 | Plays and Poems |  |
SCENE I.
A Tavern. Mark Smeaton, drunk, with Ralph Loney and three Informers seated at a table spread with wine, etc.Smeaton.
Now, that 's a song, and that 's what I call singing.
Roar it again, brave master bull-throat, roar!
First Informer.
[Sings.]
Old sack, old sack,
Thou hast a happy knack,
When fortune deals a sorry thwack,
When friends may flout and credit crack,
Old sack, old sack.
Thou hast a happy knack,
When fortune deals a sorry thwack,
When friends may flout and credit crack,
Old sack, old sack.
Old sack, old sack,
We'll bide the world's attack,
Though rosy Cupid turn his back,
We ask but this, that thou 'lt not lack,
Old sack, old sack.
We'll bide the world's attack,
Though rosy Cupid turn his back,
We ask but this, that thou 'lt not lack,
Old sack, old sack.
Smea.
Is that the end of your rare melody?
Loney, my boy—Loney, you are dull as mud—
Were you not ravished by yon fellow's song?
That is the neat's-tongue of true poesy:
Nature applauds it in the thirst it brings.
The song is a miracle; that one being full
Yet asks for more upon it. Wine, there, wine!
[They drink.]
151
Or whining Wyatt?—Some one curse Tom Wyatt!
You singer with the stormy lungs, pray curse
This Thomas Wyatt! Have I ne'er a friend
Whose oaths are potent? Curse him black and blue,
My rival Wyatt!
Lon.
Rival, boy! and how?
Smea.
Who is my love? Answer me, leather-lungs.
First I.
Nay, sir, I know not.
Smea.
Then you are an ass,
Not knowing, and a wizard, knowing her.
Lon.
We cannot miss by drinking her a round.
Give us the toast.
Smea.
Here 's to our noble queen!
[Drinks.]
Lon.
That 's good and loyal, and we'll quaff it off;
But not what we intended. We would drink
To your sweet darling, to your pretty May,
Your wanton plaything. Come, boy, never halt!
Smea.
Loney, observe me—every piece of me—
Edgewise, before, behind. Now tell me, sir,
What woman in this realm is worthy of me?
Lon.
Some great one, without doubt.
Smea.
I say, the queen.
Lon.
Now mark him, sirs.
[Apart to the Informers.]
Informers.
Ho! ho! the man is drunk!
Smea.
What do you take me for, you foul-mouthed knaves,
A man of worship, or a common liar?
Where have you lived, you scum of filthy earth,
Not to know me?
Lon.
Pardon the simple men;
Indeed they knew not of your dignity.
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The very front door to her royal ear;
You must needs pass him ere you reach the queen—
Pray you, respect him.
First I.
O, that alters it;
A royal servant.
Smea.
Are the villains blind?
Well, well, I have comfort.
Lon.
What may comfort you?
Smea.
That some fair day a goodly son of mine
May mount the throne, and chop off all their heads.
Lon.
Mark that again. [Apart to the Informers.]
Second Informer.
There is not a word escapes:
I have engrossed it in my table-book.
Smea.
Come, Loney, come; we'll leave these stupid knaves.
Second I.
Whither away, sir?
Smea.
To the queen, good dolt!
[Going.]
Lon.
Forget not, masters, “To the queen,” he said;
And at this hour. So, boy, away, away!
[Exit with Smeaton.]
Second I.
There is hanging in this.
Third Informer.
Curse him! what care I?
I nigh had struck the braggart down myself,
For slandering thus her gracious majesty.
The base, ungrateful cur! I'll see him hang.
[Exeunt.]
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