 | Florien |  |
Scene I.
—Master Fuller's house. Fuller, Mary, and Tim, discovered. Fuller in his chair; Tim at his desk; Mary standing by the door, which opens on the street, looking out. 'Prentices and others without pass up and down, the 'Prentices crying, “What d'ye lack, what d'ye lack?”Mar.
No sign of Roy! Where is the truant gone?
Ful.
Tis a bad Roy, my child; a useless Roy,
As idle as the leaves in summer time,
Which sleep and nod the sunny hours away,
Until the grip of autumn dries them up,
And winter sweeps them from the face o' the earth.
So will it be with Roy—an idle lad,
Making and marring poetry all day,
And ever dreaming of his destinies,
And choicely carved in filagree and gold.
But all his work is air-drawn; mine is solid,
And makes a solid man of me. My Mary,
When the day comes, you shall be richly dowered;
Richer than half your noble ladies are,
Whose fathers wear their acres on their backs,
And starve for sake of show. Where's the lad Roy?
No signs of him again?
Mar.
No, father, none.
From early morning he has been abroad.
Ful.
Out on the puppy! He outstays my patience.
Had I not loved his dear dead father well,
And owed him my first rise, by this good hand
Which thrives upon the work so fairly learned,
I would not house this idler for a day.
Mar.
Have patience, father; he is fair and young,
And all his youth pleads warmly in his blood
For space and freedom. Be not hard with him,
But rather turn your anger upon me,
Who have not power to keep him at his desk,
As, maybe, I should have.
Ful.
On you, my girl!
My blessing and my crown; Look up at me!
You know I hoped— (aside)
Beshrew the stupid fool—
Has he no eyes to catch a spark of hers,
A jewel of their pattern!—Never mind:
The day must come when idleness will pall,
And we shall lure our runagate to anchor,
And lap him in a haven far too fair
For such a scapegrace and lack-courtesy.
I would I loved him not.
Mar.
I am glad you do,
For my sake, father; ay, and for his own,
For 'tis a loving boy.
Ful.
He loves his ease,
But little else enough. Look at this picture; (pointing to Tim)
There's work and worth at once!
Mar.
And wit withal?
Ful.
The less of that the better. Tim will be
Lord Mayor in course of time, and needs it not.
How stands the ledger? (to Tim)
Tim.
Master Fuller, well.
Ful.
That's right; stick well to work, 'twill stick to you.
I must go out. I have to take a chain
To the King's goldsmith, Heriot, and to hold
Some serious talk with him. And then the bracelet
For Mistress Florien—there's a masterpiece
Made for a masterpiece; or so they say,
Although I know her not. The talk of the town
Is Mistress Florien. Yes, I have much to do. (going)
You are not unhappy, darling?
Mar.
Father, no.
Ful.
Poor child—I— (aside)
Bah! her secrets in her eyes,
I must not pluck it out.—Why, look up, dear!
Good times will come, if heaven will send us faith.
Laugh as you used— (aside)
Roy Mallet is a fool!
(Exit)
Mar.
Laugh? Ah me! I'm in small mood for laughing.
Tim—
Tim.
Mistress Mary! I don't think I ought to be
interrupted just now. Seven and nine are sixteen,
and six are—
Mar.
Shut the book and talk to me.
Tim.
To you! Oh, Mistress Mary!
Mar.
What a sigh! Are the figures too much for thee?
Tim.
The figures? perhaps. There is always something
between me and them, which makes wild work
with the units and tens. Oh, Mistress Mary, why
havn't I Roy's luck? I wouldn't waste it as he does.
Mar.
Hush, Tim. You are forbidden to make love.
Tim.
At my age and with my fiery nature? You
might as well forbid the wind to whistle. Oh, Mary,
if you would only observe my proportions!
Mar.
Thou foolish boy! Thy fire burns too fiercely
talked much with thee of late?
Tim.
No. Something has changed him altogether.
He is absent—silent—thoughtful; and sighs at his
work instead of singing. It minds me of falling in
love.
Mar.
Ah!
Tim.
I know the symptoms from a child, while he
was the most careless of all the 'prentices of London.
Oh, Mistress Mary, can he be falling in love with you?
Mar.
Oh no; I am no magnet of that making.
Strange! What can have happened to him? Tim!
there he comes; how anxious and unlike himself he
looks.
Tim.
(aside)
My rival! Can he be my rival? And
shall I have to slay my dearest friend?
Enter Roy Mallet.
Mar.
Roy!
Roy.
Mary! Good morrow, child; what news at home?
Mar.
At home? was that the word? Call you this home?
Roy.
I never knew another, sister mine.
Mar.
Sister? Well, yes: the word is very sweet.
Roy.
Your father's house and heart have been my home,
Since first they took me, poor and orphaned, in:
And all the sunny memories of youth,
Grow side by side with yours.
Tim.
(aside)
How well he speaks!
Yet is my heart the bigger of the two,
And I am every inch the stouter man:
She has no eyes, that girl. Bah! five and five
Make twelve—and carry one!
Roy.
What work to-day?
Tim.
Not much of yours, I take it.
Roy.
Give me then
Something to do. My hand has cunning in't,
To fashion art into some living shape
Of quaint device to fit a lady's neck,
Or link her wrist in fetters for a queen.
What might such lady wear?
Mar.
What lady, Roy?
Has some such model sate for the design
In the mind's wakeful eye?
Roy.
And if it had,
What then would Mary say?
Mar.
Bid thee God speed;
And wish your hand much cunning for your fortunes,
That they may grow by it. A sister, Roy,
Has her own privilege. Sit here and work
Upon this bar of gold, and I by you,
And you shall talk to me.
(taking up the gold)
Good carat's weight:
And pure as when it sparkled in the sand
Beneath the nursing streamlet's fostering care.
Yes, I might work on this and weave a chain,
Companion to the bracelet, rare and rich,
Left with the Master but the other day:
Do you remember?
Mar.
I have seen it, Roy;
But did not see it left.
Tim.
I did; and marked
The face of her that left it. Oh, my heart
Hammered an anvil-march upon my ribs
Three good days afterwards. That was a beauty
Worthy a 'prentice eye.
Mar.
(to Roy)
You saw her too?
Roy.
I saw her too! a princess to the core,
Surely a princess! with a winsome grace,
None but herself can wear—an eye of light,
That danced a measure full of merriment,
Which did infect the very lips of her
With half-a-hundred smiles, that in and out
About the arching mouth played hide-and-seek,
Vanished or e'er the gazer's greedy eye
Could fix them to a memory! But her voice
Lives with me as she spoke, and spoke to me!
Oh, Mary, am I mad with vanity?
Or when the dainty lady stepped away,
Which seemed to say—you please me, and remember?
Mar.
Then have you seen her since?
Roy.
Yes: but unseen.
Mar.
What is she, Roy?
Roy.
I know not.
Mar.
Oh, take care!
These noble ladies are not of our mould,
And only mock at us.
Roy.
But is she noble?
Her name is Mistress Florien; 'twas the name
Left with the bracelet. Who can tell me more
Of Mistress Florien?
Enter Lord Kilrose.
Kil.
That can I, young sir;
For I am here from her.
Roy.
From her—to me?
Kil.
To you! Ha, ha! these city sprigs are green
With the true budding colour. No, fair youth:
Though I am gracious Florien's messenger,
I am no go-between 'twixt hall and counter,
Nor carry salt for sparrows. Soar, young man,
High as Dick Whittington, but soar no higher.
(to Roy)
I do believe he is insulting us!
Did I but wear my sword!
Roy.
(to Tim)
You'd put it up.
The man is in the fashion. What is trade
But a fair mark for mocking?—What d'ye lack?
Kil.
Something of your assurance. Why, my lad,
Where saw you Florien, that you think her eyes
Should drop a glance your way?
Roy.
I did not say so.
Kil.
I cry you mercy then! And by my troth
There's metal here should make you sing for it,
Nor tune your pipe abroad. (to Mary)
Fair maid, your pardon:
I did not see you.
Tim.
(to Roy)
Roy! he's making love.
Roy.
(to Tim)
Bah! courtly compliment.
Mar.
I pray you, sir,
Your name and quality? What is your need?
Kil.
A bracelet is my errand. For the rest,
My name is Lord Kilrose; my quality
Is Mistress Florien's servant to command;
Her knight and cavalier, who throw my glove
For any to take up who dares deny
Her claim to spring of Aphrodite's stock,
In lineage direct and unimpaired.
Mar.
(aside)
Must I then hear this siren's praises sung,
Who is this Florien, that you speak of her
As if she were a goddess?
Roy.
So she is!
Or else mine eyes played false with me indeed,
When first they lit on her.
Kil.
Ay—are you there?
I thought the flame that burns up braver stuff
Had singed your city-jerkin! Good my boy,
We blaze in company, for half the town
Is mad for Florien; Florien leads the dance,
And holds her court at masque and festival,
As our good Queen herself, Heaven rest her soul,
Erewhile was wont to do. Round Florien's throne,
Fashioned in ivory of the gamester's die,
Her loyal lieges gather to a man,
And hold pretenders at a kiss's length
To distance rivalry! Old Father Thames
She rides in beauty on her gallant barge,
As Cleopatra rode the streams of old;
With merry music for her lullaby,
With silver ripples chiming to her laugh,
And flowers to peep out of the mossy bank
To gaze upon her, and to close their buds
To pay for peeping, as in Coventry
A certain overbold young 'prentice paid
For spying on Godiva! What she is,
Nor whence or where she flashed upon the world,
Like some bright spirit sent from fairyland!
We add our gauds and jewels to the store
Which swells the wealth her happy fortune claims,
Of every hazard! why it grows for her,
As violets and cowslips grow for the earth,
Without the care of planting! Oh, ye Gods,
Give me the luck to live in Florien's eye,
To find my life-draught upon Florien's lip,
And draw my latest sigh from Florien's breath,
Dying in perfume!
Tim.
(aside)
Oh, ancestral guilds
Of all the 'prentices, what a picture's here!
It is too much for me: am I not born
To play arithmetic with some fair dame,
And so to add the earliest cipher up,
That one and one make one?
Roy.
My Lord Kilrose,
The lady of your lay is richly dressed
In your fond fancy. But one light is wanting
Upon the painting's face. The master-brush
Which knits such beauties in harmonious whole,
Crowns all—with love. You have not painted that,
Save in the painter.
Kil.
You are quick, young man,
Plays round the name of love as plays a child
About an untried danger—Mystery-born,
To man as maiden as the virgin-moon,
Our fair unknown charms votaries to her lure,
By taking every heart, but giving—none;
Moving among the glowing altars round
Like jugglers in the sword-dance, free of harm;
She is as coldly nursed as the Alpine rose,
And blooms in winter snow. Who wins her love
Wins a new battle on unconquered soil,
And goes in triumph home. Could I but do it,
I'd change my laced cloak for your sad attire,
And wear it like a bridegroom.
Roy.
(aside)
Even as that;
What sudden daring fires my 'wildering thought,
And lights it to the onset?
Mar.
(aside)
All is ill
About my heart. Some omen's in the air.
Tim.
(aside)
Oh love! oh love! add twenty to eighteen,
And what's the consequence?
Kil.
But now—the bracelet,
Which I was bid to ask for?
Mar.
Good my lord,
Wait but a day for it: to-morrow morn
And bring it carefully.
Kil.
Ay, have a care!
For there are thieves abroad. The other night
They sacked my villa by the river-side,
And gold and plate paid duty in my name,
Which I would leave unpaid. The country-side,
Ay, and the town to boot, are growing tired
Of Rufus Hardy. Let me meet the man,
Whose highway-conquests take a Cæsar's shape,
And we shall reckon. Now—young gentlemen,
Will some one guide me to the river-stairs?
I wait on Florien there.
Mar.
(as Roy steps forward)
My lord, let me.
Kil.
You, pretty one?
Mar.
Myself: I am that way bound.
Roy.
Mary! This is no woman's duty, sir.
I am your servant.
Kil.
Pardon me, young man;
A woman answers for herself the best;
And never yet Kilrose refused a guidance
So fairly proffered in so fair a shape.
Sweet maid, I follow where you lead.—Good-day!
Mar.
Stay, Roy, and work; for there is much to do,
And you have underpaid my father's pains.
Wait for me but awhile. My lord—this way.
(Exeunt Kilrose and Mary)
To wait on Florien at the river-stairs!
If I should follow?
Tim.
Roy!
Roy.
What is it, lad?
Tim.
I do begin to perceive, Roy, that you are
very much in love.
Roy.
Oh, quick intelligence! With so passed a
master in the art at hand as thou, good Timothy, how
could I fail to learn?
Tim.
True. I am of a loving nature and amorous.
I am as yet uncertain as to the precise object, and
where to pay my vows.
Roy.
What think you of the tailor's daughter,
Mistress Shears? She will have his goose to her
dowry, and might be in the mood to be wooed.
Tim.
I think very poorly of her, as coming of a
trade that lacks eight parts of manhood. The
armourer's niece might serve my turn better.
Roy.
She has about twice thine inches, which might
help thy warlike nature at a pinch. Hast spoken
with her then?
Tim.
With the eyes, Roy, with the eyes; my most
expressive organ. And yet—
Roy.
Well, comrade?
Tim.
If I fixed me nearer home?
Roy.
Eh?
Oh, Mary! You're not in love with Mary, are
you?
Roy.
With Mary Fuller? with my little sister?
Nay, faith: that were no brother's privilege. Art
serious, Tim?
Tim.
Very. For I do perceive that I adore her
distractedly.
Roy.
Ah! Then good luck go with thee, mate. It
is an honest heart of thine and an honest one of hers,
and Heaven makes no better pair to run in a curricle.
What has she to say to you?
Tim.
Very little; but what she does say is beautiful.
Could I but find some doughty feat of arms to
perform for her, my cause would be the better
pleaded.
Roy.
Ever a fire-eater! Go and challenge some one.
Go forth in the name of Honesty, and bring home
Rufus Hardy the highwayman to Tyburn, alive or
dead.
Tim.
Say you so? You are on the very track of
my thought. When that lace-and-sword noble spoke
of him just now, my heart leaped into my throat.
Roy.
(laughing)
With fear?
Tim.
No—valour! Listen, Roy. Have you heard
of the 'prentices' friend, the brave Captain Magnus?
Roy.
No, faith. What's he?
Tim.
A free-lance—a soldier—a gallant fellow!
with the aid of the 'prentices of London.
Roy.
Indeed!
Tim.
I have but now learned of it. This night a
choice band of 'prentices meet with him to concert
measures for the public safety, at Abraham's tavern
in Whitehall.
Roy.
And you are of them, buckler of the city?
Tim.
I am to be enrolled to-night. I am a Lieutenant
in Magnus's irregulars!
Roy.
No? What says Master Fuller?
Tim.
He knows not of it. Hush! at evening we go
forth, furnished to a man with quarter-staves. Will
you come?
Roy.
Not I. Rufus Hardy and I may live and let
live; and with such lieutenants as you to back him,
Captain Magnus may shift to do without me. Heaven
speed thy valour and thy wooing, Tim!
Enter Dolly Partlett.
Dol.
Young gentlemen, your pardon.
Roy.
Who is this?
Tim.
An angel! an absolute angel!
Roy.
Well said, fidelity! I have seen the face before.
What, Dolly Partlett?
Tim.
The daughter of our neighbour the mercer,
Dolly Partlett!
Dol.
The same, young 'prentices. Good day to you,
Though you have better memories than I.
Your city faces are but strange to me,
For that I move in better company,
And herd with nobles.
Tim.
'Tis most fit you should.
I do not know the court that's worthy you.
Roy.
Why, by the neighbouring alley there's a court,
Which she was born and bred in. By my faith,
It rains nobility. How shall we give
Your ladyship fit welcome?
Tim.
Take this chair:
'Twill rest you well.
Dol.
Thank you: I need the rest
For I am heated with my embassage,
Lord! Lord! how rude the city people are,
And how they stare and jostle.
Tim.
For the first
They might be pardoned in a case like this.
Oh, say you don't forget me!
Dol.
Let me see:
Are you Roy Mallet?
Roy.
Please your grace, 'tis I
Who answer to that name.
Dol.
A pretty fellow,
Young man, so please you but to stand apart,
And commune with the ledger.
Tim.
Beautiful!
If I might kiss your hand?
Dol.
So soon? You may—
But not above the finger-tips!
Tim.
(kissing her hand and retiring)
What nectar!
Sweet seventeen to add!
Roy.
And now—your pleasure?
Dol.
You are Roy Mallet?
Roy.
They do tell me so.
Dol.
Have you the eyes to see, the heart to feel,
The ear to listen to a lady's voice,
The hand to do her bidding, and the tongue
To hold at her discretion?
Roy.
What a promise
Lies in the words!—Can it—I am a fool.
I am no ranger, Dolly.
Dol.
My old friend,
Be not too hasty. Have you quite forgot
A face that looked on you the other day?
Few people do forget it.
Roy.
More! I pray you,
Tell me but more!
Dol.
Ay, ay! are you that way?
To Master Mallet, these with speed!
Roy.
A note!
Oh, give it me at once!
Dol.
(giving the letter)
Read, then, and mark.
Roy.
(reading)
“If you would look again on one
who has looked on you with eyes of favour, come this
summer evening to the 'prentices' meeting at Abraham's
tavern, which opens on the Whitehall stairs.
You shall see—whom you shall. And, for the first
proof that you are worthy, tear this rash writing
before my messenger.”—Florien.
(Roy kisses the letter)
Dol.
Call you that tearing?
Roy.
First let me take in
The words into mine eyes, that they may live there,
And give them keener sight. Tread I on air?
—To man as maiden as the virgin-moon—
Was it not that he said of her, that Lord?
Oh, has the world grown brighter in an hour,
And filled with melody?—For the first proof:—
I have thee now by heart, thou tiny scroll,
Writ with a diamond pen! and so, farewell! (tearing the letter)
I yield thee up to Memory!
Dol.
'Tis well done!
And you will come?
Tim, I am with you!
Tim.
Where?
Roy.
For Abraham's tavern!
Tim.
Ha! well said! (to Dolly)
Have you
Wrought such a miracle?
Dol.
We women hold
The power to work them.
Tim.
Ah, you do indeed!
Roy.
'Tis close upon the hour.
Dol.
And if you will,
You two shall be my guardians on the road,
Which lies that way.
Tim.
Give me that office now,
And I am yours for ever!
Roy.
Time runs on,
Yet lags in running. We are ready. Come!
(Exeunt)
| Florien | |