes you praised,
That pitied, once, — that sue for pity now.
But look! You shall not turn from me —
The Player
Eyes, Eyes! —
The darkness hides so much.
Mary
He'll not believe ...
What can I do? What more, — what more, you ... man?
I bruise my heart here, at an iron gate. ...
[She regards him gloomily without rising
Yet there is one thing more. ... You'll take me, now —
My meaning. You were right. For once I say it.
There is a glory of discovery (ironically)
To the black heart ... because it may be known
But once, — but once. ...
I wonder men will hide
Their motives all so close. If they could guess, —
It is so new to feel the open day
Look in on all one's hidings, at the end.
[She shrugs her shoulders, rises, and stands off, regarding him
fixedly
So. ... You were right. The first was all a lie:
A lie, and for a purpose ...
Now, —
And why, I know not, — but 'tis true, at last,
I do believe ... I love you.
Look at me!
[He stands by the fireside against the chimneypiece. She
crosses to him
with passionate appeal, holding out her arms. He turns his eyes and looks at he
r
with a rigid scrutiny. She endures it for a second, then wavers; makes an
effort, unable to look away, to lift her arms towards his neck; they falter
and
fall at her side. The two stand spellbound by mutual recognition. Then she
speaks in a strained voice.
Mary
Oh, let me go!
[She turns her head with an effort, — gathers her cloak about
her;
hesitates with averted eyes, then hastens out as if from some terror.
[The Player is alone beside the chimney-piece. The street outside is
darkening with twilight through the casements and upper door. There is a
sound
of rough-throated singing that comes by and is softened with distance.
It breaks
the spell.
The Player
So; it is over ... now.
[He looks into the fire

Fair, kind, and true. — And true. — My golden Friend!
Both ... both, together. ... He was ill at ease.
But that he should betray me with a kiss!

By this preposterous world ... I am in need.
Shall there be no faith left? Nothing but names?
Then he's a fool who steers his life by such.
Why not the body-comfort of this herd
Of creatures huddled here to keep them warm? —
Trying to drown out with enforcèd laughter
The query of the winds ... unanswered winds
That scourge the soul with a perpetual doubt.
What holds me? — Bah, that were a Cause, indeed!
To prove your soul one truth, by being it, —
Against the foul dishonor of the world!
How else prove aught? ...
I talk into the air.
And at my feet, my honor full of wounds.
Honor? Whose honor? For I knew my sin,
And she ... had none. There's nothing to avenge.
[He speaks with more and more passion, too distraught to notice
interruptions. Enter Dickon, with a tallow-dip. He regards The Player
with half-open mouth from the corner; then stands by the casement,
leaning up
against it and yawning now and then.
I had no right: that I could call her mine
So none should steal her from me, and die for't.
There's nothing to avenge ... Brave beggary!
How fit to lodge me in this home of Shows,
With all the ruffian life, the empty mirth,
The gross imposture of humanity,
Strutting in virtues it knows not to wear,
Knave in a stolen garment — all the same —
Until it grows enamored of a life
It was not born to, — falls a-dream, poor cheat,
In the midst of its native shams, — the thieves and bears
And ballad-mongers all! ... Of such am I.
[Reënter Tobias and one or two taverners. Tobias
regards
The Player, who does not notice any one, — then leads off Dickon by

the ear. Exeunt into the tap-room. The Player goes to the casement, pushes

it wide open, and looks out at the sky.
Is there nought else? ... I could make shift to bind
My heart up and put on my mail again,
To cheat myself and death with one fight more,
If I could think there were some worldly use
For bitter wisdom.
But I'm no general,
That my own hand-to-hand with evil days
Should cheer my doubting thousands ...
I'm no more
Than one man lost among a multitude;
And in the end dust swallows them — and me,
And the good sweat that won our victories.
Who sees? Or seeing, cares? Who follows on?
Then why should my dishonor trouble me,
Or broken faith in him? What is it suffers?
And why? Now that the moon is turned to blood.
[He turns towards the door with involuntary longing, and seems to
listen
No ... no, he will not come. Well, I have nought
To do but pluck from me my bitter heart,
And breathe without it.
[Reënter Dickon with a tankard and a cup. He sets them down on
a
small table; this he pushes toward The Player, who turns at the noise.
... So. Is it for me?
Dickon
Ay, on the score! I had good sight o' the bear.
Look, here's a sprig was stuck on him with pitch; —
[Rubbing a little green sprig on his sleeve
I caught it up, — from Lambeth marsh, belike.
Such grow there, and I've seen thee cherish such.
The Player
Give us thy posy.
[He comes back to the fire and sits in the chair near by. Dickon
gets
out the iron lantern from the corner.
Dickon (whistling)
Hey! It wants a light.
[The Player seems to listen once more, his face turned towards the door.

He lifts his hand as if to hush Dickon, lets it fall, and looks back at
the
fire. Dickon regards him with shy longing and draws nearer.
Dickon
Thou wilt be always minding of the fire ...
Wilt thou not?
The Player
Ay.
Dickon
It likes me, too.
The Player
So?
Dickon
Ay. ...
I would I knew what thou art thinking on
When thou dost mind the fire. ...
The Player
Wouldst thou?
Dickon
Ay.
[Sound of footsteps outside. A group approaches the door.
Oh, here he is, come back!
The Player (rising with passionate eagerness)
Brave lad — brave lad!
Dickon (singing)
Hang out your lanthorns, trim your lights
To save your days from knavish nights!
[He plunges, with his lantern, through the doorway, stumbling against

Wat Burrow, who enters, a sorry figure, the worse for wear.
Wat (sourly)
Be the times soft, that you must try to cleave
Way through my ribs as tho' I was the moon? —
And you the man-wi'-the-lanthorn, or his dog? —
You bean! ...
[Exit Dickon. Wat shambles in and sees The Player.
What, you, sir, here?
The Player
Still here; ay, Wat.
[While Wat crosses to the table and gets himself a chair, The
Player looks at him as if with a new consciousness of the surroundings.
After
a time he sits as before. Reënter Dickon and curls up on the
floor, at
his feet with bashful devotion.
Wat
O give me comfort, sir. This cursèd day, —
A wry, damned ... noisome. ... Ay, poor Nick, poor Nick!
He's all to mend — Poor Nick! He's sorely maimed,
More than we'd baited him with forty dogs.
'Od's body! Said I not, sir, he would fight?
Never before had he, in leading-chain,
Walked out to take the air and show his coat. ...
'Went to his noddle like some greenest gull's
That's new come up to town. ... The Prentices
Squeaking along like Bedlam, he breaks loose
And prances me a hey, — I dancing counter!
Then such a cawing 'mongst the women! Next,
The chain did clatter and enrage him more; —
You would 'a' sworn a bear grew on each link,
And after each a prentice with a cudgel, —
Leaving him scarce an eye! So, howling all,
We run a pretty pace ... and Nick, poor Nick,
He catches on a useless, stumbling fry
That needed not be born, — and bites into him.
And then ... the Constable ... And now, no show!
The Player
Poor Wat! ... Thou wentest scattering misadventure
Like comfits from thy horn of plenty, Wat.
Wat
Ay, thank your worship. You be best to comfort. [He pours a mug of ale
No show to-morrow! Minnow Constable. ...
I'm a jack-rabbit strung up by my heels
For every knave to pinch as he goes by!
Alas, poor Nick, bear Nick ... oh, think on Nick.
The Player
With all his fortunes darkened for a day, —
And the eye o' his reason, sweet intelligencer,
Under a beggarly patch. ... I pledge thee, Nick.
Wat
Oh, you have seen hard times, sir, with us all.
Your eyes lack lustre, too, this day. What say you?
No jesting. ... What? I've heard of marvels there
In the New Country. There would be a knophole
For thee and me. There be few Constables
And such unhallowed fry ... An thou wouldst lay
Thy wit to mine — what is't we could not do?
Wilt turn't about?
[Leans towards him in cordial confidence
Nay, you there, sirrah boy,
Leave us together; as 'tis said in the play,
'Come, leave us, Boy!'
[Dickon does not move. He gives a sigh and leans his head
against The
Player's knee, his arms around his legs. He sleeps. The Player gazes
sternly into the fire, while Wat rambles on, growing drowsy.
Wat
The cub there snores good counsel. When all's done,
What a bubble is ambition! ... When all's done ...
What's yet to do? ... Why, sleep. ... Yet even now
I was on fire to see myself and you
Off for the Colony, with Raleigh's men.
I've been beholden to 'ee. ... Why, for thee
I could make shift to suffer plays o' Thursday.
Thou'rt the best man among them, o' my word.
There's other trades and crafts and qualities
Could serve ... an thou wouldst lay thy wit to mine.
Us two! ... us two! ...
The Player (apart, to the fire)
'Fair, kind and true.' ...
Wat
... Poor Nick!
[He nods over his ale. There is muffled noise in the tap-room. Some one

opens the door a second, letting in a stave of a song, then slams the door
shut. The Player, who has turned, gloomily, starts to rise. Dickon
moves
in his sleep, and settles his cheek against The Player's shoes.
The Player
looks down. Then he sits again, looking now at the fire, now at the boy, whos
e
hair he touches.
The Player
So, Heavy-head. You bid me think my thought
Twice over; keep me by, — a heavy heart,
As ballast for thy dream. Well, I will watch ...
Like slandered Providence. Nay, I'll not be
The prop to fail thy trust untenderly,
After a troubled day. ...
Nay, rest you here.

CURTAIN






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