University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—The Front of the Queen's Arms.
Enter Peter from the Inn, singing.
A white gown and girdle,
A knot of the same;
And come to our wedding,
Both damsel and dame!

Peter.

A charming day! A most pleasant day! and pleasant
and charming work too—work fit for such a day! Right excellent
work! Wedding and feasting! The feasting for me;
the wedding for them that like it. For mine own part, holding
the sex to be a provocative to wrath, which is sin, I'd sooner
hang than wed! But for the feasting—there I'm your man!
Roast, boiled, or fried, was never the dish that couldn't warrant
me the smoothest-temper'd fellow in Christendom—with
the special provision that there was enough on't. I wouldn't
say as much of a cup, for a cup is a thing that a man of very
oil and sugar will sometimes quarrel over; but, from ale to
sack, I defy any man living to say he ever saw me quarrel with
my cup—barring the liquor was bad, or the cup empty. If
I'm not the man for a feast, then never man sat down to one.
I could feast it you seven days out of the week, and let him
that can, do more. Nay, were there eight days in the week,
and the week nothing the longer, I could feast it to the eighth
day too. So the good cheer sha'n't lag for me.

[Sings.

I'll give them a song. Marry, that can I, when I am tuned
to the pitch. I'm none of your sober singers—your trollers
of long-winded ballads with a burden to them. I hate your
burdens! To be outsung by every knave that has three notes
upon his voice. I like to sing alone; but then it must be
when the liquor has tuned me to the pitch. Your liquor's a
marvellous fine master of singing. When I'm tuned to the
pitch, I'd like you to show me the man that can sing better, or
the song that's too many for me. Nay, though I know not the
air, I'll put one to it. I'll sing them a song—none of your
ditties, such as my old master used to grumble.

Enter Old Small as off a Journey.
Old S.
I thank thee, fortune! Kind art thou to me!
He's here! He's here! Why, who should sing that strain
If not the varlet knave he took with him?
That can't be he!

Peter.
[Aside.]
My master's father here!

Old S.
Good sir,—

Peter.
[Aside.]
All's right. He knows me not.

Old S.
I pray,
Heard you a strain just now?

Peter.

I know not what you call a strain. I heard a varlet
trying to play a tune upon his nose, which I could have pulled
for him, 'twas so villanously ill done. If you call that a strain,
let never man sing a strain to me! I know when I hear a
strain. In a strain there is measure of time, which is the main
part of it; measure of tune, which is no indifferent part of it;
and measure of voice, which, though it rank not with either of
the former, is yet allowed to be a part: but here was neither
measure of time, tune, nor voice, but measure enough of the
lack of them. If playing a tune upon the nose be a strain,
why then I heard a strain just now; but whip me if I'd stand
to hear such strain again.

Old S.

This could never be he.

Peter.
[Aside.]

He eyes me hard.

Old S.

One question more, good sir. What kind of man
was he you heard sing?

Peter.

What! your nose-tuner? Why, a tolerable sufficient
man—nay, a very sufficient man; say he had the dress of one.

Old S.

How was he dressed, I pray you?

Peter.

Marry, with cap, jerkin, hose, and shoes; but the cap
was out at the crown, the jerkin was out at the elbows, the
hose were out all over; and as for the shoes, it would tax a
conjurer to find out why he wore them, for the uppers were
the most that remained of them, and they were out at the toes.
Shirt had he none, or he showed it not; doublet had he ever,
his jerkin must have eaten it up; for it was a most incontinent
one—a devourer of all kinds of cloth—coarse, middle, fine, and
superfine! and of all colours, a superlative sample of patchwork,
a very nosegay of a jerkin, saving the odour on't. If he
was a gentleman, he was a gentleman in jest; if he was a beggar,
he was a beggar in earnest. Service he could never have
had; for bowels of flesh and blood could not have committed
it, to put a human body into such rat's livery.

Old S.

My scarecrow Peter, to a certainty.

Enter Young Small from the Inn.
Peter.

My master! In, sir! in!

Young S.

Why, what's the matter?

Old S.
[To Peter.]

Worthy sir,—

Peter.

Anon—

Young S.

My father!

Peter.

Fear not,—Knows he not 'tis I.

Young S.

Nay, if he finds us out, my fortune's ruined!

Peter.

Stay! and I'll rid you of him in a trice.

Old S.

Pray you, what gentleman is that?

Peter.

Gentleman! Ne'er saw you a lord before?

Old S.

Is he a lord?

Peter.

Is he a lord!—Look at him! Is he not a lord? Not
your lord mayor, forsooth—a lord to-day, a master to-morrow;
but an every-day lord—a lord, and no thanks to you; nay, an
he halt at the third hob-nail, yet shall he be a lord. Avoid
him, or carry your cap in your hand. He takes measure of
state upon him. If you take the wall of him, you may chance
to take from the wall to the stocks. It happened no later than
yesterday; though, truth to say, the youth was a forward one—
one of your care-for-noughts from the city—a fellow that would
hector it like a prince, though, six days out of the seven, I
warrant you, his father wipes his beard with an apron.

Old S.

What! put he him in the stocks?

Peter.

Ay did he; and from the stocks into prison, whence
if he be not transferred to the gallows, he has more luck than
grace.

Old S.

How angered he the lord, I pray you?

Peter.

Marry, as I said, he took the wall of him; whereat
the lord commended the wall to his head; which he not relishing,
commended his hand to the lord's cheek; who thereupon
commended his body to the stocks, and thence to the prison;
whence, when he is delivered, 'twill be upon a release in full,
signed by the sheriff, and executed by the hangman—for he is
a great lord.

Old S.

Alack! so it should seem, sir!—Know you, sir, the
name of the youth?

Peter.

I heard it, but have forgotten it, and yet have I
a memory; but 'twas a very patch of a name. One good
substantial name would make three such. 'Twas something
like Sprat—or—

Old S.

'Twasn't Small?

Peter.

Small was the name!

Old S.

Alack, sir, 'tis my son!

Peter.

Thy son!—Avoid!—Avoid! Safety for thee lies
hence—here, danger! Shares he thy blood, and shalt thou
not share his punishment? Would he have transgressed but
for thee, who but for thee had never lived to transgress?
Shall he on whom treason is fathered hang, and the father
of the traitor go free? Avoid, I say! Begone! Fine
awaits thee! Imprisonment awaits thee! A halter awaits
thee!

Old S.
Might I but have speech
Of that fair lord? Good sir, hast thou his ear?
Look, here are twenty pieces,—speak for me,
And call them thine!

Peter.
'Twould nought avail!

Old S.
Good sir,
I'll make the twenty thirty! Take them, sir!
Good thirty pieces only for a word!
Come, then, I'll make the thirty forty! What!
Won't that suffice? What will, then? Sir, you see
A poor old man that has an only son.
Whom he, in evil hour, let go from him,
Thinking that he could live without him, till
The task he tried, but found too hard a one!
Then choice had none except to follow him,
Or stay at home and die! and here is come
To Romford all the way from London, sir,—
On foot, sir!—Take the forty pieces, sir!—
Nay, then, take fifty!—sixty!—all I have!
And only speak a good word for my son.

Young S.
Peter, thou'st spoil'd it all! Ne'er heed! ne'er heed!
Thy son is not to hang.

[Speaking with his back towards Old S.
Old S.
O thanks for that!
But he's in prison. Ope the door for him,
Although to close't on me! I'll take his place:
Perhaps, of right, I should. I held the lash
And rein—If he's refractory or rash,
Why is he so, but that I used them not?
He better were, had he been better train'd—
That he's not so, his training bear the blame.
That lies with me. Yet was my fault my love—
My too fond love!—so fond, it could not see
How duty could be harsh and yet be kind.

Young S.
Father!

Old S.
How!—What!—My son! Ah, Thomas, Thomas,
To pass thee on thy father for a lord!
And who is this? Thou varlet—knave—rank knave!

[To Peter.
Young S.
Nay, father, well 'twas meant! Thou comest here
To see great things.

Old S.
Is this a sample of them?
What kind of jerkin's that for thee to wear?
'Twould suit a lord! And trunks to match withal,
And doublet! Board and lodging for a life
Thou carri'st on thy back! A cap and plume!
Why, for what cobwebs, Thomas, hast thou changed
Thy father's heavy crowns! What's that I see?
Wear'st thou a rapier too! The end of time
Is come! And thou, thou ape—for nothing good
But tricks! Thou mischief! Evil ne'er at rest!
For whom the hide were clothing good enough!
Are these my savings that so shine on thee?
The which to keep, thy master's back more oft
Went lacking, than provided! Cap and plume
For thee!—A halter for thee!—Sirrah! I'll to town
Again. No hope! No help! Discomfort all!
Care lost! Love wasted! Thomas, fare thee well!
I shake thy hand, in bitterness, I do!
I'll strive to live without thee!—To what use?
I tried, and couldn't do't.

[Falls on his neck.
Young S.
Take not on so!
Or I'll take on. In sooth I will! I'm not
A stone—a lump of flint—a piece of steel.
Let our apparel pass—or note it but
For joy!—for very joy! Thou hast a son
That's born to fortune!—to high fortune! Know,
To-day's my wedding day!

Old S.
Thy wedding day!

Young S.
My wedding day.

Old S.
And who's to be thy bride?

Young S.
A lady.

Old S.
How! Why, wherewithal hast thou
To keep a lady?

Young S.
Keep a lady! No;
Sufficient 'tis, methinks, I marry her.
My lady shall keep me. How say you now!
My lady's blood! She's one that comes of kin—
That looks for lands and coffers—that is heir
To titles! Wonder not though thou shouldst have
A baron to thy grandson! Close accounts,
And shut up shop!

Old S.
I'm all amaze! I'd like
To see thy bride.

Young S.
Thou shalt, but not to speak—
For, though thy son for gentle state was born,
Who looks on thee, saw he a counter e'er,
Bethinks him of a shop; so mightst thou mar
My fortune.

Old S.
Knows she not thy father's calling?
Thomas! nought prospers like plain-dealing, son!
But make thy fortune thy own way—thou ne'er
Wouldst follow mine!

Young S.
Content thee, father, that
My fortune's made! E'en follow us to church;
But not a word until the knot be tied,
And I be fast and sure a gentleman!
Hoa, Kate! Sweet Kate! E'er saw you lady, father?
You now shall look on one! The form of lady,
The air of lady—face of lady—yea
The eyes, nose, mouth, and cheeks of lady. Kate!
Come forth, my bride!

Kate.
[Coming to the door.]
Who calls?

Young S.
Your bridegroom, Kate.
To church! to church!

Kate.
Before my bridemaid comes!

Young S.
Thy bridemaid, Kate, is not to marry thee,
But I, and I am here! so loiter not,
The sexton's part is done—the doors are oped!
The clerk is ready with his horn and pen;
The parson's gown'd, and standing by the book;
The merry bells are on the watch to ring—
There want but thee and me; so come to church!

Kate.
Without a bridemaid, I should be ashamed!

Young S.
How delicate! Your bridemaid yonder comes;
So come, my lady Kate!

Kate.
Heigho!

Young S.
How sweet!
Lean on me, Kate.

Kate.
I fear to take thy arm.

Young S.
How elegant! Nay, Kate—

Kate.
But if I must—

Young S.
How like a lady doth she carry her
In all things! Bear up, Kate; Take courage, Kate!
Come on! Now warrant me a gentleman!

[They go out.
Music without.—Enter Wilford and Belmont.
Wilf.
Love plies the rack on which itself is stretch'd!
Tell it of solace, and 'twill talk of pain,
Which 'tis its piteous profit to augment!
So far unlike, love's merchant is to him
That trades for pelf. He hears his venture's sunk,
And cries, “'Tis gone!”—tries to forget his loss—
Hoists up fresh hope, and launches other freight.
No other freight for him that trades in love!
His venture haply founder'd—no new hope;—
His dreamy day of speculation's done!
His breast hath room for nothing, but the thought
How many fathom deep his treasure lies!
He has no use for life, except to make
Its cheek a feast for comfortless despair;
Nor ever smiles again, except to see
How fast it wastes away!

Bel.
The lover's tune!

Wilf.
They come to carry her to church! To own
The happy hand she'll take to lead her there,
Would I forego the clasp of Fortune's own,
And all her gifts of rank and wealth refund!

Bel.
Yet gave she these in kindness. By their means
Your love might prosper yet. What need you do,
But doff this sordid guise, appear yourself,
And ask and have her?

Wilf.
No! not even her
For their deserts!—Myself! What's of myself
That is not here? Call I the prouder suit
I should put on—myself? Call I my title,
No merit of mine own achieved—myself?
They're nought of me but what a knave might wear
As well as I! My ardent soul's myself!—
My heart, too proud to be in fortune's debt,
Where worth, alone, should win—myself! My mind
That its chief store by nature's riches sets
With this its vassal case, such as it is—
Myself!—The only self I'd use or thank
To win me love or friend! So end my part
What it began! I'll look once more upon her!

[Retires with Belmont.
Enter Ralph and Hostess, meeting.
Hostess.
Ralph, where's thy bride?

Ralph.
She's in her chamber still.

Hostess.
Then bring her forth.

Ralph.
She will not come for me.

Hostess.
For what
Delays she thus? Her bonnet's trimm'd—Her coif
She has—I sent her in her wedding-gown
An hour ago, I'm certain 'twas a fit!
I'll fetch her forth myself.

[Enters the house.
Enter Young Small and Kate, followed by Old Small and Peter.
Young S.
Joy! Give me joy!

Ralph.
How, sir;—so soon at church! The knotting done!

Young S.
E'en so, good master Ralph!—Father, my bride—

Kate.
Thy father!

Young S.
Even so, my pretty Kate!
The father of thy Thomas! Let him know
From thy own tongue—nor him, alone, but all men,
The kind of wife his Thomas, whom he thought
A fool—an ass—a ne'er-do-well—hath won.

Kate.
And thought thy father ever thus of thee?

Young S.
No matter what he thought! Convince him, Kate,
What now, and ever hence, behoves him think.
Father and friends, my wife. Now, Kate, disclose
Thy kin, my Kate—thy kin, my lady Kate?

Kate.
Anan?

Young S.
Anan! Thy kin?

Kate.
Anan?

Young S.
Thy kin?
Thy house? thy family? thy pedigree?

Kate.
Anan?

Young S.
Anan again!
Whence drawest thou thy noble blood, my Kate?
How comest it to thee? Is it by the male
Or female side? The lands thou'rt heiress to—
The titles that shall fall to thee?—In right
Of whom expectest them?

Enter Strap, half tipsy.
Strap.
Fine doings here!
A wedding! So!—I'll thank you for a knot
For honest master Strap.

Young S.
Peace, fellow!—Peace!
The knotting's done.

Strap.
O then the bride's a wife.
No doubt, good sirs, you've all had kisses round;
So now my turn is come. Sir, by your leave!

Young S.
Out, knave! Thou art full of ale.

Strap.
A lucky day
For thee, when thou art full of aught so good!
I say I'll have a kiss.

Young S.
What art thou?

Strap.
What?
A cobbler.

Young S.
What!—A fellow kiss my wife,
That is not master even of a craft!

Strap.
That shows thy wisdom! Cobbling is the chief
Of crafts.

Young S.
The chief!—You hear him, masters! Chief
Of crafts—I question if the half of one!—
Yea, third of one! A cordiner's a craft;
He makes the shoe, the cobbler only mends,
And so's no better than a patch, a botch,
A nail, a tack, a stitch—A cobbler!—What!
A cobbler kiss my wife!—an awl—a piece
Of wax and packthread—and the bristle of
A hog—and there's a cobbler! Hark thee, Kate?
Couldst bear of such a lout to take a kiss?
No! never common gentlewoman could!
Far less, a dame of title, and by birth.

Strap.
Young man, a sober word or two with thee:
Thou'rt drunk, or mad—or both—Thou knowest not
What cobbling is! 'Tis part of every trade,
And the chief part,—No trade but hath its cobbler.
Your law hath cobblers, your divinity,
Your surgery, your physic. There are cobblers
In merchandise and war. Who does not know
What cobblers are there 'mongst your politicians?
If that should be a craft which is most follow'd,
Then cobbling is a craft—Ay, chief of crafts.

Young S.
Well hast thou argued it! yet provest thou not
Thy right to kiss my bride?

Strap.
Of new-made bride
'Tis right of any one to take a kiss;
So prithee stand aside.—Nay, wilt thou not,
Thou'lt learn, belongs he to a trade or not,
A cobbler is a man! But no—no broil
Upon a wedding-day. That were not like
A cobbler! Come—a bargain, sir—I'll leave it
To your lady.

Young S.
Gives she leave, you're welcome, sir—
Small likelihood of that!

Strap.
Fair lady!—what!
Slut! hussy! vixen! wanton! cockatrice!

Young S.
How, knave?

Strap.
Knave!—She's the knave! Prevent me not.
I'll call her what I list, sir—What I list
I'll do to her. [Embraces her.]
Make rosin of her!—pack-thread!
Nail her unto a last, for bridegroom!—Take
Strap, hammer, pincers to her!—turn her
Into thongs and shoe-strings!—Wherefore should I not,
That am her father!

Young S.
What?

Strap.
O run-away!
Oh, vixen! mad-cap! Oh, my daughter, Kate,
And have I found thee?

Kate.
Father, I'm married—
And married unto a gentleman!

Strap.
[Seeing Old Small.]
Odzooks!
Good master Small!—Factor of minikins
And corking-pins—of pins of all degrees!—
Hearing that thou hadst traced thy thriftless child
To Romford here, and having lost my own,
Good fortune put it in my crazy pate
To follow thee,—and lo! what speed I've come!
My daughter's found—and doubly found!—She says
She's married to a gentleman!—Hast found
Thy son?

Old S.
Yes, master Strap, he's there.

Strap.
This he!
So, sirrah! jackanapes! And have I craved
Thy leave to kiss thy bride? Scorn'st thou me now?
And if thou dost, thou art my son-in-law—
Yea, thou art married to a cobbler's daughter.
But what of that? If not a gentleman,
A cobbler is the king of jolly fellows!

Ralph.
Kate! shall I now doff cap unto thy spouse?

Kate.
Yes; if thou dost what fits thee, best, to do.

Ralph.
Thy gentleman hath dwindled to a pin!

Kate.
A pin that's worth a bush of thorns, like thee!

Ralph.
Give you much joy, good sir! You've wed your match;
Who doubts it, let him!—I will swear thy bride
A lady—much as thou'rt a gentleman!
Nay, frown not—

[Good-humouredly.
Young S.
Frown! who ever saw me frown?
I have lost all day at loggats, and I'd thank
The man, could say, he ever saw me frown!
Come, Kate!—Come, fathers both.

Kate.
Wilt take me, sir?

Young S.
Take thee! Have I not taken thee? I will—
And keep thee too, so thou wilt let me, Kate.

[Young Small, Kate, Old Small, Strap, and Peter retire.
Enter Hostess from house.
Hostess.
I vow the girl's bewilder'd! “Yes” and “no,”
And “no” and “yes,” are all you get from her!
Nor, yet, will she come forth.—Is that her step?
It is. She comes.
Enter Bess, dressed as the Beggar's Daughter.
Why, Bess, are you not dress'd?
In trim like that went ever bride to church?

Ralph.
Trim good enough for me. Come then, my bride;
Come, pretty Bess! Your hand to go to church!

Bess.
I go not, sir, a bride, to church with you.

Wilf.
[Aside.]
Hope, hearty friend! art thou come back to me!
I see thee, yet can scarce believe I do,
So sure I thought we had for ever parted!
Welcome, O welcome!

Hostess.
Gavest thou not consent
To marry Ralph?

Bess.
Consent I could not give!
Your heart imagined, only, what it wish'd,
In single, earnest generosity!
The hand he covets, others' rights demand
Disposal of—I have parents.

Ralph.
Where are they?

Bess.
Alas! I know not; but I go to seek them!

Ralph.
Who are thy parents then, my pretty Bess?
Tell me, sweet Bess?

Hostess.
Sweet Bess, thy father's name?

Ralph.
What is thy father?

Bess.
The Blind Beggar, sir,
Of Bethnal Green.

Young S.
You see I might have wed
A beggar, father. Give me praise for that,
My Kate, a kiss! Come to our wedding cheer!

[Young Small, Kate, Old Small, Strap, and Peter go out.
Ralph.
Sweet Bess, hadst thou for father, craftsman low
As low can be, I should be well content
To call him father, too; a beggar, though,
Is father none for me.

[Ralph goes out.
Hostess.
Hold up thy head,
My pretty Bess! Thou'rt bride too good for him!
Above his mark! Shame on them! shame! I would
I knew the man were worth thee, Bess.

Wilf.
What kind
Of man were he?

Hostess.
Why, likely, such as thou,
For looks!—Though I've seen better.—Met we not
Before?—'Amercy!—Yesternight we did,
When thou wast raving of knells, and wedding-bells!
For love of Bess! Art now in raving mood?
Or have thy wits, last night, a roaming gone,
Return'd with this fair morning? Come, confess,
Thou'rt brother to my son!

Wilf.
Of none, good dame,
Who slight that maid!

Hostess.
What! wouldst thou take her, then?

Wilf.
Not take her, dame!

Hostess.
I knew't.

Wilf.
You're over quick!
You stop my speech, nor know the way 'twould run!

Hostess.
'Twould run? It runs, I wot, no other way
Than that of half thy sex, when they find out
A woman's dower's herself!

Wilf.
You wrong me, dame!

Hostess.
Why, said you not you would not take the maid?

Wilf.
I grant I did; but—

Hostess.
But! Give me no buts!
Say downright no at once!—“but this—but that;
You love us—but! You'd wed us—but!” As much
You'd love as you would wed! You'd wed, be sure,
If sure you loved! Yet you do love, you say,
But cannot wed,—and love, indeed you do;
But—in your own coin, to be quits with you,
You love her not for herself!

Wilf.
I'faith, not so!
And to convince you that your thought doth hold
The counter-course to that my wishes steer,
I'll say I'd take the maid; but—

Hostess.
There!

Wilf.
Nay, peace!
Thwart not my soul, of which to judge the love,
Thou must partaker of its essence be.
Take her!—Take fortune, honours, fame!—They're things
We hunt for!—They're the eager chase that so
Inspirits us,—despite its length, its stops,
Its perils, its escapes, and accidents,—
We keep it up with cheer!—and what are these
To this excelling maid?—I would not take—
For that were to suppose a thing obtain'd,
Untoil'd, and unadventured for—I'd win her!

Hostess.
And worthy were to win! How say you, Bess?
Wilt thou to church be led by him? Nor “no,”
Nor “yes?” I marvel what a maid would say,
Who, when she's ask'd to church, but hangs her head!
Is't “no?”—“No,” Bess?—An angel to a crown
'Tis “no!” but “no” to “no,” that answers “no.”
Sweet Bess, hadst e'er thy fortune read to thee?
Show me thy hand. How white a thing it is!
What's here? Here's line, and line, and ne'er a cross—
A lucky hand! Look! Saw you e'er the like?
Methinks this hand betokeneth a maid
Not like to wed—for wedlock's still, you know,
The cross of womankind! She'll never wed!
You think she will, I see, and doubt my skill?
Then try your own, and read the hand yourself.

[Puts Bess's hand into Wilford's.
Wilf.
This precious hand, had I the skill to read,
Great as the will, and nuptials it foretold,
Ne'er destined e'er be mine, I'd wish it well!
Though what built up its hope, made wreck of mine!
If adverse was its promise!—lucklessness
Through life,—unpurchased foes,—unstable friends,—
Afflictions,—beggary, in all—but love—
And I the one to keep thee rich in that!—
'Fore hands, with fortune's fairest pledges writ,
I'd covet thine, and for that only gift,
Compound for all beside! Didst press my hand?
Thou didst!—Thou didst!—Deny it not, while stands
That glowing witness on thy modest cheek,
To back my tongue! Love's joyous day is come!
And that's the dawn, or never yet did beam
His golden sun on earth! And I to be
Its harbinger to her! Come, let us seek
Thy parents! Rich enough are they for me,
Whose blessing leaves me not a wish to bless!

Lord Tomas Willoughby enters with Attendants.
Will.
'Tis she! For once hath rumour spoken truth!
[Aside.
Base hind, forbear, nor lock thy arms on one
Thy knee were much too graced to wait upon—
And straight resign to me my peerless bride;
For know, whom thou esteem'st a beggar's child,
Is daughter to a baron of descent,
The highest in the land.

Wilf.
A baron's child!
And bride of thine!

Bess.
Oh, no!—No baron's child!
My father is a wandering beggar-man!
I would not be a baron's child:—yea, child
Unto a king—and least of all be bride to him!

Will.
I swear thou art a baron's child;—I swear
Thou art my bride;—Such gives thee out the tongue,
Whose word is law, 'twere treason to dispute!

Wilf.
What say'st thou, Bess?

Bess.
I'm bride to none but thee!
Thou that wouldst wed me, though a beggar's child,
Were I a baron's child, shouldst wed me still!
Take mind for mind, and heart for heart from me!
I saw thee, and I loved thee!—Grows my tongue
Too bold?—Forgive it for the bashfulness
That could not pay thy love with one poor word,
Until another dared dispute with thee
What eye, and ear, and heart, and soul, and all
Bear witness is thine own!—Where are thine arms?
Or didst thou mock me, calling me their treasure?

[Wilford clasps her in his arms.
Will.
[Drawing his sword.]
Forbear, I say!—Thy life's in jeopardy!
Lo! the commands of her whose will behoves
The proudest not to question.

[Gives a paper.
Wilf.
[Reading.]
What, to thee!
Convicted here of violence,
Offer'd to her, thou now wouldst make thy bride!
Not for the queen will I resign her to thee.

[Drawing too.
Will.
You talk it mightily!

Wilf.
I'll do it too.
Look you,—a man will let one take his life,
Ere he'll give up his purse, and that, perhaps,
Will hold a score of crowns! It hath been done
For less! Come, state the sum thou'dst set against her!
What's its amount? Come, name't. Couldst borrow it
From usury? Couldst find it in the mint?
In that which feeds the mint—the unwasting mine?
Couldst eke it out with diamonds, and the rest
Of all the brood of gems? Couldst fancy it?—
And shall I give her up, that have the right
To keep her? Never with my will! She's mine!
You see she is! You see her choice no less
Holds her to me, than do the arms, my soul,
With force of thousand arms, now locks upon her.
Advance an inch, thy life's not worth a straw!

Hostess.
A spark! A spark among a thousand! Take
His word, good sir, he's one that says and does!
The man for me I'd wed, were I a maid!

[Music without.
Will.
Abide the cost of your rebellion, slave!
The queen herself is here!

[March. Procession as before: Queen, &c. Queen dismounts.
Queen.
Ha, swords without their cases! Who is she
That so our vision dazzles, distancing
All it hath seen of nature's cunning'st fairness?
Ha!—You that have the charge of him, lead forth
The Beggar of Bethnal Green.

Bess.
My parents!

Al. and Emma.
Bess!

Queen.
I knew it must be she. Hast found her, sir?
The star that look'd upon thy birth was fair;
For, had she been, indeed, a beggar's child,
She yet had been thy bride. The truant ring
That late betray'd thee, still was faithful to thee!
This hour, your nuptials shall be solemnized!

Bel.
Contain thyself!—Her hand she'll never give.

Wilf.
Does she—she may! Refuses she, let him
That dares, attempt to take it!

Hostess.
Hold to that;
I would were I a man!

Queen.
Yet,—ere we tax
The labour of the priest,—her parents' rank,
To me and to this lord, alone, divulged,
Befits it others know. That document
Which to our hand her father late confided,
[To Attendant. Paper is brought, Queen reads.
Lord Woodville read; and say, concerns thee aught
This history?

[Giving him the paper.
Wood.
It does! If truth it speaks—
Which doubt I not—the beggar is my brother;
A brother, who, when living, ne'er from me
Received a brother's right, but hate for love;
And yet whose death to love converted hate.

Alb.
Octavius!

Wood.
Albert!

Alb.
Brother!

Wood.
O forgive,
And with thy lands receive thy brother back!

[They embrace.
Queen.
My chaplain, ho!
Come tie the knot!

Wilf.
I have a feeling now
Of what it is to die—the heavy pause,
Ere life goes out!

Queen.
What wait you for, sir priest?

Chaplain.
Her hand to give, the maid refuses.

Queen.
How!

Wilf.
She does! She's true! She's mine!

Queen.
Who's he that speaks?

Wood.
A peasant, please your majesty!

Will.
A hind,
Your grace, who claims my bride!

Wilf.
Thy bride? She's mine!
Prize of my love, proud lord! that coveted
Her love when she was low, as now she's high,
And won it!—won it!—won, what all thy gold,
Thy lands, thy honours, thy alliances,
Could never win for thee!—what, peasant as
I am, makes me the peer, that would not change
Condition with thee, wast thou twice as high!

Hostess.
A spark to win a woman!

Will.
Villain, hence.

Wilf.
Proud lord, I fling the foul term back at thee!
Nor call thee villain mere, but traitor foul!
Who knew'st thy mistress was a virgin queen,
Yet strovest to rob a virgin of her pride,
By villain force! Ha! do I make thee blench?
Cower'st thou before me, peasant though I am?
Has not the blood of all thy noble line
The power to hearten thee, and make thee stand
Erect in presence of the nameless brow
That's bent upon thee with an honest scowl?
Command'st me hence?—Hence rather thou, and learn
Whose merits, mean, behind their titles lag
Were better go undubb'd,—whilst lowest hind
That's lord of noble deed, is lord enough!

Queen.
Secure that hind who dares to brave a lord.

Bess.
O great and royal mistress! rate him not
By what he seems. If nature marketh blood,
Then is the peasant of condition fair,
As any in your court!—If to be high—
If to be truly gentle—be to shine;
In valiant bearing, generosity,
Love, which the eye of fortune follows not
For guidance where to smile,—a noble and
The noblest noble should the peasant be!
O sovereign, gracious, that art mistress of
A woman's costliest heart, look down on mine,
Which through mine eyes looks humbly up to thee!
And let me not for bankrupt pass in love,
Disinterestedness, and constancy,
With all the means and all the will to pay!
Give him the baron's daughter, who would take
The beggar's child to wife!

Queen.
It must not be!

Al.
Most gracious queen, a picture wears my child,
The likeness of her father ta'en in his youth;
Command her show it you.

Queen.
That picture, girl!
[Bess gives the picture.
Feature for feature 'tis the peasant's own!—
A light breaks in upon me—My Lord Woodville,
Where is that truant son of thine, we wont
In sport to dub our hero of romance?

Wood.
Your grace, an age it is since I have seen him.

Queen.
Enough! a pretty masque it is, they play!
I'll try the mettle of her constancy.
[To Bess.
Give me this bauble, and that other one
Thou wearest in thy heart, throw far from it;
For, by our title to the crown we wear,
We vow no peasant e'er shall call thee wife!

Bess.
Recall—Recall the vow!

Queen.
Recall thy heart,
If thou hast given it him.

Bess.
I cannot do't.

Queen.
No?

Bess.
No! He is its owner—master—lord!
Yes, I avow it, peasant though he is!
I could not take it from him, if I would!
I would not were he less, if less could be!
No, not to give it to the proudest he
That glitters in your court!

Al.
Oh, thwart her not,
Most gracious mistress,—From adversity
I've learn'd instruction, makes me venerate
Deeds more than circumstances. His approve
That much he loves my child—Her heart is his.
I would not from her heart her hand disjoin,
For gain of all the world!

Queen.
He dies for this!
Nay, gasp not, maid! 'Tis but the peasant dies,
To give thee, in a baron's noble heir,
The lover whom thy constancy hath won!—
Whose constancy hath rich reward in thee.
Young lord, thou see'st how fortune, to revenge
The wrong thou wouldst have done this noble maid,
When thou esteemd'st her of low degree,
Now that she proves fit partner for thy bed,
Consigns her to another's worthier arms!
[To Lord Thomas.
We pardon thee thy trespasses, atoned
By loss of sight, and long privations borne.
[To Albert.
Lord Woodville, join thy niece to thine own son,
For there indeed he stands; and greetings spare,
Until we see their nuptials solemnized;
Which we ourselves under our conduct take.
Pageant and masque shall grace their wedding-day,
And poets vie while they rehearse the tale
Of Bess, the beggar's maid of Bethnal Green!