Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PHILASTER, by FRANCIS BEAUMONT

Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PHILASTER, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Here's nor lords nor ladies
Last Line: ^1^ anticipate.


PHILASTER, Heir to the Crown of Sicily.
PHARAMOND, Prince of Spain.
DION, a Lord.
An old Captain.
A Country Fellow.
Two Woodmen.
Guard, Attendants.

ARETHUSA, Daughter of the King.
EUPHRASIA, Daughter of DION, disguised as a Page under the name of BELLARIO.
MEGRA, a Court Lady.
GALATEA, a Lady attending the Princess.
Two other Ladies.

SCENE.—MESSINA and its neighbourhood.


SCENE I.—The Presence Chamber in the Palace.


CLE. Here's nor lords nor ladies.
Dion. Credit me, gentlemen, I wonder at it. They received strict
from the King to attend here: besides, it was boldly published, that no
should forbid any gentleman that desired to attend and hear.
Cle. Can you guess the cause?
Dion. Sir, it is plain, about the Spanish Prince, that's come
to marry
our kingdom's heir and be our sovereign.
Thra. Many, that will seem to know much, say she looks not on him like

a maid in love.
Dion. Oh, sir, the multitude, that seldom know any thing but their
opinions, speak that they would have; but the prince, before his own approach,
received so many confident messages from the state, that I think she's
to be ruled.
Cle. Sir, it is thought, with her he shall enjoy both these
kingdoms of
Sicily and Calabria.
Dion. Sir, it is without controversy so meant. But 'twill be a
troublesome labour for him to enjoy both these kingdoms with safety, the right
heir to one of them living, and living so virtuously; especially, the people
admiring the bravery of his mind and lamenting his injuries.
Cle. Who, Philaster?
Dion. Yes; whose father, we all know, was by our late King of
unrighteously deposed from his fruitful Sicily. Myself drew some blood in those

wars, which I would give my hand to be washed from.
Cle. Sir, my ignorance in state-policy will not let me know why,
Philaster being heir to one of these kingdoms, the King should suffer him to
walk abroad with such free liberty.
Dion. Sir, it seems your nature is more constant than to inquire
state-news. But the King, of late, made a hazard of both the kingdoms, of Sicil
and his own, with offering but to imprison Philaster; at which the city was in
arms, not to be charmed down by any state-order or proclamation, till they saw
Philaster ride through the streets pleased and without a guard; at which they
threw their hats and their arms from them; some to make bonfires, some to
all for his deliverance: which wise men say is the cause the King labours to
bring in the power of a foreign nation to awe his own with.

Enter GALATEA, a Lady, and MEGRA.

Thra. See, the ladies! What's the first?
Dion. A wise and modest gentlewoman that attends the princess.
Cle. The second?
Dion. She is one that may stand still discreetly enough, and ill-
favouredly dance her measure; simper when she is courted by her friend, and
slight her husband.
Cle. The last?
Dion. Marry, I think she is one whom the state keeps for the
agents of
our confederate princes; she'll cog and lie with a whole army, before the leagu
shall break. Her name is common through the kingdom, and the trophies of her
dishonour advanced beyond Hercules' Pillars. She loves to try the several
constitutions of men's bodies; and, indeed, has destroyed the worth of her own
body by making experiment upon it for the good of the commonwealth.
Cle. She's a profitable member.
Meg. Peace, if you love me: you shall see these gentlemen stand their
ground and not court us.
Gal. What if they should?
La. What if they should!
Meg. Nay, let her alone.—What if they should! Why, if they
I say they were never abroad: what foreigner would do so? it writes them
directly untravelled.
Gal. Why, what if they be?
La. What if they be!
Meg. Good madam, let her go on.—What if they be! why, if
they be,
I will justify, they cannot maintain discourse with a judicious lady,
nor make a
leg nor say "excuse me."
Gal. Ha, ha, ha!
Meg. Do you laugh, madam?
Dion. Your desires upon you, ladies!
Meg. Then you must sit beside us.
Dion. I shall sit near you then, lady.
Meg. Near me, perhaps: but there's a lady endures no stranger; and to
me you appear a very strange fellow.
La. Methinks he's not so strange; he would quickly be acquainted.
Thra. Peace, the King!

Enter KING, PHARAMOND, ARETHUSA, and Attendants.

King. To give a stronger testimony or love
Than sickly promises (which commonly
In princes find both birth and burial
In one breath) we have drawn you, worthy sir,
To make your fair endearments to our daughter,
And worthy services known to our subjects,
Now loved and wondered at; next, our intent
To plant you deeply our immediate heir
Both to our blood and kingdoms. For this lady,
(The best part of your life, as you confirm me,
And I believe,) though her few years and sex
Yet teach her nothing but her fears and blushes,
Desires without desire, discourse and knowledge
Only of what herself is to herself,
Make her feel moderate health; and when she sleeps,
In making no ill day, knows no ill dreams:
Think not, dear sir, these undivided parts,
That must mould up a virgin, are put on
To show her so, as borrowed ornaments,
To speak her perfect love to you, or add
An artificial shadow to her nature—
No, sir;
I boldly dare proclaim her yet no woman.
But woo her still, and think her modesty
A sweeter mistress than the offered language
Of any dame, were she a queen, whose eye
Speaks common loves and comforts to her servants.
Last, noble son (for so I now must call you),
What I have done thus public, is not only
To add a comfort in particular
To you or me, but all; and to confirm
The nobles and the gentry of these kingdoms
By oath to your succession, which shall be
Within this month at most.
Thra. This will be hardly done.
Cle. It must be ill done, if it be done.
Dion. When 'tis at best, 'twill be but half done, whilst
So brave a gentleman is wronged and flung off.
Thra. I fear.
Cle. Who does not?
Dion. I fear not for myself, and yet I fear too:
Well, we shall see, we shall see. No more.
Pha. Kissing your white hand, mistress, I take leave
To thank your royal father; and thus far
To be my own free trumpet. Understand,
Great King, and these your subjects, mine that must be,
(For so deserving you have spoke me, sir,
And so deserving I dare speak myself,)
To what a person, of what eminence,
Ripe expectation, of what faculties,
Manners and virtues, you would wed your kingdoms;
You in me have your wishes. Oh, this country!
By more than all my hopes, I hold it happy;
Happy in their dear memories that have been
Kings great and good; happy in yours that is;
And from you (as a chronicle to keep
Your noble name from eating age) do I
Opine myself most happy. Gentlemen,
Believe me in a word, a prince's word,
There shall be nothing to make up a kingdom
Mighty and flourishing, defencèd, feared,
Equal to be commanded and obeyed,
But through the travails of my life I'll find it,
And tie it to this country. And I vow
My reign shall be so easy to the subject,
That every man shall be his prince himself
And his own law—yet I his prince and law.
And, dearest lady, to your dearest self
(Dear in the choice of him whose name and lustre
Must make you more and mightier) let me say,
You are the blessed'st living; for, sweet princess,
You shall enjoy a man of men to be
Your servant; you shall make him yours, for whom
Great queens must die.
Thra. Miraculous!
Cle. This speech calls him Spaniard, being nothing but a large
inventory of his own commendations.
Dion. I wonder what's his price; for certainly
He'll sell himself, he has so praised his shape.
But here comes one more worthy those large speeches,


Than the large speaker of them.
Let me be swallowed quick, if I can find,
In all the anatomy of yon man's virtues,
One sinew sound enough to promise for him,
He shall be constable. By this sun, he'll ne'er make king
Unless it be for trifles, in my poor judgment.
Phi. [kneeling.] Right noble sir, as low as my obedience,
And with a heart as loyal as my knee,
I beg your favour.
King. Rise; you have it, sir. [PHILASTER rises.
Dion. Mark but the King, how pale he looks with fear!
Oh, this same whorson conscience, how it jades us!
King. Speak your intents, sir.
Phi. Shall I speak 'em freely?
Be still my royal sovereign.
King. As a subject,
We give you freedom.
Dion. Now it heats.
Phi. Then thus I turn
My language to you, prince; you, foreign man!
Ne'er stare nor put on wonder, for you must
Endure me, and you shall. This earth you tread upon
(A dowry, as you hope, with this fair princess),
By my dead father (oh, I had a father,
Whose memory I bow to!) was not left
To your inheritance, and I up and living—
Having myself about me and my sword,
The souls of all my name and memories,
These arms and some few friends beside the gods—
To part so calmly with it, and sit still
And say, "I might have been." I tell thee, Pharamond,
When thou art king, look I be dead and rotten,
And my name ashes: for, hear me, Pharamond!
This very ground thou goest on, this fat earth,
My father's friends made fertile with their faiths,
Before that day of shame shall gape and swallow
Thee and thy nation, like a hungry grave,
Into her hidden bowels; prince, it shall;
By Nemesis, it shall!
Pha. He's mad; beyond cure, mad.
Dion. Here is a fellow has some fire in's veins:
The outlandish prince looks like a tooth-drawer.
Phi. Sir prince of popinjays, I'll make it well
Appear to you I am not mad.
King. You displease us:
You are too bold.
Phi. No, sir, I am too tame,
Too much a turtle, a thing born without passion,
A faint shadow, that every drunken cloud
Sails over, and makes nothing.
King. I do not fancy this.
Call our physicians: sure, he's somewhat tainted.
Thra. I do not think 'twill prove so.
Dion. H'as given him a general purge already,
For all the right he has; and now he means
To let him blood. Be constant, gentlemen:
By these hilts, I'll run his hazard,
Although I run my name out of the kingdom!
Cle. Peace, we are all one soul.
Pha. What you have seen in me to stir offence,
I cannot find, unless it be this lady,
Offered into mine arms with the succession;
Which I must keep, (though it hath pleased your fury
To mutiny within you,) without disputing
Your genealogies, or taking knowledge
Whose branch you are: the King will leave it me,
And I dare make it mine. You have your answer.
Phi. If thou wert sole inheritor to him
That made the world his, and couldst see no sun
Shine upon any thing but thine; were Pharamond
As truly valiant as I feel him cold,
And ringed among the choicest of his friends
(Such as would blush to talk such serious follies,
Or back such bellied commendations),
And from this presence, spite of all these bugs,
You should hear further from me.
King. Sir, you wrong the prince; I gave you not this freedom
To brave our best friends: you deserve our frown.
Go to; be better tempered.
Phi. It must be, sir, when I am nobler used.
Gal. Ladies,
This would have been a pattern of succession,
Had he ne'er met this mischief. By my life,
He is the worthiest the true name of man
This day within my knowledge.
Meg. I cannot tell what you may call your knowledge;
But the other is the man set in mine eye:
Oh, 'tis a prince of wax!
Gal. A dog it is.
King. Philaster, tell me
The injuries you aim at in your riddles.
Phi. If you had my eyes, sir, and sufferance,
My griefs upon you and my broken fortunes,
My wants great, and now nought but hopes and fears
My wrongs would make ill riddles to be laughed at.
Dare you be still my king, and right me not?
King. Give me your wrongs in private.
Phi. Take them,
And ease me of a load would bow strong Atlas.
[They talk apart.
Cle. He dares not stand the shock.
Dion. I cannot blame him; there's danger in't.
Every man in this age has not a soul of crystal, for all men to read their
actions through: men's hearts and faces are so far asunder, that they hold no
intelligence. Do but view yon stranger well, and you shall see a fever through
all his bravery, and feel him shake like a true tenant: if he give not back
crown again upon the report of an elder-gun, I have no augury.
King. Go to;
Be more yourself, as you respect our favour;
You'll stir us else. Sir, I must have you know,
That you are, and shall be, at our pleasure, what
Fashion we will put upon you. Smooth your brow,
Or by the gods_____
Phi. I am dead, sir; you're my fate. It was not I
Said, I was wronged: I carry all about me
My weak stars lead me to, all my weak fortunes.
Who dares in all this presence speak, (that is
But man of flesh, and may be mortal,) tell me,
I do not most entirely love this prince,
And honour his full virtues!
King. Sure, he's possessed.
Phi. Yes, with my father's spirit. It's here, O King,
A dangerous spirit! now he tells me, King,
I was a king's heir, bids me be a king,
And whispers to me, these are all my subjects.
'Tis strange he will not let me sleep, but dives
Into my fancy, and there gives me shapes
That kneel and do me service, cry me king:
But I'll suppress him; he's a factious spirit,
And will undo me. Noble sir, your hand;
I am your servant.
King. Away! I do not like this:
I'll make you tamer, or I'll dispossess you
Both of your life and spirit. For this time
I pardon your wild speech, without so much
As your imprisonment.
[Exeunt KING, PHARAMOND, ARETHUSA, and Attendants.
Dion. I thank you, sir! you dare not for the people.
Gal. Ladies, what think you now of this brave fellow?
Meg. A pretty talking fellow, hot at hand. But eye yon stranger:
is he
not a fine complete gentleman? Oh, these strangers, I do affect them
they do the rarest home-things, and please the fullest! As I live, I could love

all the nation over and over for his sake.
Gal Pride comfort your poor head-piece, lady! 'tis a weak one, and
need of a night-cap.
[Exeunt GALATEA, MEGRA and Lady.
Dion. See, how his fancy labours! Has he not
Spoke home and bravely? what a dangerous train
Did he give fire to! how he shook the King,
Made his soul melt within him, and his blood
Run into whey! it stood upon his brow
Like a cold winter-dew.
Phi. Gentlemen,
You have no suit to me? I am no minion:
You stand, methinks, like men that would be courtiers,
If I could well be flattered at a price,
Not to undo your children. You're all honest:
Go, get you home again, and make your country
A virtuous court, to which your great ones may,
In their diseased age, retire and live recluse.
Cle. How do you, worthy sir?
Phi. Well, very well;
And so well that, if the King please, I find
I may live many years.
Dion. The King must please,
Whilst we know what you are and who you are,
Your wrongs and virtues. Shrink not, worthy sir,
But add your father to you; in whose name
We'll waken all the gods, and conjure up
The rods of vengeance, the abusèd people,
Who, like to raging torrents, shall swell high,
And so begirt the dens of these male-dragons,
That, through the strongest safety, they shall beg
For mercy at your sword's point.
Phi. Friends, no more;
Our ears may be corrupted; tis an age
We dare not trust our wills to. Do you love me?
Thra. Do we love Heaven and honour?
Phi. My Lord Dion, you had
A virtuous gentlewoman called you father;
Is she yet alive?
Dion. Most honoured sir, she is;
And, for the penance but of an idle dream,
Has undertook a tedious pilgrimage.

Enter a Lady.

Phi. Is it to me,
Or any of these gentlemen, you come?
Lady. To you, brave lord; the princess would entreat
Your present company.
Phi. The princess send for me! you are mistaken.
Lady. If you be called Philaster, 'tis to you.
Phi. Kiss her fair hand, and say I will attend her.
[Exit Lady.
Dion. Do you know what you do?
Phi. Yes; go to see a woman.
Cle. But do you weigh the danger you are in?
Phi. Danger in a sweet face!
By Jupiter, I must not fear a woman!
Thra. But are you sure it was the princess sent?
It may be some foul train to catch your life.
Phi. I do not think it, gentlemen; she's noble.
Her eye may shoot me dead, or those true red
And white friends in her cheeks may steal my soul out;
There's all the danger in't: but, be what may,
Her single name hath armèd me. [Exit.
Dion. Go on,
And be as truly happy as thou'rt fearless!
Come, gentlemen, let's make our friends acquainted,
Lest the King prove false. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—ARETHUSA'S Apartment in the Palace.

Enter ARETHUSA and a Lady.

Are. Comes he not?
Lady. Madam?
Are. Will Philaster come?
Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to credit me At first.
Are. But didst thou tell me so?
I am forgetful, and my woman's strength
Is so o'ercharged with dangers like to grow
About my marriage, that these under-things
Dare not abide in such a troubled sea.
How looked he when he told thee he would come?
Lady. Why, well.
Are. And not a little fearful?
Lady. Fear, madam! sure, he knows not what it is.
Are. You are all of his faction; the whole court
Is bold in praise of him; whilst I
May live neglected, and do noble things,
As fools in strife throw gold into the sea,
Drowned in the doing. But, I know he fears.
Lady. Fear, madam! methought, his looks hid more
Of love than fear.
Are. Of love! to whom? to you?
Did you deliver those plain words I sent,
With such a winning gesture and quick look
That you have caught him?
Lady. Madam, I mean to you.
Are. Of love to me! alas, thy ignorance
Lets thee not see the crosses of our births!
Nature, that loves not to be questionèd
Why she did this or that, but has her ends,
And knows she does well, never gave the world
Two things so opposite, so contrary,
As he and I am: if a bowl of blood,
Drawn from this arm of mine, would poison thee,
A draught of his would cure thee. Of love to me!
Lady. Madam, I think I hear him.
Are. Bring him in. [Exit Lady.
You gods, that would not have your dooms withstood,
Whose holy wisdoms at this time it is,
To make the passion of a feeble maid
The way unto your justice, I obey

Re-enter Lady with PHILASTER.

Lady. Here is my Lord Philaster.
Are. Oh, 'tis well.
Withdraw yourself. [Exit Lady.
Phi. Madam, your messenger
Made me believe you wished to speak with me.
Are. 'Tis true, Philaster; but the words are such
I have to say, and do so ill beseem
The mouth of woman, that I wish them said,
And yet am loath to speak them. Have you known
That I have aught detracted from your worth?
Have I in person wronged you? or have set
My baser instruments to throw disgrace
Upon your virtues?
Phi. Never, madam, you.
Are. Why, then, should you, in such a public place,
Injure a princess, and a scandal lay
Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great,
Calling a great part of my dowry in question?
Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be
Foolish: but, for your fair and virtuous self,
I could afford myself to have no right
To any thing you wished.
Are. Philaster, know,
I must enjoy these kingdoms.
Phi. Madam, both?
Are. Both, or I die: by fate, I die, Philaster,
If I not calmly may enjoy them both.
Phi. I would do much to save that noble life:
Yet would be loath to have posterity
Find in our stories, that Philaster gave
His right unto a sceptre and a crown
To save a lady's longing.
Are. Nay, then, hear:
I must and will have them, and more_____
Phi. What more?
Are. Or lose that little life the gods prepared
To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.
Phi. Madam, what more?
Are. Turn, then, away thy face.
Phi. No.
Are. Do.
Phi. I can endure it. Turn away my face!
I never yet saw enemy that looked
So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
As great a basilisk as he; or spake
So horribly, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his;
Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds? a lady's voice,
Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life;
Why, I will give it you; for 'tis to me
A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask
Of so poor use, that I shall make no price:
If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear.
Are. Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks.
Phi. I do.
Are. Then know, I must have them and thee.
Phi. And me?
Are. Thy love; without which, all the land
Discovered yet will serve me for no use
But to be buried in.
Phi. Is't possible?
Are. With it, it were too little to bestow
On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me dead,
(Which, know, it may,) I have unript my breast.
Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts,
To lay a train for this contemnèd life,
Which you may have for asking: to suspect
Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love you!
By all my hopes, I do, above my life!
But how this passion should proceed from you
So violently, would amaze a man
That would be jealous.
Are. Another soul into my body shot
Could not have filled me with more strength and spirit
Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time
In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods.
The gods, that make me so; and, sure, our love
Will be the nobler and the better blest,
In that the secret justice of the gods
Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and kiss;
Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us.
And we should part without it.
Phi. 'Twill be ill
I should abide here long.
Are. 'Tis true; and worse
You should come often. How shall we devise
To hold intelligence, that our true loves,
On any new occasion, may agree
What path is best to tread?
Phi. I have a boy,
Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent
Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain's side,
Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself
Of many several flowers bred in the vale,
Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness
Delighted me: but ever when he turned
His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep,
As if he meant to make 'em grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story:
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did show
What every flower, as country-people hold,
Did signify, and how all, ordered thus,
Expressed his grief; and, to my thoughts, did read
The prettiest lecture of his country-art
That could be wished: so that methought I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertained
Him, who was glad to follow; and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy
That ever master kept. Him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.

Re enter Lady.

Are. 'Tis well; no more.
Lady. Madam, the prince is come to do his service.
Are. What will you do, Philaster, with yourself?
Phi. Why, that which all the gods have pointed out for me.
Are. Dear, hide thyself.—
Bring in the prince. [Exit Lady.
Phi. Hide me from Pharamond!
When thunder speaks, which is the voice of Jove,
Though I do reverence, yet I hide me not;
And shall a stranger-prince have leave to brag
Unto a foreign nation, that he made
Philaster hide himself?
Are. He cannot know it.
Phi. Though it should sleep for ever to the world,
It is a simple sin to hide myself,
Which will for ever on my conscience lie.
Are. Then, good Philaster, give him scope and way
In what he says; for he is apt to speak
What you are loath to hear: for my sake, do.
Phi. I will.

Re-enter Lady with PHARAMOND.

Pha. My princely mistress, as true lovers ought,
I come to kiss these fair hands, and to show, [Exit Lady.
In outward ceremonies, the dear love
Writ in my heart.
Phi. If I shall have an answer no directlier,
I am gone.
Pha. To what would he have answer?
Are. To his claim unto the kingdom.
Pha. Sirrah, I forbare you before the King—
Phi. Good sir, do so still: I would not talk with you.
Pha. But now the time is fitter: do but offer
To make mention of right to any kingdom,
Though it be scarce habitable_____
Phi. Good sir, let me go.
Pha. And by my sword—
Phi. Peace, Pharamond! if thou_____
Are. Leave us, Philaster.
Phi. I have done. [Going.
Pha. You are gone! by Heaven I'll fetch you back.
Phi. You shall not need. [Returning.
Pha. What now?
Phi. Know, Pharamond,
I loathe to brawl with such a blast as thou,
Who art nought but a valiant voice; but if
Thou shalt provoke me further, men shall say,
"Thou wert," and not lament it.
Pha. Do you slight
My greatness so, and in the chamber of
The princess?
Phi. It is a place to which I must confess
I owe a reverence; but were't the church,
Ay, at the altar, there's no place so safe,
Where thou dar'st injure me, but I dare kill thee:
And for your greatness, know, sir, I can grasp
You and your greatness thus, thus into nothing.
Give not a word, not a word back! Farewell. [Exit.
Pha. 'Tis an odd fellow, madam; we must stop
His mouth with some office when we are married.
Are. You were best make him your controller.
Pha. I think he would discharge it well. But, madam,
I hope our hearts are knit; and yet so slow
The ceremonies of state are, that 'twill be long
Before our hands be so. If then you please,
Being agreed in heart, let us not wait
For dreaming form, but take a little stolen
Delights, and so prevent^1^ our joys to come.
Are. If you dare speak such thoughts,
I must withdraw in honour. [Exit.
Pha. The constitution of my body will never hold out till the wedding;
must seek elsewhere. [Exit.


SCENE I.—An Apartment in the Palace.


PHI. And thou shalt find her honourable, boy;
Full of regard unto thy tender youth,
For thine own modesty; and, for my sake,
Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask,
Ay, or deserve.
Bel. Sir, you did take me up
When I was nothing; and only yet am something
By being yours. You trusted me unknown;
And that which you were apt to conster
A simple innocence in me, perhaps
Might have been craft, the cunning of a boy
Hardened in lies and theft: yet ventured you
To part my miseries and me; for which,
I never can expect to serve a lady
That bears more honour in her breast than you.
Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee. Thou art young,
And bear'st a childish overflowing love
To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet;
But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions,
Thou wilt remember best those careful friends
That placed thee in the noblest way of life.
She is a princess I prefer thee to.
Bel. In that small time that I have seen the world.
I never knew a man hasty to part with
A servant he thought trusty: I remember,
My father would prefer the boys he kept
To greater men than he; but did it not
Till they were grown too saucy for himself.
Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all
In thy behaviour.
Bel. Sir, if I have made
A fault in ignorance, instruct my youth:
I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn;
Age and experience will adorn my mind
With larger knowledge; and if I have done
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope
For once. What master holds so strict a hand
Over his boy, that he will part with him
Without one warning? Let me be corrected,
To break my stubbornness, if it be so,
Rather than turn me off; and I shall mend.
Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay,
That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee.
Alas, I do not turn thee off! thou know'st
It is my business that doth call thee hence;
And when thou art with her, thou dwell'st with me.
Think so, and 'tis so: and when time is full,
That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust,
Laid on so weak a one, I will again
With joy receive thee; as I live, I will!
Nay, weep not, gentle boy. 'Tis more than time
Thou didst attend the princess.
Bel. I am gone.
But since I am to part with you, my lord,
And none knows whether I shall live to do
More service for you, take this little prayer:
Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs!
May sick men, if they have your wish, be well;
And Heaven hate those you curse, though I be one!
Phi. The love of boys unto their lords is strange;
I have read wonders of it: yet this boy
For my sake (if a man may judge by looks
And speech) would out-do story. I may see
A day to pay him for his loyalty. [Exit.

SCENE II.—A Gallery in the Palace.


Pha. Why should these ladies stay so long? They must come this way: I
know the queen employs 'em not; for the reverend mother sent me word, they
all be for the garden. If they should all prove honest now, I were in a fair
taking; I was never so long without sport in my life, and, in my conscience,
'tis not my fault. Oh, for our country ladies!


Here's one bolted; I'll hound at her. [Aside.] Madam
Gal. Your grace!
Pha. Shall I not be a trouble?
Gal. Not to me, sir.
Pha. Nay, nay, you are too quick. By this sweet hand_____
Gal. You'll be forsworn, sir; 'tis but an old glove.
If you will talk at distance, I am for you:
But, good prince, be not bawdy, nor do not brag;
These two I bar;
And then, I think, I shall have sense enough
To answer all the weighty apophthegms
Your royal blood shall manage.
Pha. Dear lady, can you love?
Gal. Dear prince! how dear? I ne'er cost you a coach yet, nor put you
to the dear repentance of a banquet. Here's no scarlet, sir, to blush the sin
out it was given for. This wire mine own hair covers; and this face has been
far from being dear to any, that it ne'er cost penny painting; and, for the
of my poor wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves no hand behind it, to make the
jealous mercer's wife curse our good doings.
Pha. You mistake me, lady.
Gal Lord, I do so: would you or I could help it!
Pha. You're very dangerous bitter, like a potion.
Gal. No, sir, I do not mean to purge you, though
I mean to purge a little time on you.
Pha. Do ladies of this country use to give
No more respect to men of my full being?
Gal. Full being! I understand you not, unless your grace means
to fatness; and then your only remedy (upon my knowledge, prince) is, in a
morning, a cup of neat white wine brewed with carduus, then fast till supper;
about eight you may eat; use exercise, and keep a sparrow-hawk; you can shoot i
a tiller: but, of all, your grace must fly phlebotomy, fresh pork, conger, and
clarified whey; they are all duller of the vital spirits.
Pha. Lady, you talk of nothing all this while.
Gal. 'Tis very true, sir; I talk of you.
Pha. This is a crafty wench; I like her wit well; 'twill be rare to
stir up a leaden appetite: she's a Danaë, and must be courted in a shower
of gold [Aside.]—Madam, look here; all these, and more than_____
Gal. What have you there, my lord? gold! now, as I live, 'tis fair
gold! You would have silver for it, to play with the pages: you could not have
taken me in a worse time; but, if you have present use, my lord, I'll send my
man with silver and keep your gold for you. [Takes gold.
Pha. Lady, lady!
Gal. She's coming, sir, behind, will take white money.—
Yet for all this I'll match ye.
[Aside. Exit behind the hangings.
Pha. If there be but two such more in this kingdom, and near the court,
we may even hang up our harps. Ten such camphire constitutions as this would
call the golden age again in question, and teach the old way for every
husband to get his own children; and what a mischief that would breed, let all

Enter MEGRA.

Here's another: if she be of the same last, the devil shall pluck her on.
[Aside.]—Many fair mornings, lady.
Meg. As many mornings bring as many days,
Fair, sweet and hopeful to your grace!
Pha. She gives good words yet; sure this wench is free.—
If your more serious business do not call you,
Let me hold quarter with you; we will talk
An hour out quickly.
Meg. What would your grace talk of?
Pha. Of some such pretty subject as yourself:
I'll go no further than your eye, or lip;
There's theme enough for one man for an age.
Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips are yet even, smooth,
Young enough, ripe enough, and red enough,
Or my glass wrongs me.
Pha. Oh, they are two twinned cherries dyed in blushes
Which those fair suns above with their bright beams
Reflect upon and ripen. Sweetest beauty,
Bow down those branches, that the longing taste
Of the faint looker-on may meet those blessings,
And taste and live.
Meg. Oh, delicate sweet prince!
She that hath snow enough about her heart
To take the wanton spring of ten such lines off,
May be a nun without probation. [Aside.]—Sir,
You have in such neat poetry gathered a kiss,
That if I had but five lines of that number,
Such pretty begging blanks, I should commend
Your forehead or your cheeks, and kiss you too.
Pha. Do it in prose; you cannot miss it, madam.
Meg. I shall, I shall.
Pha. By my life, but you shall not;
I'll prompt you first. [Kisses her.] Can you do it now?
Meg. Methinks 'tis easy, now you ha' done't before me;
But yet I should stick at it.
Pha. Stick till to-morrow;
I'll never part you, sweetest. But we lose time:
Can you love me?
Meg. Love you, my lord! how would you have me love you?
Pha. I'll teach you in a short sentence, 'cause I will not load your
memory: this is all; love me, and lie with me.
Meg. Was it lie with you, you said? 'tis impossible.
Pha. Not to a willing mind, that will endeavour: if I do not teach
to do it as easily in one night as you'll go to bed, I'll lose my royal blood
Meg. Why, prince, you have a lady of your own
That yet wants teaching.
Pha. I'll sooner teach a mare the old measures, than teach her
belonging to the function. She's afraid to lie with herself, if she
have but any
masculine imaginations about her. I know, when we are married, I must ravish
Meg. By my honour, that's a foul fault, indeed;
But time and your good help will wear it out, sir.
Pha. And for any other I see, excepting your dear self,
dearest lady, I
had rather be Sir Tim the schoolmaster, and leap a dairy maid.
Meg. Has your grace seen the court-star, Galatea?
Pha. Out upon her! she's as cold of her favour as an apoplex: she
sailed by but now.
Meg. And how do you hold her wit, sir?
Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of all the guard cannot hold it, if
they were tied to it; she would blow 'em out of the kingdom. They talk of
Jupiter; he's but a squib-cracker to her: look well about you, and you may
a tongue-bolt. But speak, sweet lady, shall I be freely welcome?
Meg. Whither?
Pha. To your bed. If you mistrust my faith, you do me the unnoblest
Meg. I dare not, prince, I dare not.
Pha. Make your own conditions, my purse shall seal 'em; and what you
dare imagine you can want, I'll furnish you withal: give two hours to your
thoughts every morning about it. Come I know you are bashful;
Speak in my ear, will you be mind? Keep this,
And with it me: soon I will visit you. [Gives her a ring.
Meg. My lord,
My chamber's most unsafe; but when 'tis night,
I'll find some means to slip into your lodging;
Till when_____
Pha. Till when, this and my heart go with thee!
[Exeunt severally.

Re-enter GALATEA.

Gal. Oh, thou pernicious petticoat prince! are these your virtues?
Well, if I do not lay a train to blow your sport up, I am no woman: and, Lady
Towsabel, I'll fit you for't. [Exit.

SCENE III.—ARETHUSA'S Apartment in the Palace.
Enter ARETHUSA and a Lady.

Are. Where's the boy?
Lady. Within, madam.
Are. Gave you him gold to buy him clothes?
Lady. I did.
Are. And has he done't?
Lady. Yes, madam.
Are. 'Tis a pretty sad-talking boy, is it not?
Asked you his name?
Lady. No, madam.


Are. Oh, you are welcome. What good news?
Gal. As good as any one can tell your grace,
That says, she has done that you would have wished.
Are. Hast thou discovered?
Gal. I have strained a point
Of modesty for you.
Are. I prithee, how?
Gal. In listening after bawdry. I see, let a lady
Live never so modestly, she shall be sure to find
A lawful time to hearken after bawdry.
Your prince, brave Pharamond, was so hot on't!
Are. With whom?
Gal. Why, with the lady I suspected:
I can tell the time and place.
Are. Oh, when, and where?
Gal. To-night, his lodging.
Are. Run thyself into the presence; mingle there again
With other ladies; leave the rest to me. [Exit GALATEA.
If destiny (to whom we dare not say,
Why thou didst this,) have not decreed it so,
In lasting leaves (whose smallest characters
Were never altered yet), this match shall break. [Aside
Where's the boy?
Lady. Here, madam,

Enter BELLARIO, richly dressed.

Are. Sir,
You are sad to change your service; is't not so?
Bel. Madam, I have not changed; I wait on you,
To do him service.
Are. Thou disclaim'st in me.
Tell me thy name.
Bel. Bellario.
Are. Thou canst sing and play?
Bel. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can.
Are. Alas, what kind of grief can thy years know?
Hadst thou a curst master when thou went'st to school?
Thou art not capable of other grief;
Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be
When no breath troubles them: believe me, boy,
Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hollow eyes,
And builds himself caves, to abide in them.
Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me?
Bel. Love, madam! I know not what it is.
Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love?
Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me
As if he wished me well?
Bel. If it be love
To forget all respect of his own friends
In thinking of your face; if it be love
To sit cross-armed and sigh away the day,
Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud
And hastily as men i' the streets do fire;
If it be love to weep himself away
When he but hears of any lady dead
Or killed, because it might have been your chance;
If, when he goes to rest (which will not be),
'Twixt every prayer he says, to name you once,
As others drop a bead, be to be in love,
Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you.
Are. Oh you're a cunning boy, and taught to lie
For your lord's credit! but thou know'st a lie
That bears this sound is welcomer to me
Than any truth that says he loves me not.
Lead the way, boy.—Do you attend me too.—
'Tis thy lord's business hastes me thus. Away! [Exeunt

SCENE IV.—Before PHARAMOND'S Lodging in the Court of the Palace.


Dion. Come, ladies, shall we talk a round? As men
Do walk a mile, women should talk an hour
After supper: 'tis their exercise.
Gal. 'Tis late.
Meg. 'Tis all
My eyes will do to lead me to my bed.
Gal. I fear, they are so heavy, you'll scarce find
The way to your own lodging with 'em to-night.


Thra. The prince!
Pha. Not a-bed, ladies? you're good sitters-up:
What think you of a pleasant dream, to last
Till morning?
Meg. I should choose, my lord, a pleasing wake before it.


Are. 'Tis well, my lord; you're courting of these ladies.—
Is't not late, gentlemen?
Cle. Yes, madam.
Are. Wait you there. [Exit.
Meg. She's jealous, as I live. [Aside.]—Look you, my lord,
The princess has a Hylas, an Adonis.
Pha. His form is angel-like.
Meg. Why, this is he that must, when you are wed,
Sit by your pillow, like young Apollo, with
His hand and voice binding your thoughts in sleep;
The princess does provide him for you and for herself.
Pha. I find no music in these boys.
Meg. Nor I:
They can do little, and that small they do,
They have not wit to hide.
Dion. Serves he the princess?
Thra. Yes.
Dion. 'Tis a sweet boy: how brave she keeps him!
Pha. Ladies all, good rest; I mean to kill a buck
To-morrow morning ere you've done your dreams.
Meg. All happiness attend your grace! [Exit PHARAMOND.]
good rest.—Come, shall we go to bed?
Gal. Yes.—All good night.
Dion. May your dreams be true to you!—
[Exeunt GALATEA and MEGRA.
What shall we do, gallants? 'tis late. The King
Is up still: see, he comes; a guard along with him.

Enter KING with ARETHUSA, Guards, and Attendants.

King. Look your intelligence be true.
Are. Upon my life, it is: and I do hope
Your highness will not tie me to a man
That in the heat of wooing throws me off,
And takes another.
Dion. What should this mean?
King. If it be true,
That lady had been better have embraced
Cureless diseases. Get you to your rest:
You shall be righted. [Exeunt ARETHUSA and BELLARIO.]
—Gentlemen, draw near;
We shall employ you. Is young Pharamond
Come to his lodging?
Dion. I saw him enter there.
King. Haste, some of you, and cunningly discover
If Megra be in her lodging. [Exit.
Cle. Sir,
She parted hence but now, with other ladies.
King. If she be there, we shall not need to make
A vain discovery of our suspicion.
You gods, I see that who unrighteously
Holds wealth or state from others shall be cursed
In that which meaner men are blest withal:
Ages to come shall know no male of him
Left to inherit, and his name shall be
Blotted from earth; if he have any child,
It shall be crossly matched; the gods themselves
Shall sow wild strife betwixt her lord and her.
Yet, if it be your wills, forgive the sin
I have committed; let it not fall
Upon this understanding child of mine!
She has not broke your laws. But how can I
Look to be heard of gods that must be just,
Praying upon the ground I hold by wrong? [Aside.

Re-enter DION.

Dion. Sir, I have asked, and her women swear she is within; but they,
think, are bawds. I told 'em, I must speak with her; they laughed, and said,
their lady lay speechless. I said, my business was important; they said, their
lady was about it. I grew hot, and cried, my business was a matter that
concerned life and death; they answered, so was sleeping, at which their lady
was. I urged again, she had scarce time to be so since last I saw her: they
smiled again, and seemed to imstruct me that sleeping was nothing but lying
and winking. Answers more direct I could not get: in short, sir, I think
she is
not there.
King. 'Tis then no time to dally.—You o' the guard,
Wait at the back door of the prince's lodging,
And see that none pass thence, upon your lives.—
[Exeunt Guards.
Knock, gentlemen; knock loud; louder yet.
[DION, CLER., &c. knock at the door of PHARAMOND'S Lodging.
What, has their pleasure taken off their hearing?
I'll break your meditations.—Knock again.—
Not yet? I do not think he sleeps, having this
Larum by him.—Once more.—Pharamond! prince!
[PHARAMOND appears at a window.
Pha. What saucy groom knocks at this dead of night?
Where be our waiters? By my vexèd soul,
He meets his death that meets me, for this boldness.
King. Prince, prince, you wrong your thoughts; we are your friends:
Come down.
Pha. The King!
King. The same, sir. Come down, sir:
We have cause of present counsel with you.

Enter PHARAMOND below.

Pha. If your grace please
To use me, I'll attend you to your chamber.
King. No, 'tis too late, prince; I'll make bold with yours.
Pha. I have some private reasons to myself
Make me unmannerly, and say you cannot.—
Nay, press not forward, gentlemen; he must
Come through my life that comes here.
King. Sir, be resolved I must and will come.—Enter.
Pha. I will not be dishonoured:
He that enters, enters upon his death.
Sir, 'tis a sign you make no stranger of me,
To bring these renegadoes to my chamber
At these unseasoned hours.
King. Why do you
Chafe yourself so? you are not wronged nor shall be;
Only I'll search your lodging, for some cause
To ourself known.—Enter, I say.
Pha. I say, no. [MEGRA appears at a window.
Meg. Let 'em enter, prince, let 'em enter;
I am up and ready: I know their business;
'Tis the poor breaking of a lady's honour
They hunt so hotly after; let 'em enjoy it.—
You have your business, gentlemen; I lay here.
Oh, my lord the King, this is not noble in you
To make public the weakness of a woman!
King. Come down.
Meg. I dare, my lord. Your hootings and your clamours,
Your private whispers and your broad fleerings,
Can no more vex my soul than this base carriage:
But I have vengeance yet in store for some
Shall, in the most contempt you can have of me,
Be joy and nourishment.
King. Will you come down?
Meg. Yes, to laugh at your worst; but I shall wring you,
If my skill fail me not. [Exit above.
King. Sir, I must dearly chide you for this looseness;
You have wronged a worthy lady: but, no more.—
Conduct him to my lodging and to bed.
[Exeunt PHARAMOND and Attendants.
Cle. Get him another wench, and you bring him to bed indeed.
Dion. 'Tis strange a man cannot ride a stage
Or two, to breathe himself, without a warrant.
If his gear hold, that lodgings be searched thus,
Pray Heaven we may lie with our own wives in safety,
That they be not by some trick of state mistaken!

Enter MEGRA below.

King. Now, lady of honour, where's your honour now?
No man can fit your palate but the prince:
Thou most ill-shrouded rottenness, thou piece
Made by a painter and a 'pothecary,
Thou troubled sea of lust, thou wilderness
Inhabited by wild thoughts, thou swoln cloud
Of infection, thou ripe mine of all diseases,
Thou all-sin, all-hell, and last all-devils, tell me,
Had you none to pull on with your courtesies
But he that must be mine, and wrong my daughter?
By all the gods, all these, and all the pages,
And all the court, shall hoot thee through the court,
Fling rotten oranges, make ribald rhymes,
And sear thy name with candles upon walls!
Do you laugh, Lady Venus?
Meg. Faith, sir, you must pardon me;
I cannot choose but laugh to see you merry.
If you do this, O King! nay, if you dare do it,
By all those gods you swore by, and as many
More of my own, I will have fellows, and such
Fellows in it, as shall make noble mirth!
The princess, your dear daughter, shall stand by me
On walls, and sung in ballads, any thing:
Urge me no more; I know her and her haunts,
Her lays, leaps, and outlays, and will discover all;
Nay, will dishonour her. I know the boy
She keeps; a handsome boy, about eighteen;
Know what she does with him, where, and when.
Come, sir, you put me to a woman's madness,
The glory of a fury; and if I do not
Do't to the height_____
King. What boy is this she raves at?
Meg. Alas! good-minded prince, you know not these things!
I am loth to reveal 'em. Keep this fault,
As you would keep your health from the hot air
Of the corrupted people, or, by Heaven,
I will not fall alone. What I have known
Shall be as public as a print; all tongues
Shall speak it as they do the language they
Are born in, as free and commonly; I'll set it,
Like a prodigious star, for all to gaze at,
And so high and glowing,. that other kingdoms far and foreign
Shall read it there, nay, travel with it, till they find
No tongue to make it more, nor no more people;
And then behold the fall of your fair princess!
King. Has she a boy?
Cle. So please your grace, I have seen a boy wait on her,
A fair boy.
King. Go, get you to your quarter:
For this time I will study to forget you.
Meg. Do you study to forget me, and I'll study
To forget you. [Exeunt KING and MEGRA, severally.
Cle. Why, here's a male spirit fit for Hercules. If ever there be Nine
Worthies of women, this wench shall ride astride and be their captain.
Dion. Sure, she has a garrison of devils in her tongue, she uttereth
such balls of wild-fire: she has so nettled the King, that all the doctors in
the country will scarce cure him. That boy was a strange-found-out, antidote
cure her infection; that boy, that princess' boy; that brave, chaste, virtuous
lady's boy; and a fair boy, a well-spoken boy! All these considered, can make
nothing else—but there I leave you, gentlemen.
Thra. Nay, we'll go wander with you. [Exeunt


SCENE I.—The Court of the Palace.


CLE. Nay, doubtless, 'tis true.
Dion. Ay; and 'tis the gods
That raised this punishment, to scourge the King
With his own issue. Is it not a shame
For us that should write noble in the land,
For us that should be freemen, to behold
A man that is the bravery of his age,
Philaster, pressed down from his royal right
By this regardless King? and only look
And see the sceptre ready to be cast
Into the hands of that lascivious lady
That lives in lust with a smooth boy, now to be married
To yon strange prince, who, but that people please
To let him be a prince, is born a slave
In that which should be his most noble part,
His mind?
Thra. That man that would not stir with you
To aid Philaster, let the gods forget
That such a creature walks upon the earth!
Cle. Philaster is too backward in 't himself.
The gentry do await it, and the people,
Against their nature, are all bent for him,
And like a field of standing corn, that's moved
With a stiff gale, their heads bow all one way.
Dion. The only cause that draws Philaster back
From this attempt is the fair princess' love,
Which he admires, and we can now confute.
Thra. Perhaps he'll not believe it.
Dion. Why, gentlemen, 'Tis without question so.
Cle. Ay, 'tis past speech,
She lives dishonestly: but how shall we,
If he be curious, work upon his faith?
Thra. We all are satisfied within ourselves.
Dion. Since it is true, and tends to his own good,
I'll make this new report to be my knowledge;
I'll say I know it; nay, I'll swear I saw it.
Cle. It will be best.
Thra. 'Twill move him.
Dion. Here he comes.


Good morrow to your honour: we have spent
Some time in seeking you.
Phi. My worthy friends,
You that can keep your memories to know
Your friend in miseries, and cannot frown
On men disgraced for virtue, a good day
Attend you all! What service may I do
Worthy your acceptation?
Dion. My good lord,
We come to urge that virtue, which we know
Lives in your breast, forth. Rise, and make a head:
The nobles and the people are all dulled
With this usurping King; and not a man,
That ever heard the word, or knew such a thing
As virtue, but will second your attempts.
Phi. How honourable is this love in you
To me that have deserved none! Know, my friends,
(You, that were born to shame your poor Philaster
With too much courtesy,) I could afford
To melt myself in thanks: but my designs
Are not yet ripe: suffice it, that ere long
I shall employ your loves; but yet the time
Is short of what I would.
Dion. The time is fuller, sir, than you expect;
That which hereafter will not, perhaps, be reached
By violence may now be caught. As for the King,
You know the people have long hated him;
But now the princess, whom they loved_____
Phi. Why, what of her?
Dion. Is loathed as much as he.
Phi. By what strange means?
Dion. She's known a whore.
Phi. Thou liest.
Dion. My lord_____
Phi. Thou liest,
[Offers to draw his sword: they hold him.
And thou shalt feel it! I had thought thy mind
Had been of honour. Thus to rob a lady
Of her good name, is an infectious sin
Not to be pardoned: be it false as hell,
'Twill never be redeemed, if it be sown
Amongst the people, fruitful to increase
All evil they shall hear. Let me alone
That I may cut off falsehood whilst it springs!
Set hills on hills betwixt me and the man
That utters this, and I will scale them all,
And from the utmost top fall on his neck,
Like thunder from a cloud.
Dion. This is most strange:
Sure, he does love her.
Phi. I do love fair truth:
She is my mistress, and who injures her
Draws vengeance from me. Sirs, let go my arms.
Thra. Nay, good my lord, be patient.
Cle. Sir, remember this is your honoured friend,
That comes to do his service, and will show you
Why he uttered this
Phi. I ask you pardon, sir;
My zeal to truth made me unmannerly:
Should I have heard dishonour spoke of you,
Behind your back, untruly, I had been
As much distempered and enraged as now.
Dion. But this, my lord, is truth.
Phi. Oh, say not so!
Good sir, forbear to say so; 'tis then truth,
That all womankind is false: urge it no more;
It is impossible. Why should you think
The princess light?
Dion. Why, she was taken at it.
Phi. 'Tis false! by Heaven, 'tis false! it cannot be!
Can it? Speak, gentlemen; for love of truth, speak!
Is't possible? Can women all be damned?
Dion. Why, no, my lord.
Phi. Why, then, it cannot be.
Dion. And she was taken with her boy.
Phi. What boy?
Dion. A page, a boy that serves her.
Phi. Oh, good gods!
A little boy?
Dion. Ay; know you him my lord?
Phi. Hell and sin know him! [Aside].—Sir you are deceived;
I'll reason it a little coldly with you:
If she were lustful, would she take a boy,
That knows not yet desire? she would have one
Should meet her thoughts and know the sin he acts,
Which is the great delight of wickedness.
You are abused, and so is she, and I.
Dion. How you, my lord?
Phi. Why, all the world's abused
In an unjust report.
Dion. Oh, noble sir, your virtues
Cannot look into the subtle thoughts of woman!
In short, my lord, I took them; I myself.
Phi. Now, all the devils, thou didst! Fly from my rage!
Would thou hadst ta'en devils engendering plagues,
When thou did'st take them! Hide thee from my eyes!
Would thou hadst taken thunder on thy breast,
When thou didst take them; or been strucken dumb
For ever; that this foul deed might have slept
In silence!
Thra. Have you known him so ill-tempered?
Cle. Never before.
Phi. The winds, that are let loose
From the four several corners of the earth,
And spread themselves all over sea and land,
Kiss not a chaste one. What friend bears a sword
To run me thorough?
Dion. Why, my lord, are you
So moved at this?
Phi. When any fall from virtue,
I am distract; I have an interest in 't.
Dion. But, good my lord, recall yourself, and think
What's best to be done.
Phi. I thank you; I will do it:
Please you to leave me; I'll consider of it.
To-morrow I will find your lodging forth,
And give you answer.
Dion. All the gods direct you
The readiest way!
Thra. He was extreme impatient.
Cle. It was his virtue and his noble mind.
Phi. I had forgot to ask him where he took them;
I'll follow him. Oh, that I had a sea
Within my breast, to quench the fire I feel!
More circumstances will but fan this fire:
It more afflicts me now, to know by whom
This deed is done, than simply that 'tis done;
And he that tells me this is honourable,
As far from lies as she is far from truth.
Oh, that, like beasts, we could not grieve ourselves
With that we see not ! Bulls and rams will fight
To keep their females, standing in their sight;
But take 'em from them, and you take at once
Their spleens away; and they will fall again
Unto their pastures, growing fresh and fat;
And taste the waters of the springs as sweet
As 'twas before, finding no start in sleep:
But miserable man_____


See, see, you gods,
He walks still; and the face you let him wear
When he was innocent is still the same,
Not blasted! Is this justice? do you mean
To intrap mortality, that you allow
Treason so smooth a brow? I cannot now
Think he is guilty. [Aside.
Bel. Health to you, my lord!
The princess doth commend her love, her life,
And this, unto you. [Gives a letter
Phi. Oh, Bellario,
Now I perceive she loves me: she does show it
In loving thee, my boy: she has made thee brave.
Bel. My lord, she has attired me past my wish,
Past my desert; more fit for her attendant,
Though far unfit for me who do attend.
Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy.—Oh, let all women,
That love black deeds, learn to dissemble here,
Here, by this paper! She does write to me
As if her heart were mines of adamant
To all the world besides; but, unto me,
A maiden-snow that melted with my looks.— [Aside.
Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee?
For I shall guess her love to me by that.
Bel. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were
Something allied to her, or had preserved
Her life three times by my fidelity;
As mothers fond do use their only sons,
As I'd use one that's left unto my trust,
For whom my life should pay if he met harm,
So she does use me.
Phi. Why, this is wondrous well:
But what kind language does she feed thee with?
Bel. Why, she does tell me she will trust my youth
With all her loving secrets, and does call me
Her pretty servant; bids me weep no more
For leaving you; she'll see my services
Regarded: and such words of that soft strain,
That I am nearer weeping when she ends
Than ere she spake.
Phi. This is much better still.
Bel. Are you not ill, my lord?
Phi. Ill? no, Bellario.
Bel. Methinks your words
Fall not from off your tongue so evenly,
Nor is there in your looks that quietness
That I was wont to see.
Phi. Thou art deceived, boy:
And she strokes thy head?
Bel. Yes.
Phi. And she does clap thy cheeks?
Bel. She does, my lord.
Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy? ha!
Bel. How, my lord?
Phi. She kisses thee?
Bel. Not so, my lord.
Phi. Come, come, I know she does.
Bel. No, by my life.
Phi. Why then she does not love me. Come, she does
I bade her do it; I charged her, by all charms
Of love between us, by the hope of peace
We should enjoy, to yield thee all delights
Naked as to her bed; I took her oath
Thou should'st enjoy her. Tell me, gentle boy,
Is she not paralleless? is not her breath
Sweet as Arabian winds when fruits are ripe?
Are not her breasts two liquid ivory balls?
Is she not all a lasting mine of joy?
Bel. Ay, now I see why my disturbèd thoughts
Were so perplexed: when first I went to her,
My heart held augury. You are abused;
Some villain has abused you: I do see
Whereto you tend. Fall rocks upon his head
That put this to you! 'tis some subtle train
To bring that noble frame of yours to nought.
Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with thee. Come,
Thou shalt know all my drift: I hate her more
Than I love happiness, and placed thee there
To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds.
Hast thou discovered? is she fallen to lust,
As I would wish her? Speak some comfort to me.
Bel. My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent:
Had she the lust of sparrows or of goats,
Had she a sin that way, hid from the world,
Beyond the name of lust, I would not aid
Her base desires: but what I came to know
As servant to her, I would not reveal,
To make my life last ages.
Phi. Oh, my heart!
This is a salve worse than the main disease.
Tell me thy thoughts; for I will know the least
[Draws his sword.
That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart
To know it: I will see thy thoughts as plain
As I do now thy face.
Bel. Why, so you do.
She is (for aught I know) by all the gods, [Kneels.
As chaste as ice! but were she foul as hell,
And I did know it thus, the breath of kings,
The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass,
Should draw it from me.
Phi. Then it is no time
To dally with thee; I will take thy life,
For I do hate thee: I could curse thee now.
Bel. If you do hate, you could not curse me worse;
The gods have not a punishment in store
Greater for me than is your hate.
Phi. Fie, fie,
So young and so dissembling! Tell me when
And where thou didst enjoy her, or let plagues
Fall on me, if I destroy thee not!
Bel. Heaven knows I never did; and when I lie
To save my life, may I live long and loathed!
Hew me asunder, and, whilst I can think,
I'll love those pieces you have cut away
Better than those that grow, and kiss those limbs
Because you made 'em so.
Phi. Fear'st thou not death?
Can boys contemn that?
Bel. Oh, what boy is he
Can be content to live to be a man,
That sees the best of men thus passionate,
Thus without reason?
Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know
What 'tis to die.
Bel. Yes, I do know, my lord:
'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep;
A quiet resting from all jealousy,
A thing we all pursue; I know, besides,
It is but giving over of a game
That must be lost.
Phi. But there are pains, false boy,
For perjured souls: think but on these, and then
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all.
Bel. May they fall all upon me whilst I live,
If I be perjured, or have ever thought
Of that you charge me with! If I be false,
Send me to suffer in those punishments
You speak of; kill me!
Phi. Oh, what should I do?
Why, who can but believe him? he does swear
So earnestly, that if it were not true,
The gods would not endure him. [Sheaths his sword.]
Rise, Bellario: [BELLARIO rises.
Thy protestations are so deep, and thou
Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them,
That, though I know 'em false as were my hopes,
I cannot urge thee further. But thou wert
To blame to injure me, for I must love
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon
Thy tender youth: a love from me to thee
Is firm, whate'er thou dost: it troubles me
That I have called the blood out of thy cheeks,
That did so well become thee. But, good boy,
Let me not see thee more: something is done
That will distract me, that will make me mad,
If I behold thee. If thou tender'st me,
Let me not see thee.
Bel. I will fly as far
As there is morning, ere I give distaste
To that most honoured mind. But through these tears,
Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see
A world of treason practised upon you,
And her, and me. Farewell for evermore!
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead,
And after find me loyal, let there be
A tear shed from you in my memory,
And I shall rest at peace.
Phi. Blessing be with thee,
Whatever thou deserv'st! [Exit BELLARIO.]—Oh, where shall I
Go bathe this body? Nature too unkind;
That made no medicine for a troubled mind! [Exit.

SCENE II.—ARETHUSA'S Apartment in the Palace.


Are. I marvel my boy comes not back again:
But that I know my love will question him
Over and over,—how I slept, waked, talked,
How I remembered him when his dear name
Was last spoke, and how when I sighed, wept, sung,
And ten thousand such,—I should be angry at his stay.

Enter KING.

King. What, at your meditations! Who attends you?
Are. None but my single self: I need no guard;
I do no wrong, nor fear none.
King. Tell me, have you not a boy?
Are. Yes, sir.
King. What kind of boy?
Are. A page, a waiting-boy.
King. A handsome boy?
Are. I think he be not ugly:
Well qualified and dutiful I know him;
I took him not for beauty.
King. He speaks and sings and plays?
Are. Yes, sir.
King. About eighteen?
Are. I never asked his age.
King. Is he full of service?
Are. By your pardon, why do you ask?
King. Put him away.
Are. Sir!
King. Put him away. H'as done you that good service
Shames me to speak of.
Are. Good sir, let me understand you.
King. If you fear me,
Show it in duty; put away that boy.
Are. Let me have reason for it, sir, and then
Your will is my command.
King. Do not you blush to ask it? Cast him off,
Or I shall do the same to you. You're one
Shame with me, and so near unto myself,
That, by my life, I dare not tell myself
What you, myself, have done.
Are. What have I done, my lord?
King. 'Tis a new language, that all love to learn:
The common people speak it well already;
They need no grammar. Understand me well;
There be foul whispers stirring. Cast him off,
And suddenly: do it! Farewell. [Exit.
Are. Where may a maiden live securely free,
Keeping her honour fair? Not with the living;
They feed upon opinions, errors, dreams,
And make 'em truths; they draw a nourishment
Out of defamings, grow upon disgraces;
And, when they see a virtue fortified
Strongly above the battery of their tongues,
Oh, how they cast to sink it! and, defeated,
(Soul-sick with poison) strike the monuments
Where noble names lie sleeping, till they sweat,
And the cold marble melt.


Phi. Peace to your fairest thoughts, dearest mistress!
Are. Oh, my dearest servant, I have a war within me!
Phi. He must be more than man that makes these crystals
Run into rivers. Sweetest fair, the cause?
And, as I am your slave, tied to your goodness,
Your creature, made again from what I was
And newly-spirited, I'll right your honour.

Are. Oh, my best love, that boy!
Phi. What boy?
Are. The pretty boy you gave me_____
Phi. What of him?
Are. Must be no more mine.
Phi. Why?
Are. They are jealous of him.
Phi. Jealous! who?
Are. The King.
Phi. Oh, my fortune!
Then 'tis no idle jealousy. [Aside.]—Let him go.
Are. Oh, cruel!
Are you hard-hearted too? who shall now tell you
How much I loved you? who shall swear it to you,
And weep the tears I send? who shall now bring you
Letters, rings, bracelets? lose his health in service?
Wake tedious nights in stories of your praise?
Who shall now sing your crying elegies,
And strike a sad soul into senseless pictures,
And make them mourn? who shall take up his lute,
And touch it till he crown a silent sleep
Upon my eye-lids, making me dream, and cry,
"Oh, my dear, dear Philaster!"
Phi. Oh, my heart!
Would he had broken thee, that made me know
This lady was not loyal! [Aside.]—Mistress,
Forget the boy; I'll get thee a far better.
Are. Oh, never, never such a boy again
As my Bellario!
Phi. 'Tis but your fond affection.
Are. With thee, my boy, farewell for ever
All secrecy in servants! Farewell faith,
And all desire to do well for itself!
Let all that shall succeed thee for thy wrongs
Sell and betray chaste love!
Phi. And all this passion for a boy?
Are. He was your boy, and you put him to me,
And the loss of such must have a mourning for.
Phi. Oh, thou forgetful woman!
Are. How, my lord?
Phi. False Arethusa!
Hast thou a medicine to restore my wits,
When I have lost 'em? If not, leave to talk,
And do thus.
Are. Do what, sir? would you sleep?
Phi. For ever, Arethusa. Oh, you gods,
Give me a worthy patience! Have I stood
Naked, alone, the shock of many fortunes?
Have I seen mischiefs numberless and mighty
Grow like a sea upon me? Have I taken
Danger as stern as death into my bosom,
And laughed upon it, made it but a mirth,
And flung it by? Do I live now like him,
Under this tyrant King, that languishing
Hears his sad bell and sees his mourners? Do I
Bear all this bravely, and must sink at length
Under a woman's falsehood? Oh, that boy,
That cursèd boy! None but a villain boy
To ease your lust?
Are. Nay, then, I am betrayed:
I feel the plot cast for my overthrow.
Oh, I am wretched!
Phi. Now you may take that little right I have
To this poor kingdom: give it to your joy;
For I have no joy in it. Some far place,
Where never womankind durst set her foot
For bursting with her poisons, must I seek,
And live to curse you:
There dig a cave, and preach to birds and beasts
What woman is, and help to save them from you;
How heaven is in your eyes, but in your hearts
More hell than hell has; how your tongues, like scorpions,
Both heal and poison; how your thoughts are woven
With thousand changes in one subtle web,
And worn so by you; how that foolish man,
That reads the story of a woman's face
And dies believing it, is lost for ever;
How all the good you have is but a shadow,
I' the morning with you, and at night behind you
Past and forgotten; how your vows are frosts,
Fast for a night, and with the next sun gone;
How you are, being taken all together,
A mere confusion, and so dead a chaos,
That love cannot distinguish. These sad texts,
Till my last hour, I am bound to utter of you.
So, farewell all my woe, all my delight! [Exit.
Are. Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me dead!
What way have I deserved this? Make my breast
Transparent as pure crystal, that the world,
Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought
My heart holds. Where shall a woman turn her eyes,
To find out constancy?


Save me, how black
And guiltily, methinks, that boy looks now!
Oh, thou dissembler, that, before thou spak'st,
Wert in thy cradle false, sent to make lies
And betray innocents! Thy lord and thou
May glory in the ashes of a maid
Fooled by her passion; but the conquest is
Nothing so great as wicked. Fly away!
Let my command force thee to that which shame
Would do without it. If thou understood'st
The loathèd office thou hast undergone,
Why, thou wouldst hide thee under heaps of hills,
Lest men should dig and find thee.
Bel. Oh, what god,
Angry with men, hath sent this strange disease
Into the noblest minds! Madam, this grief
You add unto me is no more than drops
To seas, for which they are not seen to swell;
My lord hath struck his anger through my heart,
And let out all the hope of future joys.
You need not bid me fly; I came to part,
To take my latest leave. Farewell for ever!
I durst not run away in honesty
From such a lady, like a boy that stole
Or made some grievous fault. The power of gods
Assist you in your sufferings! Hasty time
Reveal the truth to your abusèd lord
And mine, that he may know your worth; whilst I
Go seek out some forgotten place to die! [Exit BELLARIO.
Are. Peace guide thee! Thou hast overthrown me once;
Yet, if I had another Troy to lose,
Thou, or another villain with thy looks,
Might talk me out of it, and send me naked,
My hair dishevelled, through the fiery streets.

Enter a Lady.

Lady. Madam, the King would hunt, and calls for you
With earnestness.
Are. I am in tune to hunt!
Diana, if thou canst range with a maid
As with a man, let me discover thee
Bathing, and turn me to a fearful hind,
That I may die pursued by cruel hounds,
And have my story written in my wounds! [Exeunt.


SCENE I.—Before the Palace.

THRASILINE, and Attendants.

KING. What, are the hounds before and all the woodmen,
Our horses ready and our bows bent?
Dion. All, sir.
King. You are cloudy, sir: come, we have forgotten [To PHARAMOND.
Your venial trespass; let not that sit heavy
Upon your spirit; here's none dare utter it.
Dion. He looks like an old surfeited stallion after his leaping, dull
as a dormouse. See how he sinks! The wench has shot him between wind and
and, I hope, sprung a leak.
Thra. He needs no teaching, he strikes sure enough: his
greatest fault
is, he hunts too much in the purlieus; would he would leave off poaching!
Dion. And for his horn, h'as left it at the lodge where he lay late.
Oh, he's a precious limehound! turn him loose upon the pursuit of a lady, and
he lose her, hang him up 'i the slip. When my fox-bitch Beauty grows proud,
borrow him.
King. Is your boy turned away?
Are. You did command, sir,
And I obeyed you.
King. 'Tis well done. Hark ye further.
[They talk apart.
Cle. Is't possible this fellow should repent? methinks, that were not
noble in him; and yet he looks like a mortified member, as if he had a sick
man's salve in's mouth. If a worse man had done this fault now, some physical
justice or other would presently (without the help of an almanack) have opened
the obstructions of his liver, and let him blood with a dog-whip.
Dion. See, see how modestly yon lady looks, as if she came from
churching with her neighbour! Why, what a devil can a man see in her face but
that she's honest!
Thra. Troth, no great matter to speak of; a foolish twinkling with
eye, that spoils her coat; but he must be a cunning herald that finds it.
Dion. See how they muster one another! Oh, there's a rank regiment
where the devil carries the colours and his dam drum-major! now the world and
the flesh come behind with the carriage.
Cle. Sure this lady has a good turn done her against her will; before
she was common talk, now none dare say cantharides can stir her. Her face
like a warrant, willing and commanding all tongues, as they will answer it, to
be tied up and bolted when this lady means to let herself loose. As I live,
has got her a goodly protection and a gracious; and may use her body
for her health's sake, once a week, excepting Lent and dog-days. Oh, if they
were to be got for money, what a great sum would come out of the
city for these
King. To horse, to horse! we lose the morning, gentlemen. [Exeunt

SCENE II.—A Forest

Enter two Woodmen.

1st Wood. What, have you lodged the deer?
2nd Wood. Yes, they are ready for the bow.
1st Wood. Who shoots?
2nd Wood. The princess.
1st Wood. No, she'll hunt.
2nd Wood. She'll take a stand, I say.
1st Wood. Who else?
2nd Wood. Why, the young stranger-prince.
1st Wood. He shall shoot in a stone-bow for me.
I never loved his beyond-sea-ship since he forsook the say, for paying ten
shillings. He was there at the fall of a deer, and would needs (out of his
mightiness) give ten groats for the dowcets; marry, his steward would have the
velvet-head into the bargain, to turf his hat withal. I think he should love
venery; he is an old Sir Tristrem; for, if you be remembered, he forsook the
stag once to strike a rascal miching in a meadow, and her he killed in the
Who shoots else?
2nd Wood. The Lady Galatea.
1st Wood. That's a good wench, an she would not chide us for tumbling
of her women in the brakes. She's liberal, and, by my bow, they say she's
honest; and whether that be a fault, I have nothing to do. There's all?
2nd Wood. No, one more; Megra.
1st Wood. That's a firker i'faith, boy; there's a wench will ride her
haunches as hard after a kennel of hounds as a hunting saddle, and when she
comes home, get 'em clapt, and all is well again. I have known her lose
three times in one afternoon (if the woods have been answerable), and it has
been work enough for one man to find her, and he has sweat for it. She rides
well and she pays well. Hark! let's go. [Exeunt.


Phi. Oh, that I had been nourished in these woods
With milk of goats and acorns, and not known
The right of crowns nor the dissembling trains
Of women's looks; but digged myself a cave,
Where I, my fire, my cattle, and my bed,
Might have been shut together in one shed;
And then had taken me some mountain-girl,
Beaten with winds, chaste as the hardened rocks
Whereon she dwelt, that might have strewed my bed
With leaves and reeds, and with the skins of beasts,
Our neighbours, and have borne at her big breasts
My large coarse issue! This had been a life
Free from vexation.


Bel. Oh, wicked men!
An innocent may walk safe among beasts;
Nothing assaults me here. See, my grieved lord
Sits as his soul were searching out a way
To leave his body! [Aside.]—Pardon me, that must
Break thy last commandment; for I must speak:
You that are grieved can pity; hear, my lord!
Phi. Is there a creature yet so miserable,
That I can pity?
Bel. Oh, my noble lord,
View my strange fortune, and bestow on me,
According to your bounty (if my service
Can merit nothing), so much as may serve
To keep that little piece I hold of life
From cold and hunger!
Phi. Is it thou? be gone!
Go, sell those misbeseeming clothes thou wear'st,
And feed thyself with them.
Bel. Alas, my lord, I can get nothing for them!
The silly country-people think 'tis treason
To touch such gay things.
Phi. Now, by my life, this is
Unkindly done, to vex me with thy sight.
Thou'rt fallen again to thy dissembling trade:
How shouldst thou think to cozen me again?
Remains there yet a plague untried for me?
Even so thou wept'st, and looked'st, and spok'st when first
I took thee up:
Curse on the time! If thy commanding tears
Can work on any other, use thy art;
I'll not betray it. Which way wilt thou take?
That I may shun thee, for thine eyes are poison
To mine, and I am loath to grow in rage:
This way, or that way?
Bel. Any will serve; but I will choose to have
That path in chase that leads unto my grave.
[Exeunt severally.

Enter on one side DION, and on the other the two Woodmen.

Dion. This is the strangest sudden chance! You, woodmen!
1st Wood. My Lord Dion?
Dion. Saw you a lady come this way on a sable horse studded
with stars
of white?
2nd Wood. Was she not young and tall?
Dion. Yes. Rode she to the wood or to the plain?
2nd Wood. Faith my lord, we saw none.
[Exeunt Woodmen.
Dion. Pox of your questions then!


What, is she found?
Cle. Nor will be, I think.
Dion. Let him seek his daughter himself. She cannot stray about a
little necessary natural business, but the whole court must be in arms: when
has done, we shall have peace.
Cle. There's already a thousand fatherless tales amongst us. Some
her horse ran away with her; some, a wolf pursued her; others, it was a
plot to
kill her, and that armed men were seen in the wood: but questionless she rode
away willingly.

Enter KING, THRASILINE, and Attendants.

King. Where is she?
Cle. Sir, I cannot tell.
King. How's that?
Answer me so again!
Cle. Sir, shall I lie?
King. Yes, lie and damn, rather than tell me that.
I say again, where is she? Mutter not!—
Sir, speak you; where is she?
Dion. Sir, I do not know.
King. Speak that again so boldly, and, by Heaven,
It is they last!—You, fellows, answer me;
Where is she? Mark me, all; I am your King:
I wish to see my daughter; show her me;
I do command you all, as you are subjects,
To show her me! What! am I not your King?
If ay, then am I not to be obeyed?
Dion. Yes, if you command things possible and honest.
King. Things possible and honest! Hear me, thou,
Thou traitor, that dar'st confine thy King to things
Possible and honest! show her me,
Or, let me perish, if I cover not
All Sicily with blood!
Dion. Indeed I cannot,
Unless you tell me where she is.
King. You have betrayed me; you have let me lose
The jewel of my life. Go, bring her to me,
And set her here before me: 'tis the King
Will have it so; whose breath can still the winds,
Uncloud the sun, charm down the swelling sea,
And stop the floods of heaven. Speak, can it not?
Dion. No.
King. No! cannot the breath of kings do this?
Dion. No; nor smell sweet itself, if once the lungs
Be but corrupted.
King. Is it so? Take heed!
Dion. Sir, take you heed how you dare the powers
That must be just.
King. Alas! what are we kings!
Why do you gods place us above the rest;
To be served, flattered, and adored, till we
Believe we hold within our hands your thunder,
And when we come to try the power we have,
There's not a leaf shakes at our threatenings?
I have sinned, 'tis true, and here stand to be punished;
Yet would not thus be punished: let me choose
My way, and lay it on!
Dion. He articles with the gods. Would somebody would draw bonds for
the performance of covenants betwixt them! [Aside.


King. What, is she found?
Pha. No; we have ta'en her horse;
He galloped empty by. There is some treason.
You, Galatea, rode with her into the wood;
Why left you her?
Gal. She did command me.
King. Command! you should not.
Gal. 'Twould ill become my fortunes and my birth
To disobey the daughter of my King.
King. You're all cunning to obey us for our hurt;
But I will have her.
Pha. If I have her not,
By this hand, there shall be no more Sicily.
Dion. What, will he carry it to Spain in's pocket?
Pha. I will not leave one man alive, but the King,
A cook, and a tailor.
Dion. Yet you may do well to spare your lady-bed-fellow; and her you
may keep for a spawner. [Aside.
King. I see
The injuries I have done must be revenged. [Aside.
Dion. Sir, this is not the way to find her out.
King. Run all, disperse yourselves. The man that find her,
Or (if she be killed), the traitor, I'll make him great.
Dion. I know some would give five thousand pounds
to find her. [Aside.
Pha. Come, let us seek.
King. Each man a several way;
Here I myself.
Dion. Come, gentlemen, we here.
Cle. Lady, you must go search too.
Meg. I had rather be searched myself.
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.—Another part of the Forest.


Are. Where am I now? Feet, find me out a way,
Without the counsel of my troubled head:
I'll follow you boldly about these woods,
O'er mountains, thorough brambles, pits, and floods.
Heaven, I hope, will ease me: I am sick. [Sits down.


Bel. Yonder's my lady. Heaven knows I want
Nothing, because I do not wish to live;
Yet I will try her charity.
[Aside.]—Oh hear,
You that have plenty! from that flowing store
Drop some on dry ground.—See, the lively red
Is gone to guard her heart! I fear she faints.—
Madam? look up!—She breathes not.—Open once more
Those rosy twins, and send unto my lord
Your latest farewell!—Oh, she stirs.—How is it,
Madam? speak comfort.
Are. 'Tis not gently done,
To put me in a miserable life,
And hold me there: I prithee, let me go;
I shall do best without thee; I am well.


Phi. I am to blame to be so much in rage:
I'll tell her coolly when and where I heard
This killing truth. I will be temperate
In speaking, and as just in hearing._____
Oh, monstrous! Tempt me not, ye gods! good gods,
Tempt not a frail man! What's he, that has a heart,
But he must ease it here!
Bel. My lord, help, help!
The princess!
Are. I am well: forbear.
Phi. Let me love lightning, let me be embraced
And kissed by scorpions, or adore the eyes
Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues
Of hell-bred women! Some good god look down,
And shrink these veins up; stick me here a stone
Lasting to ages in the memory
Of this damned act!
[Aside.]—Hear me, you wicked ones!
You have put hills of fire into this breast,
Not to be quenched with tears; for which may guilt
Sit on your bosoms! at your meals and beds
Despair await you! What, before my face?
Poison of asps between your lips! diseases
Be your best issues! Nature make a curse,
And throw it on you!
Are. Dear Philaster, leave
To be enraged, and hear me.
Phi. I have done;
Forgive my passion. Not the calmèd sea,
When Æolus locks up his windy brood,
Is less disturbed than I: I'll make you know it.
Dear Arethusa, do but take this sword,
[Offers his drawn sword.
And search how temperate a heart I have;
Then you and this your boy may live and reign
In lust without control. Wilt thou, Bellario?
I prithee kill me; thou art poor, and may'st
Nourish ambitious thoughts; when I am dead,
Thy way were freer. Am I raging now?
If I were mad, I should desire to live.
Sirs, feel my pulse, whether you have known
A man in a more equal tune to die.
Bel. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps madman's time!
So does your tongue.
Phi. You will not kill me, then?
Are. Kill you!
Bel. Not for a world.
Phi. I blame not thee,
Bellario: thou hast done but that which gods
Would have transformed themselves to do. Be gone,
Leave me without reply; this is the last
Of all our meetings—[Exit BELLARIO.] Kill me with this sword;
Be wise, or worse will follow: we are two
Earth cannot bear at once. Resolve to do,
Or suffer.
Are. If my fortune be so good to let me fall
Upon thy hand, I shall have peace in death.
Yet tell me this, will there be no slanders,
No jealousies in the other world; no ill there?
Phi. No.
Are. Show me, then, the way.
Phi. Then guide my feeble hand,
You that have power to do it, for I must
Perform a piece of justice!—If your youth
Have any way offended Heaven, let prayers
Short and effectual reconcile you to it.
Are. I am prepared.

Enter a Country Fellow.

C. Fell. I'll see the King, if he be in the forest; I have hunted him
these two hours; if I should come home and not see him, my sisters would laugh
at me. I can see nothing but people better horsed than myself, that out-ride
I can hear nothing but shouting. These kings had need of good brains; this
whooping is able to put a mean man out of his wits. There's a courtier with
sword drawn; by this hand, upon a woman, I think! [Aside.
Phi. Are you at peace?
Are. With heaven and earth.
Phi. May they divide thy soul and body! [Wounds her.
C. Fell. Hold, dastard! strike a woman! Thou'rt a craven, I warrant
thou wouldst be loth to play half a dozen venies at wasters with a good fellow
for a broken head.
Phi. Leave us, good friend.
Are. What ill-bred man art thou, to intrude thyself
Upon our private sports, our recreations?
C. Fell. God 'uds me, I understand you not; but
I know the rogue has hurt you.
Phi. Pursue thy own affairs: it will be ill
To multiply blood upon my head; which thou
Wilt force me to.
C. Fell. I know not your rhetoric; but I can lay it on, if you touch
the woman.
Phi. Slave, take what thou deservest! [They fight.
Are. Heavens guard my lord!
C. Fell. Oh, do you breathe?
Phi. I hear the tread of people. I am hurt:
The gods take part against me: could this boor
Have held me thus else? I must shift for life,
Though I do loathe it. I would find a course
To lose it rather by my will than force. [Aside and exit.
C. Fell. I cannot follow the rogue. I pray thee, wench, come and kiss


Pha. What art thou?
C. Fell. Almost killed I am for a foolish woman; a knave has hurt
Pha. The princess, gentlemen!—Where's the wound, madam!
Is it dangerous?
Are. He has not hurt me.
C. Fell. I' faith, she lies; h'as hurt her in the breast; look else.
Pha. O, sacred spring of innocent blood!
Dion. 'Tis above wonder! who should dare this?
Are. I felt it not.
Pha. Speak, villain, who has hurt the princess?
C. Fell. Is it the princess?
Dion. Ay.
C. Fell. Then I have seen something yet.
Pha. But who has hurt her?
C. Fell. I told you, a rogue; I ne'er saw him before, I
Pha. Madam, who did it?
Are. Some dishonest wretch;
Alas, I know him not, and do forgive him!
C. Fell. He's hurt too; he cannot go far; I made my father's old fox
fly about his ears.
Pha. How will you have me kill him?
Are. Not at all;
'Tis some distracted fellow.
Pha. By this hand,
I'll leave ne'er a piece of him bigger than a nut,
And bring him all to you in my hat.
Are. Nay, good sir,
If you do take him, bring him quick to me,
And I will study for a punishment
Great as his fault.
Pha. I will.
Are. But swear.
Pha. By all my love, I will._____
Woodmen, conduct the princess to the King,
And bear that wounded fellow to dressing._____
Come, gentlemen, we'll follow the chase close.
Exeunt on one side PHARAMOND, DION, CLEREMONT, and
exit on the other ARETHUSA Attended by the First Woodman.
C. Fell. I pray you, friend, let me see the King.
2nd Wood. That you shall, and receive thanks.
C. Fell. If I get clear with this, I'll go see no more gay sights.

SCENE IV.—Another part of the Forest.


Bel. A heaviness near death sits on my brow,
And I must sleep. Bear me, thou gentle bank,
For ever, if thou wilt. You sweet ones all, [Lies down.
Let me unworthy press you: I could wish
I rather were a corse strewed o'er with you
Than quick above you. Dulness shuts mine eyes,
And I am giddy: oh, that I could take
So sound a sleep that I might never wake! [Sleeps.


Phi. I have done ill; my conscience calls me false,
To strike at her that would not strike at me.
When I did fight, methought I heard her pray
The gods to guard me. She may be abused,
And I a loathèd villain: if she be,
She will conceal who hurt her. He has wounds
And cannot follow; neither knows he
Who's this? Bellario sleeping! If thou be'st
Guilty, there is no justice that thy sleep
Should be so sound, and mine, whom thou hast wronged,
[Cry within.
So broken. Hark! I am pursued. You gods
I'll take this offered means of my escape:
They have no mark to know me but my blood,
If she be true; if false, let mischief light
On all the world at once! Sword, print my wounds
Upon this sleeping boy! I have none, I think,
Are mortal, nor would I lay greater on thee.
Bel. Oh, death, I hope, is come! Blest be that hand!
It meant me well. Again, for pity's sake!
Phi. I have caught myself; [Falls.
The loss of blood hath stayed my flight. Here, here,
Is he that struck thee: take thy full revenge;
Use me, as I did mean thee, worse than death;
I'll teach thee to revenge. This luckless hand
Wounded the princess; tell my followers
Thou didst receive these hurts in staying me,
And I will second thee; get a reward.
Bel. Fly, fly, my lord, and save yourself!
Phi. How's this?
Wouldst thou I should be safe?
Bel. Else were it vain
For me to live. These little wounds I have
Have not bled much: reach me that noble hand;
I'll help to cover you.
Phi. Art thou then true to me?
Bel. Or let me perish loathed! Come, my good lord,
Creep in amongst those bushes: who does know
But that the gods may save your much-loved breath?
Phi. Then I shall die for grief, if not for this,
That I have wounded thee. What wilt thou do?
Bel. Shift for myself well. Peace! I hear 'em come.
[PHILASTER creeps into a bush.
[Voices within.] Follow, follow, follow! that way they went.
Bel. With my own wounds I'll bloody my own sword.
I need not counterfeit to fall; Heaven knows
That I can stand no longer. [Falls.


Pha. To this place we have tracked him by his blood.
Cle. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away.
Dion. Stay, sir! what are you?
Bel. A wretched creature, wounded in these woods
By beasts: relieve me, if your names be men,
Or I shall perish.
Dion. This is he, my lord,
Upon my soul, that hurt her: 'tis the boy,
That wicked boy, that served her.
Pha. Oh, thou damned
In thy creation! what cause couldst thou shape
To hurt the princess?
Bel. Then I am betrayed.
Dion. Betrayed! no, apprehended.
Bel. I confess,
Urge it no more) that, big with evil thoughts.
I set upon her, and did take my aim,
Her death. For charity let fall at once
The punishment you mean, and do not load
This weary flesh with tortures.
Pha. I will know
Who hired thee to this deed.
Bel. Mine own revenge.
Pha. Revenge! for what?
Bel. It pleased her to receive
Me as her page, and, when my fortunes ebbed,
That men strid o'er them careless, she did shower
Her welcome graces on me, and did swell
My fortunes till they overflowed their banks,
Threatening the men that crossed 'em; when, as swift
As storms arise at sea, she turned her eyes
To burning suns upon me, and did dry
The streams she had bestowed, leaving me worse
And more contemned than other little brooks,
Because I had been great. In short, I knew
I could not live, and therefore did desire
To die revenged.
Pha. If tortures can be found
Long as thy natural life, resolve to feel
The utmost rigour.
Cle. Help to lead him hence.
[PHILASTER creeps out of the bush
Phi. Turn back, you ravishers of innocence!
Know ye the price of that you bear away
So rudely?
Pha. Who's that?
Dion. 'Tis the Lord Philaster.
Phi. 'Tis not the treasure of all kings in one,
The wealth of Tagus, nor the rocks of pearl
That pave the court of Neptune, can weigh down
That virtue. It was I that hurt the princess.
Place me, some god, upon a pyramis
Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice
Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence
I may discourse to all the under-world
The worth that dwells in him!
Pha. How's this?
Bel. My lord, some man
Weary of life, that would be glad to die.
Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bellario.
Bel. Alas, he's mad! Come, will you lead me on?
Phi. By all the oaths that men ought most to keep,
And gods do punish most when men do break,
He touched her not.—Take heed, Bellario,
How thou dost drown the virtues thou hast shown
With perjury.—By all that's good, 'twas I!
You know she stood betwixt me and my right.
Pha. Thy own tongue be thy judge!
Cle. It was Philaster.
Dion. Is't not a brave boy?
Well, sirs, I fear me we were all deceived.
Phi. Have I no friend here?
Dion. Yes.
Phi. Then show it: some
Good body lend a hand to draw us nearer.
Would you have tears shed for you when you die?
Then lay me gently on his neck, that there
I may weep floods and breathe forth my spirit.
'Tis not the wealth of Plutus, nor the gold [Embraces BEL
Locked in the heart of earth, can buy away
This arm-full from me: this had been a ransom
To have redeemed the great Augustus Cæsar,
Had he been taken. You hard-hearted men,
More stony than these mountains, can you see
Such clear pure blood drop, and not cut your flesh
To stop his life? to bind whose bitter wounds,
Queens ought to tear their hair, and with their tears
Bathe 'em.—Forgive me, thou that art the wealth
Of poor Philaster!

Enter KING, ARETHUSA, and Guard.

King. Is the villain ta'en?
Pha. Sir, here be two confess the deed; but sure
It was Philaster.
Phi. Question it no more;
It was.
King. The fellow that did fight with him,
Will tell us that.
Are. Aye me! I know he will
King. Did not you know him?
Are. Sir, if it was he,
He was disguised.
Phi. I was so. Oh, my stars,
That I should live still. [Aside.
King. Thou ambitious fool,
Thou that hast laid a train or thy own life!—
Now I do mean to do, I'll leave to talk.
Bear them to prison.
Are. Sir, they did plot together to take hence
This harmless life; should it pass unrevenged,
I should to earth go weeping: grant me, then,
By all the love a father bears his child,
Their custodies, and that I may appoint
Their tortures and their deaths.
Dion. Death! Soft; our law will not reach that for this fault.
King. 'Tis granted; take 'em to you with a guard.—
Come, princely Pharamond, this business past,
We may with more security go on
To your intended match.
[Exeunt all except DION, CLEREMONT, and THRASILINE.
Cle. I pray that this action lose not Philaster the hearts of the
Dion. Fear it not; their over-wise heads will think it but a trick.


SCENE I.—Before the Palace.


THRA. Has the king sent for him to death?
Dion. Yes; but the King must know 'tis not in his power to war with
Cle. We linger time; the King sent for Philaster and the headsman an
hour ago
Thra. Are all his wounds well?
Dion. All; they were but scratches; but the loss of blood made him
Cle. We dally, gentlemen.
Thra. Away!
Dion. We'll scuffle hard before he perish. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A Prison.


Are. Nay, dear Philaster, grieve not; we are well.
Bel. Nay, good my lord, forbear; we are wondrous well.
Phi. Oh, Arethusa, oh, Bellario,
Leave to be kind!
I shall be shut from Heaven, as now from earth,
If you continue so. I am a man
False to a pair of the most trusty ones
That ever earth bore: can it bear us all?
Forgive, and leave me. But the King hath sent
To call me to my death: oh, shew it me,
And then forget me! and for thee, my boy,
I shall deliver words will mollify
The hearts of beasts to spare thy innocence.
Bel. Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing
Worthy your noble thoughts! 'tis not a life,
'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away.
Should I outlive you, I should then outlive
Virtue and honour; and when that day comes,
If ever I shall close these eyes but once,
May I live spotted for my perjury,
And waste my limbs to nothing!
Are. And I (the woful'st maid that ever was,
Forced with my hands to bring my lord to death)
Do by the honour of a virgin swear
To tell no hours beyond it!
Phi. Make me not hated so.
Are. Come from this prison all joyful to our deaths!
Phi. People will tear me, when they find you true
To such a wretch as I; I shall die loathed.
Enjoy your kingdoms peaceably, whilst I
For ever sleep forgotten with my faults:
Every just servant, every maid in love,
Will have a piece of me, if you be true.
Are. My dear lord, say not so.
Bel. A piece of you!
He was not born of woman that can cut
It and look on.
Phi. Take me in tears betwixt you, for my heart
Will break with shame and sorrow.
Are. Why, 'tis well.
Bel. Lament no more.
Phi. Why, what would you have done
If you had wronged me basely, and had found
Your life no price compared to mine? for love, sirs,
Deal with me truly.
Bel. 'Twas mistaken, sir.
Phi. Why, if it were?
Bel. Then, sir, we would have asked
You pardon.
Phi. And have hope to enjoy it?
Are. Enjoy it! ay.
Phi. Would you indeed? be plain.
Bel. We would, my lord.
Phi. Forgive me, then.
Are. So, so.
Bel. 'Tis as it should be now.
Phi. Lead to my death. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.—A State-room in the Palace.


King. Gentlemen, who saw the prince?
Cle. So please you, sir, he's gone to see the city
And the new platform, with some gentlemen
Attending on him.
King. Is the princess ready
To bring her prisoner out?
Thra. She waits your grace.
King. Tell her we stay. [Exit THRASILINE
Dion. King, you may be deceived yet:
The head you aim at cost more setting on
Than to be lost so lightly. If it must off;
Like a wild overflow, that swoops before him
A golden stack, and with it shakes down bridges,
Cracks the strong hearts of pines, whose cable-roots
Held out a thousand storms, a thousand thunders,
And, so made mightier, takes whole villages
Upon his back, and in that heat of pride
Charges strong towns, towers, castles, palaces,
And lays them desolate; so shall thy head,
Thy noble head, bury the lives of thousands,
That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice,
In thy red ruins. [Aside.

Enter ARETHUSA, PHILASTER, BELLARIO in a robe and garland, and

King. How now? what masque is this?
Bel. Right royal sir, I should
Sing you an epithalamium of these lovers,
But having lost my best airs with my fortunes,
And wanting a celestial harp to strike
This blessèd union on, thus in glad story
I give you all. These two fair cedar-branches
The noblest of the mountain where they grew,
Straightest and tallest, under whose still shades
The worthier beasts have made their lairs, and slept
Free from the fervour of the Sirian star
And the fell thunder-stroke, free from the clouds,
When they were big with humour, and delivered,
In thousand spouts their issues to the earth;
Oh, there was none but silent there!
Till never-pleasèd Fortune shot up shrubs,
Base under-brambles, to divorce these branches;
And for a while they did so, and did reign
Over the mountain, and choke up his beauty
With brakes, rude thorns and thistles, till the sun
Scorched them even to the roots and dried them there:
And now a gentle gale hath blown again,
That made these branches meet and twine together,
Never to be divided. The god that sings
His holy numbers over marriage-beds
Hath knit their noble hearts; and here they stand
Your children, mighty King: and I have done.
King. How, how?
Are. Sir, if you love it in plain truth,
(For now there is no masquing in't,) this gentleman,
The prisoner that you gave me, is become
My keeper, and through all the bitter throes
Your jealousies and his ill fate have wrought him,
Thus nobly hath he struggled, and at length
Arrived here my dear husband.
King. Your dear husband!—
Call in the Captain of the Citadel.—
There you shall keep your wedding. I'll provide
A masque shall make your Hymen turn his saffron
Into a sullen coat, and sing sad requiems
To your departing souls;
Blood shall put out your torches; and, instead
Of gaudy flowers about your wanton necks,
An axe shall hang like a prodigious meteor,
Ready to crop your loves' sweets. Hear, you gods!
From this time do I shake all title off
Of father to this woman, this base woman;
And what there is of vengeance in a lion
Chafed among dogs or robbed of his dear young,
The same, enforced more terrible, more mighty,
Expect from me!
Are. Sir, by that little life I have left to swear by,
There's nothing that can stir me from myself.
What I have done, I have done without repentance
For death can be no bugbear unto me,
So long as Pharamond is not my headsman.
Dion. Sweet peace upon thy soul, thou worthy maid,
Whene'er thou diest! For this time I'll excuse thee,
Or be thy prologue. [Aside.
Phi. Sir, let me speak next;
And let my dying words be better with you
Than my dull living actions. If you aim
At the dear life of this sweet innocent,
You are a tyrant and a savage monster,
That feeds upon the blood you gave a life to;
Your memory shall be as foul behind you,
As you are living; all your better deeds
Shall be in water writ, but this in marble;
No chronicle shall speak you, though your own,
But for the shame of men. No monument,
Though high and big as Pelion, shall be able
To cover this base murder: make it rich
With brass, with purest gold and shining jasper,
Like the Pyramids; lay on epitaphs
Such as make great men gods; my little marble
That only clothes my ashes, not my faults,
Shall far outshine it. And for after-issues,
Think not so madly of the heavenly wisdoms,
That they will give you more for your mad rage
To cut off, unless it be some snake, or something
Like yourself, that in his birth shall strangle you.
Remember my father, King! there was a fault,
But I forgive it: let that sin persuade you
To love this lady; if you have a soul,
Think, save her, and be savèd. For myself,
I have so long expected this glad hour,
So languished under you, and daily withered,
That, Heaven knows, it is a joy to die;
I find a recreation in't.

Enter a Gentleman.

Gent. Where is the King?
King. Here.
Gent. Get you to your strength,
And rescue the Prince Pharamond from danger;
He's taken prisoner by the citizens,
Fearing the Lord Philaster.
Dion. Oh, brave followers!
Mutiny, my fine dear countrymen, mutiny!
Now, my brave valiant foremen, shew your weapons
In honour of your mistresses! [Aside.

Enter a Second Gentleman.

2nd Gent. Arm, arm, arm, arm!
King. A thousand devils take 'em!
Dion. A thousand blessings on 'em! [Aside.
2nd Gent. Arm, O King! The city is in mutiny,
Led by an old grey ruffian, who comes on
In rescue of the Lord Philaster.
King. Away to the citadel! I'll see them safe,
And then cope with these burghers. Let the guard
And all the gentlemen give strong attendance.

[Exeunt all except DION, CLEREMONT, and THRASILINE.

Cle. The city up! this was above our wishes.
Dion. Ay, and the marriage too. By my life,
This noble lady has deceived us all.
A plague upon myself, a thousand plagues,
For having such unworthy thoughts of her dear honour!
Oh, I could beat myself! or do you beat me,
And I'll beat you; for we had all one thought.
Cle. No, no, 'twill but lose time.
Dion. You say true. Are your swords sharp?—Well, my dear
countrymen What-ye-lacks, if you continue, and fall not back upon the first
broken skin, I'll have you chronicled and chronicled, and cut and chronicled,
and all-to-be-praised and sung in sonnets, and bawled in new brave ballads,
all tongues shall troul you in sæcula sæculorum, my kind can-
Thra. What, if a toy take 'em i' the heels now, and they run all
and cry, "the devil take the hind most?"
Dion. Then the same devil take the foremost too, and souse him
for his
breakfast! If they all prove cowards, my curses fly amongst them, and be
speeding! May they have murrains reign to keep the gentlemen at home
unbound in
easy frieze! may the moths branch their velvets, and their silks
only to be worn
before sore eyes! may their false lights undo 'em, and discover
presses, holes,
stains, and oldness in their stuffs, and make them shop-rid! may they keep
whores and horses, and break; and live mewed up with necks of
beef and turnips!
may they have many children, and none like the father! may
they know no language
but that gibberish they prattle to their parcels, unless
it be the goatish Latin
they write in their bonds—and may they write that false, and lose their

Re-enter KING.

King. Now the vengeance of all the gods confound them! How they swarm
together! what a hum they raise!—Devils choke your wild throats! If a man
had need to use their valours, he must pay a brokage for it, and then bring
on, and they will fight like sheep. 'Tis Philaster, none but Philaster, must
allay this heat: they will not hear me speak, but fling dirt at me and call me
tyrant. Oh, run, dear friend, and bring the Lord Philaster! speak him fair;
him prince; do him all the courtesy you can; commend me to him. Oh, my
wits, my
wits! [Exit CLEREMONT.
Dion. Oh, my brave countrymen! as I live, I will not buy a pin out of
your walls for this; nay, you shall cozen me, and I'll thank you, and send you
brawn and bacon, and soil you every long vacation a brace of foremen, that at
Michaelmas shall come up fat and kicking. [Aside.
King. What they will do with this poor prince, the gods know, and I
Dion. Why, sir, they'll flay him, and make church-buckets of's
skin, to
quench rebellion; then clap a rivet in's sconce, and hang him up for a sign.


King Oh, worthy sir, forgive me! do not make
Your miseries and my faults meet together,
To bring a greater danger. Be yourself,
Still sound amongst diseases I have wronged you;
And though I find it last, and beaten to it,
Let first your goodness know it. Calm the people,
And be what you were born to: take your love,
And with her my repentance, all my wishes
And all my prayers. By the gods, my heart speaks this;
And if the least fall from me not performed,
May I be struck with thunder!
Phi. Mighty sir,
I will not do your greatness so much wrong,
As not to make your word truth. Free the princess
And the poor boy, and let me stand the shock
Of this mad sea-breach, which I'll either turn,
Or perish with it.
King. Let your own word free them.
Phi. Then thus I take my leave, kissing your hand,
And hanging on your royal word. Be kingly,
And be not moved, sir: I shall bring you peace
Or never bring myself back.
King. All the gods go with thee. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.—A Street.

Enter an old Captain and Citizens with PHARAMOND

Cap. Come, my brave myrmidons, let us fall on.
Let your caps swarm, my boys, and your nimble tongues
Forget your mother gibberish of "what do you lack,"
And set your mouths ope, children, till your palates
Fall frighted half a fathom past the cure
Of bay-salt and gross pepper, and then cry
"Philaster, brave Philaster!" Let Philaster
Be deeper in request, my ding-a-dings,
My pairs of dear indentures, kings of clubs,
Than your cold water-camlets, or your paintings
Spitted with copper. Let not your hasty silks,
Or your branched cloth of bodkin, or your tissues,
Dearly belovèd of spiced cake and custard,
Your Robin Hoods, Scarlets, and Johns, tie your affections
In darkness to your shops. No, dainty duckers
Up with your three-piled spirits, your wrought valours;
And let your uncut cholers make the King feel
The measure of your mightiness. Philaster!
Cry, my rose-nobles, cry!
All. Philaster! Philaster!
Cap. How do you like this, my lord-prince?
These are mad boys, I tell you; these are things
That will not strike their top-sails to a foist,
And let a man of war, an argosy,
Hull and cry cockles.
Pha. Why, you rude slave, do you know what you do?
Cap. My pretty prince of puppets, we do know;
And give your greatness warning that you talk
No more such bug's-words, or that soldered crown
Shall be scratched with a musket. Dear prince Pippin,
Down with your noble blood, or, as I live,
I'll have you coddled.—Let him loose, my spirits:
Make us a round ring with your bills, my Hectors,
And let us see what this trim man dares do.
Now, sir, have at you! here I lie;
And with this swashing blow (do you see, sweet prince?)
I could hock your grace, and hang you up cross-legged,
Like a hare at a poulter's, and do this with this wiper.
Pha. You will not see me murdered, wicked villains?
1st Cit. Yes, indeed, will we, sir; we have not seen one
For a great while.
Cap. He would have weapons, would he?
Give him a broadside, my brave boys, with your pikes;
Branch me his skin in flowers like a satin,
And between every flower a mortal cut.—
Your royalty shall ravel!—Jag him, gentlemen;
I'll have him cut to the kell, then down the seams.
O for a whip to make him galloon-laces!
I'll have a coach-whip.
Pha. Oh, spare me, gentlemen!
Cap. Hold, hold;
The man begins to fear and know himself;
He shall for this time only be seeled up,
With a feather through his nose, that he may only
See heaven, and think whither he is going. Nay,
Nay, my beyond-sea sir, we will proclaim you:
You would be king!
Thou tender heir apparent to a church-ale,
Thou slight prince of single sarcenet,
Thou royal ring-tail, fit to fly at nothing
But poor men's poultry, and have every boy
Beat thee from that too with his bread and butter!
Pha. Gods keep me from these hell-hounds!
1st Cit. Shall's geld him, captain?
Cap. No, you shall spare his dowcets, my dear donsels;
As you respect the ladies, let them flourish:
The curses of a longing woman kill
As speedy as a plague, boys.
1st Cit I'll have a leg, that's certain.
2nd Cit. I'll have an arm.
3rd Cit. I'll have his nose, and at mine own charge build
A college and clap it upon the gate.
4th Cit. I'll have his little gut to string a kit with:
For certainly a royal gut will sound like silver.
Pha. Would they were in thy belly, and I past
My pain once!
5th Cit. Good captain, let me have his liver to feed ferrets.
Cap. Who will have parcels else? speak.
Pha. Good gods, consider me! I shall be tortured.
1st Cit. Captain, I'll give you the trimming of your two-hand sword,
And let me have his skin to make false scabbards.
2nd Cit. He had no horns, sir, had he?
Cap. No, sir, he's a pollard:
What wouldst thou do with horns?
2nd Cit. Oh, if he had had,
I would have made rare hafts and whistles of 'em;
But his shin-bones, if they be sound, shall serve me.


All. Long live Philaster, the brave Prince Philaster!
Phi. I thank you, gentlemen. But why are these
Rude weapons brought abroad, to teach your hands
Uncivil trades?
Cap. My royal Rosicleer,
We are thy myrmidons, thy guard, thy roarers;
And when thy noble body is in durance,
Thus do we clap our musty murrions on,
And trace the streets in terror. Is it peace,
Thou Mars of men? is the King sociable,
And bids thee live? art thou above thy foemen,
And free as Phœbus? speak. If not, this stand
Of royal blood shall be abroach, a tilt,
And run even to the lees of honour.
Phi. Hold, and be satisfied: I am myself;
Free as my thoughts are: by the gods, I am!
Cap. Art thou the dainty darling of the King?
Art thou the Hylas to our Hercules?
Do the lords bow, and the regarded scarlets
Kiss their gummed golls, and cry "We are your servants?"
Is the court navigable, and the presence stuck
With flags of friendship? If not, we are thy castle,
And this man sleeps.
Phi. I am what I desire to be, your friend;
I am what I was born to be, your prince.
Pha. Sir, there is some humanity in you;
You have a noble soul: forget my name,
And know my misery: set me safe aboard
From these wild cannibals, and, as I live,
I'll quit this land for ever. There is nothing,—
Perpetual prisonment, cold, hunger, sickness
Of all sorts, of all dangers, and all together,
The worst company of the worst men, madness, age,
To be as many creatures as a woman,
And do as all they do, nay, to despair,—
But I would rather make it a new nature,
And live with all those, than endure one hour
Amongst these wild dogs.
Phi. I do pity you.—Friends, discharge your fears;
Deliver me the prince: I'll warrant you
I shall be old enough to find my safety.
3rd Cit. Good sir, take heed he does not hurt you;
He is a fierce man, I can tell you, sir.
Cap. Prince, by your leave, I'll have a surcingle,
And mail you like a hawk.
Phi. Away, away, there is no danger in him:
Alas, he had rather sleep to shake his fit off!
Look you, friends, how gently he leads! Upon my word,
He's tame enough, he needs no further watching.
Good my friends, go to your houses,
And by me have your pardons and my love;
And know there shall be nothing in my power
You may deserve, but you shall have your wishes:
To give you more thanks, were to flatter you.
Continue still your love; and, for an earnest,
Drink this. [Gives money.
All. Long mayst thou live, brave prince, brave prince, brave prince!
[Exeunt PHIL and PHAR.
Cap. Go thy ways, thou art the king of courtesy!
Fall off again, my sweet youths. Come,
And every man trace to his house again,
And hang his pewter up; then to the tavern,
And bring your wives in muffs. We will have music;
And the red grape shall make us dance and rise, boys.

SCENE V.—An Apartment in the Palace.

and Attendants.

King. Is it appeased?
Dion. Sir, all is quiet as this dead of night,
As peaceable as sleep. My lord Philaster
Brings on the prince himself.
King. Kind gentleman!
I will not break the least word I have given
In promise to him: I have heaped a world
Of grief upon his head, which yet I hope
To wash away.


Cle. My lord is come.
King. My son!
Blest be the time that I have leave to call
Such virtue mine! Now thou art in mine arms,
Methinks I have a salve unto my breast
For all the stings that dwell there. Streams of grief
That I have wronged three, and as much of joy
That I repent it, issue from mine eyes:
Let them appease thee. Take thy right; take her;
She is thy right too; and forget to urge
My vexèd soul with that I did before.
Phi. Sir, it is blotted from my memory,
Past and forgotten.—For you, prince of Spain,
Whom I have thus redeemed, you have full leave
To make an honourable voyage home.
And if you would go furnished to your realm
With fair provision, I do see a lady,
Methinks, would gladly bear you company:
How like you this piece?
Meg. Sir, he likes it well,
For he hath tried it, and hath found it worth
His princely liking. We were ta'en a-bed;
I know your meaning. I am not the first
That nature taught to seek a fellow forth;
Can shame remain perpetually in me,
And not in others? or have princes salves
To cure ill names, that meaner people want?
Phi. What mean you?
Meg. You must get another ship,
To bear the princess and her boy together.
Dion. How now!
Meg. Others took me, and I took her and him
At that all women may be ta'en some time:
Ship us all four, my lord; we can endure
Weather and wind alike.
King. Clear thou thyself, or know not me for father.
Are. This earth, how false it is! What means is left for me
To clear myself? It lies in your belief:
My lords, believe me; and let all things else
Struggle together to dishonour me.
Bel. Oh, stop your ears, great King, that I may speak
As freedom would! then I will call this lady
As base as are her actions: hear me, sir;
Believe your heated blood when it rebels
Against your reason, sooner than this lady.
Meg. By this good light, he bears it handsomely.
Phi. This lady! I will sooner trust the wind
With feathers, or the troubled sea with pearl,
Than her with any thing. Believe her not.
Why, think you, if I did believe her words,
I would outlive 'em? Honour cannot take
Revenge on you; then what were to be known
But death?
King. Forget her, sir, since all is knit
Between us. But I must request of you
One favour, and will sadly be denied.
Phi. Command, whate'er it be.
King. Swear to be true
To what you promise.
Phi. By the powers above,
Let it not be the death of her or him,
And it is granted!
King. Bear away that boy
To torture: I will have her cleared or burled.
Phi. Oh, let me call my word back, worthy sir!
Ask something else: bury my life and right
In one poor grave; but do not take away
My life and fame at once.
King. Away with him! It stands irrevocable.
Phi. Turn all your eyes on me: here stands a man,
The falsest and the basest of this world.
Set swords against this breast, some honest man,
For I have lived till I am pitied!
My former deeds were hateful but this last
Is pitiful, for I unwillingly
Have given the dear preserver of my life
Unto his torture. Is it in the power
Of flesh and blood to carry this, and live?
[Offers to stab himself.
Are. Dear sir, be patient yet! Oh, stay that hand!
King. Sirs, strip that boy.
Dion. Come, sir; your tender flesh
Will try your constancy.
Bel. Oh, kill me, gentlemen!
Dion. No.—Help, sirs.
Bel. Will you torture me?
King. Haste there;
Why stay you?
Bel. Then I shall not break my vow,
You know, just gods, though I discover all.
King. How's that? will he confess?
Dion. Sir, so he says.
King. Speak then.
Bel. Great King, if you command
This lord to talk with me alone, my tongue,
Urged by my heart, shall utter all the thoughts
My youth hath known; and stranger things than these
You hear not often.
King. Walk aside with him.
[DION and BELLARIO walk apart.
Dion. Why speak'st thou not?
Bel. Know you this face, my lord?
Dion. No.
Bel. Have you not seen it, nor the like?
Dion. Yes, I have seen the like, but readily
I know not where.
Bel. I have been often told
In court of one Euphrasia, a lady,
And daughter to you; betwixt whom and me
They that would flatter my bad face would swear
There was such strange resemblance, that we two
Could not be known asunder, drest alike.
Dion. By Heaven, and so there is!
Bel. For her fair sake,
Who now doth spend the spring-time of her life
In holy pilgrimage, move to the King,
That I may scape this torture.
Dion. But thou speak'st
As like Euphrasia as thou dost look.
How came it to thy knowledge that she lives
In pilgrimage?
Bel. I know it not, my lord;
But I have heard it, and do scarce believe it.
Dion. Oh, my shame! is it possible? Draw near,
That I may gaze upon thee. Art thou she,
Or else her murderer? where wert thou born?
Bel. In Syracusa.
Dion. What's thy name?
Bel. Euphrasia.
Dion. Oh, 'tis just, 'tis she!
Now I do know thee. Oh, that thou hadst died,
And I had never seen thee nor my shame!
How shall I own thee? shall this tongue of mine
E'er call thee daughter more?
Bel. Would I had died indeed! I wish it too:
And so I must have done by vow, ere published
What I have told, but that there was no means
To hide it longer. Yet I joy in this,
The princess is all clear.
King. What, have you done?
Dion. All is discovered.
Phi. Why then hold you me? [Offers to stab himself.
All is discovered! Pray you, let me go.
King. Stay him.
Are. What is discovered?
Dion. Why, my shame.
It is a woman: let her speak the rest.
Phi. How? that again!
Dion. It is a woman.
Phi. Blessed be you powers that favour innocence!
King. Lay hold upon that lady. [MEGRA is seized.
Phi. It is a woman, sir!—Hark, gentlemen,
It is a woman!—Arethusa, take
My soul into thy breast, that would be gone
With joy. It is a woman! Thou art fair,
And virtuous still to ages, in despite
Of malice.
King. Speak you, where lies his shame?
Bel. I am his daughter.
Phi. The gods are just.
Dion. I dare accuse none; but, before you two,
The virtue of our age, I bend my knee
For mercy. [Kneels
Phi. [raising him] Take it freely; for I know,
Though what thou didst were undiscreetly done,
'Twas meant well.
Are. And for me,
I have a power to pardon sins, as oft
As any man has power to wrong me.
Cle. Noble and worthy!
Phi. But, Bellario,
(For I must call thee still so,) tell me why
Thou didst conceal thy sex. It was a fault,
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
Of truth outweighed it: all these jealousies
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered
What now we know.
Bel. My father oft would speak
Your worth and virtue; and, as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so praised. But yet all this
Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost
As soon as found; till, sitting in my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought, (but it was you,) enter our gates:
My blood flew out and back again, as fast
As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in
Like breath: then was I called away in haste
To entertain you. Never was a man,
Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised
So high in thoughts as I: you left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever: I did hear you talk,
Far above singing. After you were gone.
I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched
What stirred it so: alas, I found it love!
Yet far from lust; for, could I but have lived
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed myself
In habit of a boy; and, for I knew
My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you; and, understanding well
That when I made discovery of my sex
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,
Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seemed, that I might ever
Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount,
Where first you took me up.
King. Search out a match
Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt,
And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself
Wilt well deserve him.
Bel. Never, sir, will I
Marry; it is a thing within my vow:
But, if I may have leave to serve the princess,
To see the virtues of her lord and her,
I shall have hope to live.
Are. I, Philaster,
Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady
Drest like a page to serve you; nor will I
Suspect her living here.—Come, live with me;
Live free as I do. She that loves my lord,
Cursed be the wife that hates her!
Phi. I grieve such virtue should be laid in earth
Without an heir.—Hear me, my royal father:
Wrong not the freedom of our souls so much,
To think to take revenge of that base woman;
Her malice cannot hurt us. Set her free
As she was born, saving from shame and sin.
King. Set her at liberty. But leave the court;
This is no place for such.—You, Pharamond,
Shall have free passage, and a conduct home
Worthy so great a prince. When you come there,
Remember 'twas your faults that lost you her,
And not my purposed will.
Pha. I do confess,
Renownèd sir.
King. Last, join your hands in one. Enjoy, Philaster,
This kingdom, which is yours, and, after me,
Whatever I call mine. My blessing on you!
All happy hours be at your marriage-joys,
That you may grow yourselves over all lands,
And live to see your plenteous branches spring
Wherever there is sun! Let princes learn
By this to rule the passions of their blood;
For what Heaven wills can never be withstood.


^1^ Anticipate.

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