 | A Pleasant Comedie, called Summers last will and Testament |  |
Noctem
peccatis, & fraudibus obiice nubem.
There is no such fine time to play the knaue
in, as the night. I am a Goose or a Ghost at
least; for what with turmoyle of getting my
fooles apparell, and care of being perfit, I am
sure I haue not yet supt to night. Will Summers
Ghost I should be, come to present you with Summers
last will, and Testament. Be it so, if my cousin Ned will lend
me his Chayne and his Fiddle. Other stately pac't Prologues
vse to attire themselues within: I that haue a toy in my head,
more then ordinary, and vse to goe without money, without
garters, without girdle, without a hat-band, without poynts to
my hose, without a knife to my dinner, and make to much vse
of this word without, in euery thing, will here dresse me without.
Dick Huntley cryes, Begin, begin: and all the whole
house, For shame come away; when I had my things but now
brought me out of the Lawndry. God forgiue me, I did not
see my Lord before. Ile set a good face on it, as though what
I had talkt idly all this while, were my part. So it is, boni viri,
that one foole presents another; and I a foole by nature, and
by arte, do speake to you in the person of the Idiot our Playmaker.
He like a Foppe & an Asse, must be making himselfe a
publike laughing stock, & haue no thanke for his labor; where
other Magisterij, whose inuention is farre more exquisite, are
content to sit still, and doe nothing. Ile shewe you what a
scuruy Prologue he had made me in an old vayne of similitudes:
if you bee good fellowes, giue it the hearing, that you may iudge of him thereafter.
The Prologue.
At a solenme feast of the Triumuiri in Rome, it was seene
and obserued, that the birds ceased to sing, & sate solitarie
on the house tops, by reason of the sight of a paynted Serpēt
set openly to view. So fares it with vs nouices, that here betray
our imperfections: we, afraid to looke on the imaginary serpent
of Enuy, paynted in mens affections, haue ceased to tune any
musike of mirth to your eares this tweluemonth, thinking, that
as it is the nature of the serpent to hisse: so childhood and ignorance
would play the goslings, contemning, and condemning
what they vnderstood not. Their censures we wey not,
whose sences are not yet vnswadled. The little minutes will be
continually striking, though no man regard them. Whelpes
will barke, before they can see, and striue to byte, before they
haue teeth. Politianus speaketh of a beast, who, while hee is
cut on the table, drinketh, and represents the motions & voyces
of a liuing creature. Such like foolish beasts are we, who,
whilest we are cut, mocked, & flowted at, in euery mans common
talke, will notwithstanding proceed to shame our selues,
to make sport. No man pleaseth all, we seeke to please one.
Didymus wrote foure thousand bookes, or as some say, six thousand,
of the arte of Grammar. Our Authour hopes, it may
be as lawfull for him to write a thousand lines of as light a subiect.
Socrates (whom the Oracle pronounced the wisest man
of Greece) sometimes daunced. Seipto and Lelius by the seaside
played at peeble-stone. Semel in saniuimus omnes. Euery
man cannot, with Archimedes, make a heauen of brasse, or dig
gold out of the iron mynes of the lawe. Such odde trifles, as
Mathematicians experiments be, Artificiall flyes to hang in the
ayre by themselues, daunsing balles, an egge-shell that shall
clyme vp to the top of a speare, fiery breathing goares, Poctæ
noster professeth not to make. Placeat sibi quisq; heebit. What's
a foole but his bable? Deepe reaching wits, heere is no deepe
streame for you to angle in. Moralizers, you that wrest a neuer
meant meaning, out of euery thing, applying all things to
the present time, keepe your attention for the common Stage:
for here are no quips in Characters for you to reade. Vayne
glozers, gather what you will. Spite, spell backwards, what
thou canst. As the Parthians fight, flying away: so will wee
prate and talke, but stand to nothing that we say.
How say you, my masters, doe you not laugh at him for a
Coxcombe? Why, he hath made a Prologue longer then his
Play: nay, 'tis no Play neyther, but a shewe. Ile be sworne,
the sigge of Rowlands God-sonne, is a Gyant in comparison
of it. What can be made of Summers last will & Testament?
Such another thing, as Cyllian of Braynfords will, where shee
bequeathed a score of farts amongst her friends. Forsooth, because
the plague raignes in most places in this latter end of summer,
Summer must come in sicke: he must call his officers to
account, yeeld his throne to Autumne, make Winter his Executour,
with tittle tattle Tom boy: God giue you good night in
Watling street. I care not what I say now: for I play no more
then you heare; & some of that you heard to (by your leaue) was
extempore. He were as good haue let me had the best part:
for Ile be reueng'd on him to the vttermost, in this person of
Will Summer, which I haue put on to play the Prologue, and
meane not to put off, till the play be done. Ile sit as a Chorus,
and flowte the Actors and him at the end of euery Sceane: I
know they will not interrupt me, for feare of marring of all:
but looke to your cues, my masters; for I intend to play the
knaue in cue, and put you besides all your parts, if you take
not the better heede. Actors, you Rogues, come away, cleare
your throats, blowe your noses, and wype your mouthes e're
you enter, that you may take no occasion to spit or to cough,
when you are non plus. And this I barre ouer and besides,
That none of you stroake your beardes, to make action, play
with your cod-piece poynts, or stad fumbling on your button,
when you know not how to bestow your fingers. Serue God,
and act cleanly; a fit of mirth, and an old song first, if you will.
[Summer.]
Fayre Summer droops, droope men and beasts therefore:
So fayre a summer looke for neuer more.
All good things vanish, lesse then in a day,
Peace, plenty, pleasure sodainely decay.
Goe not yet away bright soule of the sad yeare.
The earth is hell, when thou leau'st to appeare.
What, shall those flowres that deckt thy garland erst,
Vpon thy graue be wastfully disperst?
O trees, consume your sap in sorrowes sourse.
Streames, turne to teares your tributary course.
Goe not yet hence, bright soule of the sad yeare.
The earth is hell, when thou leau'st to appeare.
The Satyrs and wood-Nymphs goe out singing, and leaue Summer and Winter and Autumne on the stage.
Will Summer.
A couple of pratty boyes, if they would wash
their faces, and were well breecht an houre or two. The rest
of the greene men haue reasonable voyces, good to sing catches,
or the great Iowben by the fires side, in a winters euening.
But let vs heare what Summer can say for himselfe, why hee
should not be hist at.
Summer.
What pleasure alway lasts? no ioy endures:
Summer I was, I am not as I was:
Haruest and age haue whit'ned my greene head:
On Autumne now and Winter must I leane.
Needs must he fall, whom none but foes vphold.
Thus must the happiest man haue his blacke day.
Omnibus vna manet nox, & calcanda semel via lathi.
This month haue I layne languishing a bed,
Looking eche houre to yeeld my life, and throne;
And dyde I had in deed vnto the earth,
But that Eliza Englands beauteous Queene,
On whom all seasons prosperously attend,
Forbad the execution of my fate,
For her doth Summer liue, and linger here,
And wisheth long to liue to her content:
But wishes are not had when they wish well.
I must depart, my death-day is set downe:
To these two must I leaue my wheaten crowne.
So vnto vnthrifts rich men leaue their lands,
Who in an houre consume long labours gaynes.
True is it that diuinest Sidney sung,
O, he is mard, that is for others made.
Come neere, my friends, for I am neere my end.
In presence of this Honourable trayne,
Who loue me (for I patronize their sports)
Meane I to make my finall Testament:
But first Ile call my officers to count,
And of the wealth I gaue them to dispose,
Know what is left. I may know what to giue
Vertumnus then, that turnst the yere about.
Summon them one by one to answere me,
First Ver, the spring, vnto whose custody
I haue committed more then to the rest:
The choyse of all my fragrant meades and flowres,
And what delights soe're nature affords.
Vertum.
I will, my Lord. Ver, lusty Ver, by the name of
lusty Ver, come into the court, lose a marke in issues.
The Song.
Then bloomes eche thing, then maydes daunce in a ring,
Cold doeth not sting, the pretty birds doe sing,
Cuckow, iugge, iugge, pu we, to witta woo.
The Palme and May make countrey houses gay.
Lambs friske and play, the Shepherds pype all day,
And we heare aye, birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckow, iugge, iugge, pu we, to witta woo.
Young louers meere, old wiues a sunning sit:
In euery streete, these tunes our eares doe greete,
Cuckow, iugge, iugge, pu we, to witta woo.
Spring the sweete spring.
Will Summer.
By my troth, they haue voyces as cleare as
Christall: this is a pratty thing, if it be for nothing but to goe
a begging with.
Summers:
Beleeue me, Ver, but thou art pleasant bent,
This humor should import a harmlesse minde:
Knowst thou the reason why I sent for thee?
Ver.
No faith, nor care not, whether I do or no.
If you will daunce a Galliard, so it is: if not, Falangtado, Falangtado,
to weare the blacke and yellow: Falangtado, Falagtado,
my mates are gone, Ile followe.
Summer.
Nay, stay a while, we must confer and talke.
Ver, call to mind I am thy soueraigne Lord,
And what thou hast, of me thou hast, and holdst.
Vnto no other end I sent for thee.
But to demaund a reckoning at thy hands,
How well or ill thou hast imployd my wealth.
Ver.
If that be all, we will not disagree.
A cleane trencher and a napkin you shall haue presently.
Will Summer.
The truth is, this fellow hath bin a tapster in
his daies.
Ver goes in, and fetcheth out the Hobby horse & the morris daunce, who daunce about.
Summer.
How now? is this the reckoning we shall haue?
Winter.
My Lord, he doth abuse you: brooke it not.
Autumne.
Summa totalis I feare will proue him but a foole.
Ver.
About, about, liuely, put your horse to it, reyne him
harder, ierke him with your wand, sit fast, sit fast, man; foole,
hold vp your ladle there.
Will Summer.
O braue hall! O, well sayd, butcher. Now for
the credit of Wostershire. The finest set of Morris-dauncers
that is betweene this and Stretham: mary, me thinks there is
one of them daūceth like a Clothyers horse, with a wool-pack
on his backe. You friend with the Hobby-horse, goe not
too fast, for feare of wearing out my Lords tyle-stones with
your hob-nayles.
Ver.
So, so, so, trot the ring twise ouer, and away. May it
please my Lord, this is the grand capitall summe, but there are
certayne parcels behind, as you shall see.
Summer.
Nay, nay, no more; for this is all too much.
Ver.
Content your selfe, we'le haue variety.
Here enter 3. Clownes, & 3. maids, singing this song, daunsing.
Trip and goe, heaue and hoe,
Vp and downe to and fro,
From the towne, to the groue,
Two, and two, let vs roue
A Maying, a playing:
Loue hath no gainsaying:
So merrily trip and goe,
Will Summer.
Beshrew my heart, of a number of ill legs, I
neuer sawe worse daunsers: how blest are you, that the wenches
of the parish doe not see you!
Summer.
Presumptuous Ver, vnciuill nurturde boy,
Think'st I will be derided thus of thee?
Is this th'account and reckoning that thou mak'ft?
Ver.
Troth, my Lord, to tell you playne, I can giue you
no other account: nam qua habui, perdidi; what I had, I haue
spent on good fellowes, in these sports you haue seene, which
are proper to the Spring, and others of like sort, (as giuing
wenches greene gownes, making garlands for Fencers, and
tricking vp children gay) haue I bestowde all my flowry treasure,
and flowre of my youth.
Will Summer.
A small matter. I knowe one spent in lesse
then a yere, eyght and fifty pounds in mustard, and an other
that ranne in det, in the space of foure or fiue yeere, aboue
foureteene thousand pound in lute strings and gray paper.
Summer.
O monstrous vnthrift, who e're heard the like?
The seas vast throate in so short tract of time,
How well mightst thou haue liu'd within thy bounds?
Ver.
What talke you to me, of liuing within my bounds? I
tell you, none but Asses liue within their bounds: the silly
beasts, if they be put in a pasture, that is eaten bare to the very
earth, & where there is nothing to be had but thistles, will rather
fall soberly to those thistles, and be hungerstaru'd, then
they will offer to breake their bounds; whereas the lusty courser,
if he be in a barrayne plot, and spye better grasse in some
pasture neere adioyning, breakes ouer hedge and ditch, and
to goe, e're he will be pent in, and not haue his belly full. Peraduenture,
the horses lately sworne to be stolne, carried that
youthfull mind, who, if they had bene Asses, would haue bene
yet extant.
Will Summers.
Thus we may see, the longer we liue, the
more wee shall learne: I ne're thought honestie an asse, till
this day.
Ver.
This world is transitory, it was made of nothing, and
is must to nothing: wherefore, if wee will doe the will of our
high Creatour, (whose will it is, that it passe to nothing) wee
must helpe to consume it to nothing. Gold is more vile then
men: Men dye in thousands, and ten thousands, yea, many
times in hundreth thousands in one battaile. If then, the best
husband bee so liberall of his best handyworke, to what ende
should we make much of a glittering excrement, or doubt to
spend at a banket as many pounds, as he spends men at a battaile?
Me thinkes I honour Geta the Romane Emperour, for
a braue minded fellow: for he commaunded a banket to bee
made him of all meats vnder the Sunne; which were serued in
after the order of the Alphabet; and the Clarke of the kitchin
following the last dish (which was two mile off from the formost)
brought him an Index of their seuerall names: Neyther
did he pingle when it was set on the boord, but for the space of
three dayes and three nights, neuer rose from the Table.
Will Summers.
O intolerable lying villayne, that was neuer
begotten without the consent of a whetstone.
Vngratious man, how fondly he argueth!
Ver.
Tell me, I pray, wherefore was gold layd vnder our
feete in the veynes of the earth, but that wee should contemne
it, and treade vpon it, and so consequently treade thrift vnder
our feete? It was not knowne, till the Iron age, donec facinus
inuasit mortales, as the Poet sayes; and the Scythians alwayes
detested it. I will proue it, that an vnthrift, of any, comes neerest
a happy man, in so much as he comes neerest to beggery.
Cicero saith, summum bonum consistes in omnium rerum vacatione,
that it is the chiefest felicitie that may be, to rest from all
labours. Now, who doeth so much vacare à rebus, who rests
so much? who hath so little to doe, as the begger? Who can
sing so merry a note, as he that cannot change a groate? Cui
nil est, nil deest: hee that hath nothing, wants nothing. On
the other side, it is said of the Carle, Omnia habeo, nec quicquam
habeo: I haue all things, yet want euery thing. Multi mihi vitio
vertunt, quia egeo, saith Marcus Cato in Aulus Gellius, at ego
illis, quia nequeunt egere: Many vpbrayde me, sayth he, because
I am poore: but I vpbrayd them, because they cannot
liue if they were poore. It is a common prouerbe, Dinesq;
miserq;, a rich man, and a miserable: nam natura paucis cōtenta,
none so contented as the poore man. Admit that the chiefest
happines were not rest or ease, but knowledge, as Herillus, Alcidamas,
& many of Socrates followers affirme; why, paupertas
omnes perdocet artes, pouerty instructs a man in all arts, it makes
a man hardy and venturous; and therefore it is called of the
Poets, Paupertas andax, valiant pouerty. It is not so much
subiect to inordinate desires, as wealth or prosperity. Non
habet vnde suum paupertas pascat amorem: pouerty hath not
wherewithall to feede lust. All the Poets were beggers: all
Alcumists, and all Philosophers are beggers: Omnia mea mecum
porto, quoth Bias, when he had nothing, but bread and
cheese in a letherne bagge, and two or three bookes in his bosome.
Saint Frauncis, a holy Saint, & neuer had any money. It
is madnes to dote vpon mucke. That young man of Athens,
(Aclianus makes mention of) may be an example to vs, who
doted so extremely on the image of Fortune, that when hee
might not inioy it, he dyed for sorrow. The earth yelds all her
fruites together, and why should not we spend them together?
I thanke heauens on my knees, that haue made mee an vnthrift.
Summer.
O vanitie it selfe; O wit ill spent!
So studie thousands not to mend their liues,
But to maintayne the sinne they most affect,
To be hels aduocates against their owne soules.
Ver, since thou giu'st such prayse to beggery,
And hast defended it so valiantly,
This be thy penance; Thou shalt ne're appeare,
Or come abroad, but Lent shall wayte on thee:
His scarsity may counteruayle thy waste.
Ryot may flourish, but findes want at last.
Take him away, that knoweth no good way,
And leade him the next way to woe and want.
Exit Ver.
Thus in the paths of knowledge many stray,
And from the meanes of life fetch their decay.
Will Summer.
Heigh ho, Here is a coyle in deede to bring
beggers to stockes. I promise you truely, I was almost asleep;
I thought I had bene at a Sermon. Well, for this one nights
exhortation, I vow (by Gods grace) neuer to be good husband
while I liue. But what is this to the purpose? Hur come to Powl
(as the Welshman sayes) and hur pay an halfepenny for hur seat,
and hur heare the Preacher talge, and a talge very well by gis, but
yet a cannot make hur laugh: goe a Theater, and heare a Queenes
Fice, and he make hur laugh, and laugh hur belly-full. So we come
hither to laugh and be merry, and we heare a filthy beggerly
Oration, in the prayse of beggery. It is a beggerly Poet that
writ it: and that makes him so much commend it, because hee
knowes not how to mend himselfe. Well, rather then he shall
haue no imployment but licke dishes, I will set him a worke
my selfe, to write in prayse of the arte of stouping, and howe
there was neuer any famous Thresher, Porter, Brewer, Pioner,
or Carpenter, that had streight backe. Repayre to my
chamber, poore fellow, when the play is done, and thou shalt
see what I will say to thee.
Summer.
Vertumnus, call Solstitium.
Vertum.
Solstitium, come into the court without: peace
there below; make roome for master Solstitium.
Enter Solstitium like an aged Hermit, carrying a payre of ballances, with an houre-glasse in eyther of them; one houre-glasse white, the other blacke: he is brought in by a number of shepherds, playing vpon Recorders.
Solstitium.
All hayle to Summer my dread soueraigne Lord.
Summer.
Welcome, Solstitium, thou art one of them,
To whose good husbandry we haue referr'd
Part of those small reuenues that we haue.
What hast thou gaynd vs? what hast thou brought in?
Solstitium.
Alas, my Lord, what gaue you me to keepe,
But a fewe dayes eyes in my prime of youth?
And those I haue conuerted to white hayres:
I neuer lou'd ambitiously to clyme,
Or thrust my hand too farre into the fire.
To be in heauen, sure, is a blessed thing:
But Atlas-like, to proppe heauen on ones backe,
Cannot but be more labour then delight.
Such is the state of men in honour plac'd;
They are gold vessels made for seruile vses,
High trees that keepe the weather from low houses,
But cannot sheild the tempest from themselues.
I loue to dwell betwixt the hilles and dales;
Neyther to be so great to be enuide,
Nor yet so poore the world should pitie me.
Inter vtrumque, tene, medio tutissimus ibis.
Summer.
What doest thou with those ballances thou bearst?
Solstitium.
In them I weigh the day and night alike.
This white glasse is the houre-glasse of the day:
This blacke one the iust measure of the night;
One more then other holdeth not a grayne:
Summer.
I like thy moderation wondrous well:
And this thy ballance, wayghing the white glasse
And blacke, with equall poyze and stedfast hand,
A patterne is to Princes and great men,
How to weigh all estates indifferently:
The Spiritualty and Temporalty alike,
Neyther to be too prodigall of smyles,
Nor too seuere in frowning without cause.
If you be wise, you Monarchs of the earth,
Haue two such glasses still before your eyes;
Thinke as you haue a white glasse running on,
Good dayes, friends fauor, and all things at beck,
So this white glasse runne out (as out it will)
The blacke comes next, your downfall is at hand,
Take this of me, for somewhat I haue tryde;
A mighty ebbe followes a mighty tyde.
But say, Solstitium, hadst thou nought besides?
Nought but dayes eyes, and faire looks, gaue I thee?
Solstitium.
Nothing my Lord, nor ought more did I aske.
Summer.
But hadst thou alwayes kept thee in my sight,
Thy good deserts, though silent, would haue askt.
Solst.
Deserts, my Lord, of ancient seruitours,
Are like old sores, which may not be ript vp:
Such vse these times haue got, that none must beg,
But those that haue young limmes to lauish fast.
Summer.
I grieue, no more regard was had of thee:
A little sooner hadst thou spoke to me,
Thou hadst bene heard, but now the time is past:
Death wayteth at the dore for thee and me;
Let vs goe measure out our beds in clay:
Nought but good deedes hence shall we beare away.
Be, as thou wert, best steward of my howres,
And so returne vnto thy countrey bowres.
Here Solstitium goes out with his musike, as he comes in.
Fye, fye of honesty, fye: Solstitium is an asse,
perdy, this play is a gally-maufrey: fetch mee some drinke,
some body. What cheere, what cheere, my hearts? are not
you thirsty with listening to this dry sport? What haue we to
doe with scales, and hower-glasses, except we were Bakers, or
Clock-keepers? I cannot tell how other men are addicted, but
it is against my profession to vse any scales, but such as we play
at with a boule, or keepe any howers, but dinner or supper.
It is a pedanticall thing, to respect times and seasons: if a man
be drinking with good fellowes late, he must come home, for
feare the gates be shut; when I am in my warme bed, I must
rise to prayers, because the bell rings. I like no such foolish
customes. Actors, bring now a black Iack, and a rundlet of
of Renish wine, disputing of the antiquity of red noses; let the
prodigall childe come out in his dublet and hose all greasy, his
shirt hanging forth, and ne're a penny in his purse, and talke
what a fine thing it is to walke summerly, or sit whistling vnder
a hedge and keepe hogges. Go forward in grace and vertue to
proceed; but let vs haue no more of these graue matters.
Summer.
Vertumnus, will Sol come before vs.
Vertumnus.
Sol, Sol, vt, re, me, fa, sol, come to church while
the bell toll.
Enter Sol, verie richly attir'de, with a noyse of Musicians before him.
Summer.
I marrie, here comes maiestie in pompe,
Resplendent Sol, chiefe planet of the heauens,
He is our seruant, lookes he ne're so big.
Sol.
My liege, what crau'st thou at thy vassals hands?
Summer.
Hypocrisie, how it can change his shape!
How base is pride from his owne dunghill put?
How I haue rais'd thee, Sol, I list not tell,
Out of the Ocean of aduersitie,
To sit in height of honors glorious heauen,
To be the eye-sore of aspiring eyes,
And let nought thriue vpon the face of earth,
From which thou shalt withdraw thy powerful smiles.
What hast thou done deseruing such hie grace?
What industrie, or meritorious toyle,
Canst thou produce, to proue my gift well plac'de?
Some seruice, or some profit I expect:
None is promoted but for some respect.
Sol.
My Lord, what needs these termes betwixt vs two?
Vpbraiding, ill beseemes your bounteous mind:
I do you honour for aduancing me.
Why, t'is a credit for your excellence,
To haue so great a subiect as I am:
This is your glorie and magnificence,
That without stouping of your mightinesse,
Or taking any whit from your high state.
You can make one as mightie as your selfe.
Autumne.
O arrogance exceeding all beliefe!
Summer my Lord, this sawcie vpstart Iacke,
That now doth rule the chariot of the Sunne,
And makes all starres deriue their light from him,
Is a most base insinuating slaue,
The sonne of parsimony, and disdaine,
One that will shine, on friends and foes alike,
That vnder brightest smiles, hideth blacke showers:
Whose enuious breath doth dry vp springs and lakes,
And burnes the grasse, that beastes can get no foode.
Winter.
No dunghill hath so vilde an excrement,
But with his beames hee will forthwith exhale:
The fennes and quag-myres tithe to him their filth:
Foorth purest mines he suckes a gainefull drosse:
Greene Iuy-bushes at the Vintners doores
He withers, and deuoureth all their sap.
Autumne.
Lasciuious and intemperate he is.
The wrong of Daphne is a well knowne tale:
Eche euening he descends to Thetis lap,
O, but when he returneth whence he came,
Downe to the West, then dawnes his deity,
Then doubled is the swelling of his lookes;
He ouerloades his carre with Orient gemmes,
And reynes his fiery horses with rich pearle:
He termes himselfe the god of Poetry,
And setteth wanton songs vnto the Lute.
Winter.
Let him not talke; for he hath words at will,
And wit to make the baddest matter good.
Summer.
Bad words, bad wit: oh, where dwels faith or truth?
Ill vsury my fauours reape from thee,
Vsurping Sol, the hate of heauen and earth.
Sol.
If Enuy vnconfuted may accuse,
Then Innocence must vncondemned dye.
The name of Martyrdome offence hath gaynd,
When fury stopt a froward Iudges eares.
Much Ile not say (much speech much folly shewes)
What I haue done, you gaue me leaue to doe.
The excrements you bred, whereon I feede,
To rid the earth of their contagious fumes;
With such grosse carriage did I loade my beames,
I burnt no grasse, I dried no springs and lakes:
I suckt no mines, I withered no greene boughes.
But when to ripen haruest I was forc'st,
To make my rayes more feruent then I wont,
For Daphnes wrongs and scapes in Thetis lap,
All Gods are subiect to the like mishap.
Starres daily fall (t'is vse is all in all)
And men account the fall but natures course:
Vaunting my iewels, hasting to the West,
Or rising early from the gray ei'de morne,
What do I vaunt but your large bountihood
And shew how liberall a Lord I serue.
Musique and poetrie, my two last crimes,
Are those two exercises of delight,
The dying Swanne is not forbid to sing.
The waues of Heber playd on Orpheus strings,
When he (sweete musiques Trophe) was destroyd.
And as for Poetry, woods eloquence,
(Dead Phaetons three sisters funerall teares
That by the gods were to Electrum turnd)
Not flint, or rockes of Icy cynders fram'd,
Deny the sourse of siluer-falling streames.
Enuy enuieth not outcryes vnrest:
In vaine I pleade, well, is to me a fault,
And these my words seeme the slyght webbe of arte,
And not to haue the taste of sounder truth.
Let none but fooles, be car'd for of the wise;
Knowledge owne children, knowledge most despise.
Sūmer.
Thou know'st too much, to know to keepe the meane.
He that sees all things, oft sees not himselfe.
The Thames is witnesse of thy tyranny,
Whose waues thou hast exhaust for winter showres.
The naked channell playnes her of thy spite,
That laid'st her intrailes vnto open sight.
Vnprofitably borne to man and beast,
Which like to Nilus yet doth hide his head,
Some few yeares since thou let'st o'reflow these walks,
And in the horse-race headlong ran at race,
While in a cloude, thou hid'st thy burning face:
Where was thy care to rid contagious filth,
When some men wetshod, (with his waters) droupt?
Others that ate the Eeles his heate cast vp,
Sickned and dyde by them impoysoned.
Sleep'st thou, or keep'st thou then Admetus sheepe,
Thou driu'st not back these flowings to the deepe?
Sol.
The winds, not I, haue floods & tydes in chase:
Diana, whom our fables call the moone,
Only commaundeth o're the raging mayne,
Shee leads his wallowing ofspring vp and downe,
Shee was eclipst, when that the Thames was bare.
Summer.
A bare coniecture, builded on perhaps;
In laying thus the blame vpon the moone,
Thou imitat'st subtill Pithagoras,
Who, what he would the people should beleeue,
The same he wrote with blood vpon a glasse,
And turnd it opposite gainst the new moone;
Whose beames reflecting on it with full force,
Shewd all those lynes, to them that stood behinde,
Most playnly writ in circle of the moone,
And then he said, Not I, but the new moone
Faire Cynthia perswades you this and that;
With like collusion shalt thou not blind mee:
But for abusing both the moone and mee,
Long shalt thou be eclipsed by the moone,
And long in darknesse liue, and see no light.
Away with him, his doome hath no reuerse.
Sol.
What is eclipst, will one day shine againe:
Though winter frownes, the Spring wil ease my paine.
Time, from the brow, doth wipe out euery stayne.
Exit Sol.
Will Summer.
I thinke the Sunne is not so long in passing
through the twelue signes, as the sonne of a foole hath bin disputing
here, about had I wist. Out of doubt, the Poet is bribde
of some that haue a messe of creame to eate, before my Lord
goe to bed yet, to hold him halfe the night with riffe, raffe, of
the rumming of Elanor. If I can tell what it meanes pray god,
I may neuer get breakefast more, when I am hungry. Troth,
I am of opinion, he is one of those Hieroglificall writers, that by
the figures of beasts, planets, and of stones, expresse the mind,
as we doe in A. B. C. or one that writes vnder hayre, as I
haue heard of a certaine Notary Histions, who following Darius
in the Persian warres, and desirous to disclose some secrets
of import, to his friend Aristagoras, that dwelt afarre
off, found out this meanes: He had a seruant that had bene
long sicke of a payne in his eyes, whom, vnder pretence of curing
his maladie, he shau'd from one side of his head, to the
other, and with a soft pensill wrote vpon his scalpe, (as on
parchment) the discourse of his busines, the fellow all the while
imagining, his master had done nothing but noynt his head
with a feather. After this, hee kept him secretly in his tent,
till his hayre was somewhat growne, and then wil'd him to go
to Aristagoras into the countrey, and bid him shaue him, as
he had done, and he should haue perfit remedie. He did so:
Aristagoras shau'd him with his owne hands, read his friends
letter; and when hee had done, washt it out, that no man
should perceyue it else, and sent him home to buy him a nightcap.
If I wist there were any such knauery, or Peter Bales
Brachigraphy, vnder Sols bushy hayre, I would haue a Barber,
my hoste of the Murrions head, to be his Interpretour, who
would whet his rasor on his Richmond cap, and giue him the
terrible cut, like himselfe, but he would come as neere as a
quart pot, to the construction of it. To be sententious, not
superfluous, Sol should haue bene beholding to the Barbour,
Imberbis Apollo, a beardles Poet.
and not the beard-master. Is it pride that is shadowed vnder
this two-leg'd Sunne, that neuer came neerer heauen,
then Dubbers hill? That pride is not my sinne, Slouens Hall,
where I was borne, be my record. As for couetousnes, intemperance
and exaction, I meet with nothing in a whole yeare,
but a cup of wine, for such vices to bee conuersant in. Pergite
porro, my good children, and multiply the sinnes of your absurdities,
till you come to the full measure of the grand hisse,
and you shall heare how we will purge rewme with censuring
your imperfections.
Summer.
Vertumnus, call Orion.
Vertum.
Orion, Vrion, Arion; my Lord thou must looke vpon:
Orion, gentleman dogge-keeper, huntsman, come into the
court: looke you bring all hounds, and no bandogges. Peace
there, that we may heare their hornes blow.
Enter Orion like a bunter, with a horne about his necke, all his men after the same sort hallowing, and blowing their hornes.
Sirra, wast thou that cal'd vs from our game?
How durst thou (being but a pettie God)
Disturbe me in the entrance of my sports?
Summer.
'Twas I, Orion, caus'd thee to be calde.
Orion.
'Tis I, dread Lord, that humbly will obey.
Summer.
How haps't thou leftst the heauens, to hunt below?
As I remember, thou wert Hireus sonne,
Whom of a huntsman Ioue chose for a starre,
And thou art calde the Dog-starre, art thou not?
Autumne.
Pleaseth your honor, heauens circumference
Is not ynough for him to hunt and range,
But with those venome-breathed curres he leads,
He comes to chase health from our earthly bounds:
Each one of those foule-mouthed mangy dogs
Gouernes a day, (no dog but hath his day)
And all the daies by them so gouerned,
The Dog-daies hight, infectious fosterers
Of meteors from carrion that arise,
And putrified bodies of dead men,
Are they ingendred to that ougly shape,
Being nought els but preseru'd corruption.
T'is these that in the entrance of their raigne
The plague and dangerous agues haue brought in.
They arre and barke at night against the Moone,
For fetching in fresh tides to cleanse the streetes.
They vomit flames, and blast the ripened fruites:
They are deathes messengers vnto all those,
That sicken while their malice beareth sway.
Orion.
A tedious discourse, built on no ground,
A sillie fancie Autumne hast thou told,
Which no Philosophie doth warrantize,
No old receiued poetrie confirmes.
I will not grace thee by confuting thee:
Yet in a iest (since thou railest so gainst dogs)
Ile speake a word or two in their defence:
That creature's best that comes most neere to men.
First they excell vs in all outward sence,
Which no one of experience will deny,
They heare, they smell, they see better then we,
To come to speech they haue it questionlesse,
Although we vnderstand them not so well:
They barke as good old Saxon as may be,
And that in more varietie then we:
For they haue one voice when they are in chase,
Another, when they wrangle for their meate,
Another, when we beate them out of dores.
That they haue reason, this I will alleadge,
They choose those things that are most fit for them,
And shunne the contrarie all that they may,
They know what is for their owne diet best,
And seeke about for't very carefully.
At sight of any whip they runne away,
As runs a thiefe from noise of hue and crie:
Nor liue they on the sweat of others browes,
But haue their trades to get their liuing with,
Hunting and conie-catching, two fine artes:
Yea, there be of them as there be of men,
Of euerie occupation more or lesse:
Some cariers, and they fetch, some watermen,
And they will diue and swimme when you bid them:
Some butchers, and they worrie sheep by night:
Some cookes, and they do nothing but turne spits,
Chrisippus holds, dogs are Logicians,
In that by studie and by canuasing,
They can distinguish twixt three seuerall things,
As when he commeth where three broad waies meet,
And of those three hath staid at two of them,
By which he gesseth that the game went not,
Without more pause he runneth on the third,
Which, as Chrisippus saith, insinuates,
As if he reason'd thus within himselfe:
But neyther that, nor yonder, therefore this;
But whether they Logicians be or no,
Cinicks they are, for they will snarle and bite,
Right courtiers to flatter and to fawne,
Valiant to set vpon the enemies,
Most faithfull and most constant to their friends;
Nay they are wise, as Homer witnesseth,
Who talking of Vlisses comming home,
Saith all his houshold, but Argus his Dogge,
Had quite forgot him: I, and his deepe insight,
Nor Pallas Art in altering of his shape,
Nor his base weeds, nor absence twenty yeares,
Could go beyond, or any way delude.
That Dogges Phisicians are, thus I inferre,
They are ne're sicke, but they know their disease,
And finde out meanes to ease them of their griefe,
Speciall good Surgions to cure dangerous wounds:
For strucken with a stake into the flesh,
This policie they vse to get it out:
They traile one of their feet vpon the ground,
And gnaw the flesh about where the wound is,
Till it be cleane drawne out: and then, because
Vlcers and sores kept fowle, are hardly cur'de,
They licke and purifie it with their tongue,
And well obserue Hipocrates old rule,
The onely medicine for the foote, is rest:
For if they haue the least hurt in their feet,
They beare them vp, and looke they be not stird:
When humours rise, they eate a soueraigne herbe,
Whereby what cloyes their stomacks, they cast vp,
And as some writers of experience tell,
They were the first inuented vomitting.
Sham'st thou not, Autumne, vnaduisedly
To slander such rare creatures as they be?
Summer.
We cal'd thee not, Orion, to this end,
With all thy hunting how are we inricht?
What tribute payest thou vs for thy high place?
Orion.
What tribute should I pay you out of nought?
Hunters doe hunt for pleasure, not for gaine.
While Dog-dayes last, the haruest safely thriues:
The sunne burnes hot, to finish vp fruits grouth:
There is no bloud-letting to make men weake:
Physicians with their Cataposia,
1. tittle Elinctoria
Masticatorum and Cataplasmata:
Their Gargarismes, Clisters, and pitcht clothes,
Their perfumes, sirrups, and their triacles,
Refraine to poyson the sicke patients,
And dare not minister till I be out.
Then none will bathe, and so are fewer drownd:
All lust is perilsome, therefore lesse vs de.
In briefe, the yeare without me cannot stand:
Summer, I am thy staffe, and thy right hand.
Summer.
A broken staffe, a lame right hand I had,
If thou wert all the stay that held me vp.
Nihil violentum perpetuum.
No violence that liueth to olde age,
Ill-gouern'd starre, that neuer boad'st good lucke,
I banish thee a twelue-month and a day,
Forth of my presence, come not in my sight,
Nor shewe thy head, so much as in the night.
Orion.
I am content, though hunting be not out,
We will goe hunt in hell for better hap.
One parting blowe, my hearts, vnto our friends,
To bid the fields and huntsmen all farewell:
Tosse vp your bugle hornes vnto the starres.
Toyle findeth ease, peace followes after warres.
Exit.
Will Summer.
Faith, this Sceane of Orion, is right prandium
caninum, a dogs dinner, which as it is without wine, so here's
a coyle about dogges, without wit. If I had thought the ship
of fooles would haue stayde to take in fresh water at the Ile of
dogges, I would haue furnisht it with a whole kennell of collections
to the purpose. I haue had a dogge my selfe, that
would dreame, and talke in his sleepe, turne round like Ned
foole, and sleepe all night in a porridge pot. Marke but the
skirmish betweene sixpence and the foxe, and it is miraculous,
how they ouercome one another in honorable curtesy.
The foxe, though he weares a chayne, runnes as though hee
were free, mocking vs (as it is a crafty beast) because we, hauing
a Lord and master to attend on, runne about at our pleasures,
like masterles men. Young sixpence, the best page his
master hath, playes a little, and retires. I warrant, he will not
be farre out of the way, when his master goes to dinner.
Learne of him, you deminitiue vrchins, howe to behaue your
selues in your vocation, take not vp your standings in a nut-tree,
when you should be waiting on my Lords trencher.
Shoote but a bit at buttes, play but a span at poyntes. What
euer you doe, memento mori: remember to rise betimes in
the morning.
Summer.
Vertumnus, call Haruest.
Vertumnus.
Haruest, by west, and by north, by south and
southeast, shewe thy selfe like a beast. Goodman Haruest
yeoman, come in, and say what you can: roome for the sithe
and the siccles there.
Enter Haruest with a sythe on his neck, & all his reapers with siccles, and a great black bowle with a posset in it, borne before him: they come in singing.
Merry, merry, merry, cheary, cheary, cheary,
Trowle the black bowle to me,
Hey derry, derry, with a poupe and a lerry,
Ile trowle it againe to thee:
Hooky, hooky, we haue shorne,
and we haue bound,
And we haue brought Haruest
home to towne.
Summer.
Haruest, the Bayly of my husbandry,
What plenty hast thou heapt into our Barnes?
I hope thou hast sped well thou art so blithe.
Haruest.
Sped well, or ill sir, I drinke to you on the same:
Is your throate cleare to helpe vs to sing, booky, booky?
Heere they all sing after him,
[Reapers.]
Hooky, hooky, we haue shorne,
and we haue bound,
And we haue brought haruest
home to towne.
Autumne.
Thou Coridon, why answer'st not direct?
Haruest.
Answere? why friend, I am no tapster, to say, Anon,
anon, sir: but leaue you to molest me, goodman tawny
leaues, for feare (as the prouerbe sayes, leaue is light) so I mow
off all your leaues with my sithe.
Mocke not, & mowe not too long you were best,
For feare we whet not your sythe vpon your pate.
Summer.
Since thou art so peruerse in answering,
Haruest, heare what complaints are brought to me.
Thou art accused by the publike voyce,
For an ingrosser of the common store,
A Carle, that hast no conscience, nor remorse,
But doost impouerish the fruitfull earth,
To make thy garners rise vp to the heauens.
To whom giuest thou? who feedeth at thy boord?
No almes, but vnreasonable gaine,
Disgests what thy huge yron teeth deuoure:
Small beere, course bread, the hynds and beggers cry,
Whilest thou with holdest both the mault and flowre,
And giu'st vs branne, and water, (fit for dogs.)
Haruest.
Hooky, hooky, if you were not my Lord, I would
say you lye. First and formost you say I am a Grocer. A
Grocer is a citizen: I am no citizen, therefore no Grocer. A
hoorder vp of graine: that's false; for not so much but my elbows
eate wheate euery time I leane on them. A Carle: that is
as much to say, as a conny-catcher of good fellowship. For that
one word, you shall pledge me a carouse: eate a spoonfull of
the curd to allay your choller. My mates and fellowes, sing no
more, Merry, merry: but weep out a lamētable hooky, hooky,
and let your Sickles cry, Sicke, sicke, and very sicke, & sicke,
and for the time; for Haruest your master is abusde without
reason or rime. I haue no conscience I; Ile come neerer to
you, and yet I am no scabbe, nor no louse. Can you make
proofe where euer I sold away my conscience, or pawnd it?
doe you know who would buy it, or lend any money vpon it?
I thinke I haue giuen you the pose; blow your nose, master
constable. But to say that I impouerish the earth, that I robbe
the man in the moone, that I take a purse on the top of Paules
steeple; by this straw and thrid I sweare, you are no gentleman,
no proper man, no honest man, to make mee sing, O
man in desperation.
I must giue credit vnto what I heare;
For other then I heare, attract I nought.
Haruest.
I, I, nought seeke, nought haue: an ill husband is
the first steppe to a knaue. You obiect I feede none at my
boord. I am sure, if you were a hogge, you would neuer say
so: for, surreuerence of their worships, they feed at my stable,
table, euery day. I keepe good hospitality for hennes & geese;
Gleaners are oppressed with heauy burdens of my bounty.
They rake me, and eate me to the very bones, till there be nothing
left but grauell and stones, and yet I giue no almes, but
deuoure all. They say when a man cannot heare well, you
heare with your haruest eares: but if you heard with your
haruest eares, that is, with the eares of corne, which my almescart
scatters, they would tell you, that I am the very poore mans
boxe of pitie, that there are more holes of liberality open in
haruests heart, then in a siue, or a dust-boxe. Suppose you
were a craftsman, or an Artificer, and should come to buy
corne of mee, you should haue bushels of mee, not like the
Bakers loafe, that should waygh but sixe ounces, but vsury for
your mony, thousands for one: what would you haue more?
Eate mee out of my apparell, if you will, if you suspect mee
for a miser.
Summer.
I credit thee, and thinke thou wert belide.
But tell mee, hadst thou a good crop this yeare?
Haruest.
Hay, Gods plenty, which was so sweete and so
good, that when I ierted my whip, and said to my horses but
Hay, they would goe as they were mad.
Summer.
But hay alone thou saist not; but hay-ree.
Haruest.
I sing hay-ree, that is, hay and rye: meaning, that
they shall haue hay and rye their belly-fulls, if they will draw
hard; So wee say, wa, hay, when they goe out of the way:
meaning, that they shall want hay, if they will not doe as they
should doe.
Summer.
How thriue thy oates, thy barley, and thy wheate?
Haruest.
My oates grew like a cup of beere that makes the
brewer rich: my rye like a Caualier, that weares a huge feather
in his cap, but hath no courage in his heart; had a long stalke,
a goodly huske, but nothing so great a kernell as it was wont:
my barley, euen as many a nouice is crossebitten, as soone as
euer hee peepes out of the shell, so was it frost-bitten in the
blade, yet pickt vp his crummes agayne afterward, and bade,
Fill pot, hostesse, in spite of a deare yeere. As for my
Pease and my Fetches, they are famous, and not to be
spoken of.
Autumne.
I, I, such countrey button'd caps as you,
Doe want no fetches to vndoe great townes.
Haruest.
Will you make good your words, that wee want
no fetches?
Winter.
I, that he shall.
Haruest.
Then fetch vs a cloake-bagge, to carry away
your selfe in.
Summer.
Plough-swaynes are blunt, and will taunt
bitterly.
Thou doest me the best seruice of them all:
Rest from thy labours till the yeere renues,
And let the husbandmen sing of thy prayse.
Haruest.
Rest from my labours, and let the husbandmen
sing of my prayse? Nay, we doe not meane to rest so; by your
leaue, we'le haue a largesse amongst you, e're we part.
All.
A largesse, a largesse, a largesse.
Will Summer.
Is there no man that will giue them a hisse for
a largesse?
Haruest.
No, that there is not, goodman Lundgis: I see,
charitie waxeth cold, and I thinke this house be her habitatio,
for it is not very hot; we were as good euen put vp our pipes,
and sing Merry, merry, for we shall get no money.
Here they goe out all singing,
[Reapers, Haruest.]
Merry, merry, merry, cheary, cheary, cheary,
Trowle the blacke bowle to me:
Ile trowle it againe to thee:
Hookie, bookie, we haue shorne and we haue bound,
And we haue brought haruest home to towne.
Will Summer.
Well, go thy waies, thou bundle of straw;
Ile giue thee this gift, thou shalt be a Clowne while thou liu'st.
As lustie as they are, they run on the score with Georges wife
for their posset, and God knowes who shal pay goodman Yeomans,
for his wheat sheafe: they may sing well enough, Trowle
the blacke bowle to mee, trowle the blacke bowle to mee:
for, a hundreth to one, but they will bee all drunke, e're
they goe to bedde: yet, of a slauering foole, that hath
no conceyte in any thing, but in carrying a wand in his
hand, with commendation when he runneth by the high way
side, this stripling Haruest hath done reasonable well. O that
some bodie had had the wit to set his thatcht suite on fire, and
so lighted him out: If I had had but a Iet ring on my finger, I
might haue done with him what I list; I had spoild him, I had
tooke his apparrell prisoner; for it being made of straw, & the
nature of let, to draw straw vnto it, I would haue nailde him
to the pommell of my chaire, till the play were done, and then
haue carried him to my chamber dore, and laide him at the
threshold as a wispe, or a piece of mat, to wipe my shooes on,
euerie time I come vp durtie.
Summer.
Vertumnus, call Bacchus.
Vertum.
Bacchus, Baccha, Bacchum, god Bacchus, god fate
backe, Baron of dubble beere, and bottle ale, come in & shew
thy nose that is nothing pale: backe, backe there, god barrell-bellie
may enter.
Enter Bacchus riding vpon an Asse trapt in Iuie, himselfe drest in Vine leaues, and a garland of grapes on his head: his companions hauing all Iacks in their hands, and Iuie garlands on their heads, they come in singing.
Mounsieur Mingo, for quaffing doth surpasse,
In Cuppe, in Canne, or glasse.
God Bacchus doe mee right,
And dubbe mee knight Domingo.
Bacchus.
Wherefore didst thou call mee, Vertumnus? hast
any drinke to giue mee? One of you hold my Asse while I
light: walke him vp and downe the hall, till I talke a word or
two.
Summer.
What, Bacchus? still animus in patinis, no mind
but on the pot?
Bacchus.
Why, Summer, Summer, how would'st doe, but
for rayne? What is a faire house without water comming to
it? Let mee see how a smith can worke, if hee haue not his
trough standing by him. What sets an edge on a knife? the
grindstone alone? no, the moyst element powr'd vpō it, which
grinds out all gaps, sets a poynt vpon it, & scowres it as bright
as the firmament. So, I tell thee, giue a soldier wine before he
goes to battaile, it grinds out all gaps, it makes him forget all
scarres and wounds, and fight in the thickest of his enemies, as
though hee were but at foyles, amongst his fellows. Giue a
scholler wine, going to his booke, or being about to inuent, it
sets a new poynt on his wit, it glazeth it, it scowres it, it giues
him acumen. Plato saith, vinum esse somitem quēdam, et incitabilem
ingenij virtutisque. Aristotle saith, Nulla est magna scientia
absque mixtura dementiæ. There is no excellent knowledge
without mixture of madnesse. And what makes a man more
madde in the head then wine? Qui bene vult poyein, debet axte
pinyen, he that will doe well, must drinke well. Prome, prome,
potum prome: Ho butler, a fresh pot. Nunc est bibēdum, nunc pede
libero terra pulsanda: a pox on him that leaues his drinke behinde
him; hey Rendouow.
Summer.
It is wines custome, to be full of words.
I pray thee, Bacchus, giue vs vicissitudinem loquendi.
Bacchus.
A fiddlesticke, ne're tell me I am full of words.
Fœcunds calices, quem non fecere desertum: aut epi, aut abi, eyther
take your drinke, or you are an infidell.
Summer.
I would about thy vintage question thee:
How thriue thy vines? hadst thou good store of grapes?
Bac.
Vinum quasivenenum, wine is poyson to a sicke body; a
sick body is no sound body; Ergo, wine is a pure thing, & is poyson
to all corruption. Try-lill, the hūters hoope to you: ile stand
to it, Alexander was a braue man, and yet an arrant drunkard.
Winter.
Fye, drunken sot, forget'st thou where thou art?
My Lord askes thee, what vintage thou hast made?
Bac.
Our vintage, was a vintage, for it did not work vpon the
aduantage, it came in the vauntgard of Summer, & winds and
stormes met it by the way, and made it cry, Alas and welladay.
Summer.
That was not well, but all miscaried not?
Bac.
Faith, shal I tel you no lye? Because you are my coūtryman,
& so forth, & a good fellow, is a good fellow, though he
haue neuer a penny in his purse: We had but euen pot luck, a
little to moysten our lips, and no more. That same Sol, is a Pagan,
and a Proselite, hee shinde so bright all summer, that he
burnd more grapes, then his beames were worth, were euery
beame as big as a weauers beame. A fabis abstinendum: faith, he
shuld haue abstaind: for what is flesh & blud without his liquor?
Autumne.
Thou want'st no liquor, nor no flesh and bloud.
I pray thee may I aske without offence?
How many tunnes of wine hast in thy paunch?
Me thinks, that, built like a round church,
Should yet haue some of Iulius Cæsars wine:
I warrant, 'twas not broacht this hundred yere.
Bacchus.
Hear'st, thou dow-belly, because thou talkst, and
talkst, & dar'st not drinke to me a black Iack, wilt thou giue me
leaue, to broach this little kilderkin of my corps, against thy
backe? I know thou art but a mycher, & dar'st not stand me. A
Knockes the Iacke vpon his thumbe.
vous, moūsieur Winter, a frolick vpsy freese, crosse, ho, super nagulū.
Winter.
Grammercy, Bacchus, as much as though I did.
For this time thou must pardon me perforce.
Bacchus.
What, giue me the disgrace? Goe to, I say, I am no
Pope, to pardō any man. Ran, ran, tarra, cold beere makes good
bloud. S. George for Englād: somewhat is better then nothing.
Let me see, hast thou done me iustice? why so: thou art a king,
though there were no more kings in the cards but the knaue.
Summer, wilt thou haue a demy culuering, that shall cry husty
tusty, and make thy cup flye fine meale in the Element?
Summer.
No, keepe thy drinke, I pray thee, to thy selfe.
Bacchus.
This Pupillonian in the fooles coate, shall haue a cast
of martins, & a whiffe. To the health of Captaine Rinocerotry:
looke to it, let him haue weight and measure.
Will Summer.
What an asse is this? I cannot drinke so much,
though I should burst.
Bacchus.
Foole, doe not refuse your moyst sustenance; come,
come, dogs head in the pot, doe what you are borne to.
Will Summer.
If you will needs make me a drunkard against
my will, so it is, ile try what burthen my belly is of.
Bacchus.
Crouch, crouch on your knees, foole, when you
pledge god Bacchus.
Here Will Sūmer drinks, & they sing about him. Bacchus begins.
All.
Mounsieur Mingo for quaffing did surpasse,
In Cup, in Can, or glasse.
Bacchus.
Ho, wel shot, a tutcher, a tutcher: for quaffing Toy
doth passe, in cup, in canne, or glasse.
All.
God Bacchus doe him right, and dubbe him knight.
Bac.
Rise vp Sir Robert Tospot.
Here he dubs Will Summer with the black Iacke.
Sum.
No more of this, I hate it to the death.
No such deformer of the soule and sence,
As is this swynish damn'd-borne drunkennes.
Bacchus, for thou abusest so earths fruits,
Impris'ned liue in cellars and in vawtes,
Let none commit their counsels vnto thee:
Thy wrath be fatall to thy dearest friends,
Vnarmed runne vpon thy foemens swords,
Neuer feare any plague, before it fall:
Dropsies, and watry tympanies haunt thee,
Thy lungs with surfeting be putrified,
To cause thee haue an odious stinking breath,
Slauer and driuell like a child at mouth,
Let thy owne kinsmen laugh, when thou complaynst,
And many teares gayne nothing but blind scoffes.
This is the guerdon due to drunkennes;
Shame, sicknes, misery, followe excesse.
Bacchus.
Now on my honor, Sim Summer, thou art a bad
member, a Dunse, a mungrell, to discredit so worshipfull an
arte after this order. Thou hast curst me, and I will blesse thee:
Neuer cup of Nipitaty in London, come neere thy niggardly
habitation, I beseech the gods of good fellowship, thou maist
fall into a consumption with drinking smal beere. Euery day
maist thou eate fish, and let it sticke in the midst of thy maw,
for want of a cup of wine to swim away in. Venison be Venenum
to thee: & may that Vintner haue the plague in his house,
that sels thee a drop of claret to kill the poyson of it. As many
wounds maist thou haue, as Cæsar had in the Senate house,
and get no white wine to wash them with: And to conclude,
pine away in melancholy and sorrow, before thou hast the
fourth part of a dramme of my Iuice to cheare vp thy spirits.
Summer.
Hale him away, he barketh like a wolfe,
It is his drinke, not hee that rayles on vs.
Bacchus.
Nay soft, brother Summer, back with that foote,
here is a snuffe in the bottome of the Iack, inough to light a
man to bed withall, wee'le leaue no flocks behind vs whatsoeuer
wee doe.
Summer.
Go dragge him hence I say when I commaund.
Bacchus.
Since we must needs goe, let's goe merrily.
Farewell, sir Robert Tosse-pot: sing amayne, Mounsieur
Myngo, whilest I mount vp my Asse.
Here they goe out singing, Mounsieur Myngo, as they came in.
Will Summer.
Of all gods, this Bacchus is the ill-fauourd'st
misshapen god that euer I sawe. A poxe on him, he hath cristned
me with a newe nickname of sir Robert Tosse-pot, that will
not part frō me this twelmonth. Ned fooles clothes are so perfumde
with the beere he powrd on me, that there shall not be a
Dutchmā within 20, mile, but he'le smel out & claime kindred
of him. What a beastly thing is it, to bottle vp ale in a mās belly,
whē a man must set his guts on a gallō pot last, only to purchase
the alehouse title of a boone companion? Carowse, pledge me and
you dare: S'wounds, ile drinke with thee for all that euer thou
art worth. It is euē as 2. men should striue who should run furthest
into the sea for a wager. Me thinkes these are good houshold
termes; Wil it please you to be here, sir? I cōmend me to
you: shall I be so bold as trouble you? sauing your tale I drink
to you. And if these were put in practise but a yeare or two in
tauernes, wine would soone fall from six and twentie pound a
tunne, and be beggers money, a penie a quart, and take vp his
Inne with wast beere in the almes tub. I am a sinner as others:
I must not say much of this argument. Euerie one when hee is
whole, can giue aduice to them that are sicke. My masters, you
that be good fellowes, get you into corners, and soupe off your
prouender closely: report hath a blister on her tongue: open
tauerns are tel-tales. Non peccat, quicunq; potest peccasse negare.
Summer.
Ile call my seruants to account said I?
A bad account: worse seruants no man hath.
Quos credis fidos effuge, tutus eris:
The prouerbe I haue prou'd to be too true,
Totidem domi hostes habemus, quot seruos.
And that wise caution of Democritus,
Seruus necessaria possessio, non autem dulcis:
No where fidelitie and labour dwels.
Hope, yong heads count to build on had I wist.
Conscience but few respect, all hunt for gaine:
Except the Cammell haue his prouender
Hung at his mouth, he will not trauell on.
Tyresias to Narcissus promised
Much prosperous hap, and many golden daies,
If of his beautie he no knowledge tooke.
Knowledge breeds pride, pride breedeth discontent.
Blacke discontent, thou vrgest to reuenge.
Reuenge opes not her eares to poore mens praiers.
That dolt destruction, is she without doubt,
Simplicitie and plainnesse, you I loue:
Hence double diligence, thou mean'st deceit.
Those that now serpent-like creepe on the ground,
And seeme to eate the dust, they crowch so low:
If they be disappointed of their pray,
Most traiterously will trace their tailes and sting.
Yea, such as like the Lapwing build their nests
In a mans dung, come vp by drudgerie,
Will be the first, that like that foolish bird,
Will follow him with yelling and false cries.
Well sung a shepheard (that now sleepes in skies)
Dumbe swaines do loue, & not vaine chattering pies,
In mountaines Poets say Eccho is hid,
For her deformitie and monstrous shape:
Those mountaines are the houses of great Lords,
Where Scenter with his hundreth voices sounds
A hundreth trumpes at once with rumor fild:
A woman they imagine her to be,
Because that sexe keepes nothing close they heare:
And that's the reason magicke writers frame,
There are more witches women then of men;
For women generally for the most part,
Of secrets more desirous of, then men,
Which hauing got, they haue no power to hold.
In these times had Ecchoes first fathers liu'd,
No woman, but a man she had beene faind.
(Though women yet will want no newes to prate.)
For men (meane men) the skumme & drosse of all,
Will talke and babble of they know not what,
Vpbraid, depraue, and taunt, they care not whom:
Surmises passe for sound approued truthes:
Familiaritie and conference,
That were the sinewes of societies,
Are now for vnderminings onely vsde,
And novell wits, that loue none but themselues,
Seeking each other to o'rethrow his mate.
O friendship, thy old temple is defac't.
Embrasing euery guilefull curtesie,
Hath ouergrowne fraud-wanting honestie.
Examples liue but in the idle schooles:
Sinon beares all the sway in princes courts:
Sicknes, be thou my soules phisition:
Bring the Apothecarie death with thee.
In earth is hell, true hell felicitie,
Compared with this world the den of wolues.
Aut.
My Lord, you are too passionate without cause.
Winter.
Grieue not for that which cannot be recal'd:
Is it your seruants carelesnesse you plaine?
Tullie by one of his owne slaues was slaine.
The husbandman close in his bosome nurst
A subtill snake, that after wrought his bane.
Autumne.
Seruos fideles liberalitas facit:
Where on the contrarie, seruitutem:
Those that attend vpon illiberall Lords,
Whose couetize yeelds nought els but faire lookes,
Euen of those faire lookes make their gainfull vse.
For as in Ireland and in Denmarke both
Witches for gold will sell a man a wind,
Which in the corner of a napkin wrapt,
Shall blow him safe vnto what coast he will:
So make ill seruants sale of their Lords wind,
Which wrapt vp in a piece of parchment,
Blowes many a knaue forth danger of the law.
Summer.
Inough of this, let me go make my will.
Ah it is made, although I hold my peace,
These two will share betwixt them what I haue.
The surest way to get my will perform'd,
Is to make my executour my heire:
And he, if all be giuen him and none els,
Vnfallibly will see it well perform'd.
Ill growes the tree affordeth ne're a graft.
Had I some issue to sit in my throne,
My griefe would die, death should not heare mee grone.
But when perforce these must enioy my wealth,
Which thanke me not, but enter't as a pray,
Bequeath'd it is not, but cleane cast away.
Autumne, be thou successor of my seat:
Hold, take my crowne: looke how he graspes for it.
Thou shalt not haue it yet: but hold it too;
Why should I keep that needs I must forgo?
Winter.
Then (dutie laid aside) you do me wrong:
I am more worthie of it farre then he.
He hath no skill nor courage for to rule,
A weather-beaten banckrout asse it is,
That scatters and consumeth all he hath:
Eche one do plucke from him without controll.
He is nor hot nor cold, a sillie soule,
That faine would please eche party, if so he might:
He and the spring are schollers fauourites.
What schollers are, what thriftles kind of men,
Your selfe be iudge, and iudge of him by them.
When Cerberus was headlong drawne from hell,
He voided a blacke poison from his mouth,
Called Aconitum, whereof inke was made:
That inke with reeds first laid on dried barkes,
Seru'd men a while to make rude workes withall,
Till Hermes, secretarie to the Gods,
Or Hermes Trismegistus as some will,
Wearie with grauing in blind characters,
And figures of familiar beasts and plants,
Inuented letters to write lies withall.
In them he pend the fables of the Gods,
The gyants warre, and thousand tales besides.
After eche nation got these toyes in vse,
There grew vp certaine drunken parasites,
Would promise monarchs immortalitie:
They vomited in verse all that they knew,
Found causes and beginnings of the world,
Fetcht pedegrees of mountaines and of flouds,
From men and women whom the Gods transform'd:
If any towne or citie, they pass'd by,
Had in compassion (thinking them mad men)
Forborne to whip them, or imprison them,
That citie was not built by humane hands,
T'was raisde by musique, like Megara walles,
Apollo, poets patron founded it,
Because they found one fitting fauour there:
Musæus, Lynus, Homer, Orpheus,
Were of this trade, and thereby wonne their fame.
Will. Summer.
Famamalum, quo non velocius vllum.
Winter.
Next them, a company of ragged knaues,
Sun-bathing beggers, lazie hedge-creepers,
Sleeping face vpwards in the fields all night,
Dream'd strange deuices of the Sunne and Moone,
And they like Gipsies wandring vp and downe,
Told fortunes, iuggled, nicknam'd all the starres,
And were of idiots term'd Philosophers:
Such was Pithagoras the silencer,
Prometheus, Thales, Milesius,
Who would all things of water should be made:
Anaximander, Anaximenes,
That positiuely said the aire was God;
Zenocrates, that said there were eight Gods:
And Cratoniates, Alcmeon too,
Who thought the Sun and Moone, & stars were gods:
The poorer sort of them that could get nought,
Profest, like beggerly Franciscan Friers,
And the strict order of the Capouchins,
A voluntarie wretched pouertie,
Contempt of gold, thin fare, and lying hard:
Diogenes the Cinicke and the Dogge,
Was taken coyning money in his Cell.
Wil Summer.
What an olde Asse was that? Me thinks, hee
should haue coynde Carret rootes rather: for as for money, he
had no vse for, except it were to melt, and soder vp holes in
his tub withall.
Winter.
It were a whole Olimpiades worke to tell,
How many diuillish, ergo armed arts,
Sprung all as vices, of this Idlenesse:
For euen as souldiers not imployde in warres,
But liuing loosely in a quiet state,
Not hauing where withall to maintaine pride,
Nay scarce to finde their bellies any foode,
Nought but walke melancholie, and deuise
How they may cousen Marchāts, fleece young heires,
Creepe into fauour by betraying men,
Robbe churches, beg waste toyes, court city dames,
Who shall vndoe their husbands for their sakes:
The baser rabble how to cheate and steale,
And yet be free from penaltie of death.
So those word-warriers, lazy star-gazers,
Vsde to no labour, but to lowze themselues,
Had their heads fild with coosning fantasies,
They plotted how to make their pouertie,
Better esteemde of, then high Soueraignty:
They thought how they might plant a heauē on earth,
Whereof they would be principall lowe gods,
That heauen they called Contemplation,
As much to say, as a most pleasant slouth,
Which better I cannot compare then this,
That if a fellow licensed to beg,
Should all his life time go from faire to faire,
And buy gape-seede, hauing no businesse else.
That contemplation like an aged weede,
Engendred thousand sects, and all those sects
Grammarians some: and wherein differ they
From beggers, that professe the Pedlers French?
The Poets next, slouinly tatterd slaues,
That wander, and sell Ballets in the streetes.
Historiographers others there be,
And the like lazers by the high way side,
That for a penny, or a halfe-penny,
Will call each knaue a good fac'd Gentleman,
Giue honor vnto Tinkers, for good Ale,
Preferre a Cobler fore the Black prince farre,
If he bestowe but blacking of their shooes:
And as it is the Spittle-houses guise,
Ouer the gate to write their founders names,
Or on the outside of their walles at least,
In hope by their examples others moou'd,
Will be more bountifull and liberall,
So in the forefront of their Chronicles,
Or Peroratione operis,
They learnings benefactors reckon vp,
Who built this colledge, who gaue that Free-schoole,
What King or Queene aduaunced Schollers most,
And in their times what writers flourished;
Rich men and magistrates whilest yet they liue,
They flatter palpably, in hope of gayne.
Smooth-tounged Orators, the fourth in place,
Lawyers, our common-wealth intitles them,
Meereswash-bucklers, and ruffianly mates,
That will for twelue pence make a doughtie fray,
Set men for strawes together by the eares.
Skie measuring Mathematicians;
Golde-breathing Alcumists also we haue,
Both which are subtill witted humorists,
That get their meales by telling miracles,
Which they haue seene in trauailing the skies,
Vaine boasters, lyers, make-shifts, they are all,
Bring forth no action worthie of their bread.
What should I speake of pale physicions?
Who as Fismenus non nasatus was,
(Vpon a wager that his friends had laid)
Hir'de to liue in a priuie a whole yeare:
So are they hir'de for lucre and for gaine,
All their whole life to smell on excrements.
Wil. Summer.
Very true, for I haue heard it for a prouerbe
many a time and oft, Hunc os fatidum, fah, he stinkes like a phisicion.
Winter.
Innumerable monstrous practises,
Hath loytring contemplation brought forth more,
Which t'were too long particular to recite:
Suffice they all conduce vnto this end,
To banish labour, nourish slothfulnesse,
Pamper vp lust, deuise newfangled sinnes.
Nay I will iustifie there is no vice,
Which learning and vilde knowledge brought not in,
Or in whose praise some learned haue not wrote.
The arte of murther Machiauel hath pend:
Whore dome hath Ouid to vphold her throne:
And Aretine of late in Italie,
Whose Cortigiana toucheth bawdes their trade.
Gluttonie Epicurus doth defend,
And bookes of th'arte of cookerie confirme:
Of which Platina hath not writ the least.
Drunkennesse of his good behauiour
Hath testimoniall from where he was borne:
That pleasant worke de arte bibendi,
A drunken Dutchman spued outfew yeares since:
Nor wanteth sloth (although sloths plague bee want)
His paper pillers for to leane vpon,
The praise of nothing pleades his worthinesse.
Follie Erasmus sets a flourish on.
For baldnesse, a bald asse, I haue forgot,
Slouenrie Grobianus magnifieth:
Sodomitrie a Cardinall commends,
And Aristotle necessarie deemes.
In briefe all bookes, diuinitie except,
Are nought but tales of the diuels lawes,
Poyson wrapt vp in sugred words,
Mans pride, damnations props, the worlds abuse:
Then censure (good my Lord) what bookemen are
If they be pestilent members in a state;
He is vnfit to sit at sterne of state,
That fauours such as will o'rethrow his state:
Blest is that gouernment where no arte thriues,
Vox populi, vox Dei:
The vulgars voice, it is the voice of God.
Yet Tully saith, Non est consilium in vulgo, non ratio, non discrimen, non differentia:
Themistocles hauing spent all his time
In studie of Philosophie and artes,
And noting well the vanitie of them,
Wisht with repentance, for his follie past,
Some would teach him th'arte of obliuion,
How to forget the arts that he had learnd.
And Cicero, whom we alleadg'd before,
(As saith Valerius) stepping into old age,
Despised learning, lothed eloquence.
Naso, that could speake nothing but pure verse,
And had more wit then words to vtter it,
And words as choise as euer Poet had,
Cride and exclaimde in bitter agonie,
When knowledge had corrupted his chaste mind,
Discite qui sapitis non hæc quæ scimus inertes,
Sed trepidas acies, & fera bella sequi.
You that be wise, and euer meane to thriue,
O studie not these toyes we sluggards vse,
Young men, yong boyes, beware of Schoolemasters,
They will infect you, marre you, bleare your eyes:
They seeke to lay the curse of God on you,
Namely confusion of languages,
Wherewith those that the towre of Babel built,
Accursed were in the worldes infancie.
Latin, it was the speech of Infidels.
Logique hath nought to say in a true cause.
Philosophie is curiositie:
And Socrates was therefore put to death,
Onely for he was a Philosopher:
Abhorre, contemne, despise, these damned snares.
Will Summer.
Out vpon it, who would be a Scholler? not I,
I promise you: my minde alwayes gaue me, this learning was
such a filthy thing, which made me hate it so as I did: when I
should haue beene at schoole, construing Batte, mi fili, mi fili, mi
Batte, I was close vnder a hedge, or vnder a barne wall, playing
at spanne Counter, or Iacke in a boxe: my master beat me,
my father beat me, my mother gaue me bread and butter, yet
all this would not make me a squitter-booke. It was my destinie,
I thanke her as a most courteous goddesse, that shee hath
not cast me away vpon gibridge. O, in what a mightie vaine
am I now against Horne-bookes! Here before all this companie,
I professe my selfe an open enemy to Inke and paper. Ile
make it good vpon the Accidence body, that In speech is the
diuels Pater noster: Nownes and Pronounes, I pronounce
you as traitors to boyes buttockes, Syntaxis and Prosodia, you
are tormenters of wit, & good for nothing but to get a schoolemaster
two pence a weeke. Hang copies, flye out phrase books,
let pennes be turnd to pick tooths: bowles, cards & dice, you are
the true liberal sciēces, Ile ne're be Goosequil, gentlemē, while I liue.
Sūmer.
Winter, with patience vnto my griefe,
I haue attended thy inuectiue tale:
So much vntrueth wit neuer shadowed:
Gainst her owne bowels thou Arts weapons turn'st:
Words haue their course, the winde blowes where it lists;
He erres alone, in error that persists.
For thou gainst Autumne such exceptions tak'st,
I graunt, his ouer-seer thou shalt be,
His treasurer, protector, and his staffe,
He shall do nothing without thy consent;
Prouide thou for his weale, and his content.
Winter.
Thanks, gracious Lord: so Ile dispose of him,
As it shall not repent you of your gift.
Autumne.
On such conditions no crowne will I take.
I challenge Winter for my enemie,
A most insaciate, miserable carle,
That, to fill vp his garners to the brim,
Cares not how he indammageth the earth:
What pouerty he makes it to indure!
He ouer-bars the christall streames with yee,
That none but he and his may drinke of them:
All for a fowle Back-winter he layes vp;
Hard craggie wayes, and vncouth slippery paths
He frames, that passengers may slide and fall:
Who quaketh not, that heareth but his name?
O, but two sonnes he hath, worse then himselfe,
Christmas the one, a pinch-back, cut-throate churle,
That keepes no open house, as he should do,
Delighteth in no game or fellowship,
Loues no good deeds, and hateth talke,
But sitteth in a corner turning Crabbes,
Or coughing o're a warmed pot of Ale:
Back-winter th'other, that's his none sweet boy,
Who like his father taketh in all points,
An elfe it is, compact of enuious pride,
A miscreant, borne for a plague to men.
A monster, that deuoureth all he meetes:
Were but his father dead, so he would raigne:
Yea he would go goodneere, to deale by him,
Euilmerodach by his father dealt:
Who, when his sire was turned to an Oxe,
Full greedily snatcht vp his soueraigntie,
And thought himselfe a king without controwle.
So it fell out, seuen yeares expir'de and gone,
Nabuchodonozor came to his shape againe,
And dispossest him of the regiment:
Which my young prince no little greeuing at,
When that his father shortly after dide,
Fearing lest he should come from death againe,
As he came from an Oxe to be a man,
Wil'd that his body spoylde of couerture,
Should be cast foorth into the open fieldes,
For Birds and Rauens, to deuoure at will,
Thinking if they bare euery one of them,
A bill full of his flesh into their nests,
He would not rise, to trouble him in haste.
Will Summer.
A vertuous sonne, and Ile lay my life on't, he
was a Caualiere and a good fellow.
Winter.
Pleaseth your honor, all he sayes, is false.
For my owne part I loue good husbandrie,
But hate dishonourable couetize.
Youth ne're aspires to vertues perfect growth,
Till his wilde oates be sowne: and so the earth,
Vntill his weeds be rotted, with my frosts,
Is not for any seede, or tillage fit.
He must be purged that hath surfeited:
The fields haue surfeited with Summer fruites,
They must be purg'd, made poore, opprest with snow,
Ere they recouer their decayed pride,
For ouerbarring of the streames with Ice.
Who locks not poyson from his childrens taste?
When Winter raignes, the water is so colde,
That it is poyson, present death to those
That wash, or bathe their lims, in his colde streames.
The better it makes vs to heed our steps,
And looke e're we presume too rashly on:
If that my sonnes haue misbehau'd themselues,
A Gods name let them answer't fore my Lord.
Autumne.
Now I beseech your honor it may be so.
Summer.
With all my heart: Vertumnus, go for them.
Wil Summer.
This same Harry Baker is such a necessary fellow
to go on arrants, as you shall not finde in a country. It is
pitty but he should haue another siluer arrow, if it be but for
crossing the stage, with his cap on.
Summer.
To wearie out the time vntill they come,
Sing me some dolefull ditty to the Lute,
That may complaine my neere approching death.
The Song.
This world vncertaine is,
Fond are lifes lustfull ioyes,
Death proues them all but toyes,
None from his darts can flye,
I am sick, I must dye.
Lord haue mercy on vs.
Gold cannot buy you health,
Phisick himselfe must fade.
All things, to end are made,
The plague full swift goes bye,
I am sick, I must dye,
Lord haue mercy on vs.
Which wrinckles will deuoure,
Brightnesse falls from the ayre,
Queenes haue died yong, and faire,
Dust hath closde Helens eye.
I am sick, I must dye,
Lord haue mercy on vs.
Wormes feed on Hector braue,
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds ope her gate,
Come, come, the hells do crye.
I am sick, I must dye,
Lord haue mercy on vs.
Tasteth deaths bitternesse,
Hels executioner,
Hath no eares for to heare,
VVhat vaine art can reply.
I am sick, I must dye,
Lord haue mercy on vs.
To welcome destiny:
Heauen is our heritage,
Earth but a players stage,
I am sick, I must dye,
Lord haue mercy on vs.
Summer.
Beshrew mee, but thy song hath moued mee.
Will Summer.
Lord haue mercy on vs, how lamentable 'tis!
Enter Vertumnus with Christmas and Backwinter.
Vertumnus.
I haue dispatcht, my Lord, I haue brought you
them you sent mee for.
Will Sūmer.
What saist thou? hast thou made a good batch?
I pray thee giue mee a new loafe.
Summer.
Christmas, how chaūce thou com'st not as the rest,
Accompanied with some musique, or some song?
A merry Carroll would haue grac't thee well,
Thy ancestors haue vs'd it heretofore.
Christmas.
I, antiquity was the mother of ignorance: this
latter world that sees but with her spectacles, hath spied a pad
in those sports more then they could.
Summer.
What, is't against thy conscience for to sing?
Christmas.
No nor to say, by my troth, if I may get a good
bargaine.
Summer.
Why, thou should'st spend, thou should'st not
care to get. Christmas is god of hospitality.
Christmas.
So will he neuer be of good husbandry. I may
say to you, there is many an old god, that is now growne out
of fashion. So is the god of hospitality.
Summer.
What reason canst thou giue he should be left?
Christmas.
No other reason, but that Gluttony is a sinne, &
too many dunghils are infectious. A mans belly was not made
for a poudring beefe tub: to feede the poore twelue dayes, &
let them starue all the yeare after, would but stretch out the
guts wider then they should be, & so make famine a bigger den
in their bellies, then he had before. I should kill an oxe, & haue
some such fellow as Milo to come and eate it vp at a mouth-full.
Or like the Sybarites, do nothing all one yeare, but bid ghestes
against the next yeare. The scraping of trenchers you thinke
would put a man to no charges. It is not a hundreth pound a
yeare would serue the scullions in dishclouts. My house stands
vpon vaults, it will fall if it be ouer-loden with a multitude. Besides,
haue you neuer read of a city that was vnderminde and
destroyed by Mowles? So, say I keepe hospitalitie, and a whole
faire of beggers bid me to dinner euery day, what with making
legges, when they thanke me at their going away, and setling
their wallets handsomly on their backes, they would shake as
many lice on the ground, as were able to vndermine my house,
and vndoe me vtterly: It is their prayers would builde it againe,
if it were ouerthrowne by this vermine, would it? I pray, who
begun feasting, and gourmandize first, but Sardanapalus, Nero,
Heliogabalus, Commodus, tyrāts, whoremasters, vnthrifts? Some
call them Emperours, but I respect no crownes, but crownes in
the purse. Any mā may weare a siluer crowne, that hath made a
fray in Smithfield, & lost but a peece of his braine pan. And to
tell you plaine, your golden crownes are little better in substance,
and many times got after the same sort.
Summer.
Grosse-headed sot, how light he makes of state!
Autumne.
Who treadeth not on stars when they are fallen?
Who talketh not of states, when they are dead?
A foole conceits no further then he sees,
He hath no scence of ought, but what he feeles.
Christmas.
I, I, such wise men as you, come to begge at such
fooles doores as we be.
Autumne.
Thou shutst thy dore, how should we beg of thee?
No almes but thy sincke carries from thy house.
Wil Summer.
And I can tell you, that's as plentifull almes for
the plague, as the sheriffes tub to them of Newgate.
Autumne.
For feasts thou keepest none, cankers thou feedst:
The wormes will curse thy flesh another day,
Because it yeeldeth them no fatter pray.
Christmas.
What wormes do another day I care not, but Ile
be sworne vpon a whole Kilderkin of single Beere, I will not
haue a worme-eaten nose like a Pursiuant, while I liue. Feasts
are but puffing vp of the flesh, the purueyers for diseases, trauell,
cost, time ill spent. O, it were a trim thing to send, as the
Romanes did, round about the world for prouision for one banquet.
I must rigge ships to Samos for Peacocks, to Paphos for
Pigeons, to Austria for Oysters, to Phasis for Phesants, to Arabia
for Phænixes, to Meander for Swans, to the Orcades for
Geese, to Phrigia for Woodcocks, to Malta for Cranes, to the
Isle of Man for Puffins, to Ambracia for Goates, to Tartole for
Lampreys, to Egypt for Dates, to Spaine for Chestnuts, and all
for one feast.
Wil Summer.
O sir, you need not, you may buy them at London
better cheape.
Christmas.
Liberalitas liberalitate perit, loue me a little and
loue me long: our feete must haue wherewithall to feede the
stones, our backs walles of wooll to keepe out the colde that
besiegeth our warme blood, our doores must haue barres, our
dubblets must haue buttons. Item, for an olde sword to scrape
the stones before the dore with, three halfe-pence for stitching
a wodden tanckard that was burst. These Water-bearers will
empty the conduit and a mans coffers at once. Not a Porter
that brings a man a letter, but will haue his penny. I am afraid
to keepe past one or two seruants, least hungry knaues they
should rob me: and those I keepe, I warrant I do not pamper
vp too lusty, I keepe them vnder with red Herring and poore
Iohn all the yeare long. I haue dambd vp all my chimnies for
feare (though I burne nothing but small cole) my house should
be set on fire with the smoake. I will not deny, but once in a
dozen yeare when there is a great rot of sheepe, and I know
not what to do with them, I keepe open house for all the beggers,
in some of my out-yardes, marry they must bring bread
with them, I am no Baker.
Wil Summer.
As good men as you, and haue thought no
scorne to serue their prentiships on the pillory.
Summer.
Winter, is this thy sonne? hear'st how he talkes?
Winter.
I am his father, therefore may not speake,
Summer.
Christmas, I tell thee plaine, thou art a snudge.
And wert not that we loue thy father well,
Thou shouldst haue felt, what longs to Auarice.
It is the honor of Nobility,
To keepe high dayes and solemne festiuals:
Then, to set their magnificence to view,
To frolick open with their fauorites,
And vse their neighbours with all curtesie,
When thou in huggar mugger spend'st thy wealth.
Amend thy maners, breathe thy rusty gold:
Bounty will win thee loue, when thou art old.
Wil Summer.
I, that bounty would I faine meete, to borrow
money of, he is fairely blest now a dayes, that scapes blowes
when he begges. Verba dandi & reddendi, goe together in the
Grammer rule: there is no giuing but with condition of restoring:
ah Benedicite, well is he hath no necessitie of gold ne of sustenance;
slowe good hap comes by chance; flattery best fares;
Arts are but idle wares; faire words want giuing hāds; the Leto
begs that hath no lands; fie on thee thou scuruy knaue, that hast
nought, and yet goest braue; a prison be thy death bed, or be
hangd all saue the head.
Summer.
Back-winter, stand foorth.
Vertum.
Stand forth, stād forth, hold vp your head, speak out.
Back-winter.
What, should I stand? or whether, should I go?
Summer.
Autumne accuseth thee of sundry crimes,
Which heere thou art to cleare, or to confesse.
Back-winter.
With thee, or Autumne, haue I nought to do:
I would you were both hanged face to face.
Summer.
Is this the reuerence that thou ow'st to vs?
Back-winter.
Why not? what art thou?
Shalt thou alwayes liue?
Autumne.
It is the veriest Dog in Christendome.
Winter.
That's for he barkes at such a knaue as thou.
Back-winter.
Would I could barke the sunne out of the sky,
Turne Moone and starres to frozen Meteors,
With tempest of my breath, turne vp high trees,
On mountaines heape vp second mounts of snowe,
Which melted into water, might fall downe,
As fell the deluge on the former world.
I hate the ayre, the fire, the Spring, the yeare,
And what so e're brings mankinde any good.
O that my lookes were lightning to blast fruites!
Would I with thunder presently might dye,
So I might speake in thunder, to slay men.
Earth, if I cannot iniure thee enough,
Ile bite thee with my teeth, Ile scratch thee thus,
Ile beate downe the partition with my heeles,
Which as a mud-vault seuers hell and thee.
Spirits, come vp, 'tis I that knock for you,
One that enuies the world, farre more then you:
Come vp in millions, millions are to few,
To execute the malice I intend.
Summer.
Oscelus inauditum, O vox damnatorum!
Not raging Hæcuba, whose hollow eyes
Gaue sucke to fiftie sorrowes at one time,
That midwife to so many murders was,
Vsde halfe the execrations that thou doost.
Back-winter.
More I wil vse, if more I may preuaile:
Back-winter comes but seldome foorth abroad,
But when he comes, he pincheth to the proofe;
Winter is milde, his sonne is rough and sterne.
Ouid could well write of my tyrranny,
When he was banisht to the frozen Zoane.
Summer.
And banisht be thou frō my fertile bounds.
Winter, imprison him in thy darke Cell,
Or with the windes, in bellowing caues of brasse,
Let sterne Hipporlatos locke him vp safe,
Ne're to peepe foorth, but when thou faint and weake
Want'st him to ayde thee in thy regiment.
Back-winter.
I will peepe foorth, thy kingdome to supplant:
And then sole Monarch will I sit and thinke,
How I may banish thee, as thou doost me.
Winter.
I see my downefall written in his browes:
Conuay him hence, to his assigned hell.
Fathers are giuen to loue their sonnes too well.
Wil Summer.
No by my troth, nor mothers neither, I am sure
I could neuer finde it. This Back-winter playes a rayling part to
no purpose, my small learning findes no reason for it, except as
a Back-winter or an after winter is more raging tempestuous,
and violent then the beginning of Winter, so he brings him in
stamping and raging as if he were madde, when his father is a
iolly milde quiet olde man, and stands still and does nothing.
The court accepts of your meaning; you might haue writ in
the margent of your play-booke, Let there be a fewe rushes
laide in the place where Back-winter shall tumble, for feare of
raying his cloathes: or set downe, Enter Back-winter, with his
boy, bringing a brush after him, to take off the dust if need require.
But you will ne're haue any ward-robe wit while you
liue. I pray you holde the booke well, we be not nonplus in the
latter end of the play.
Summer.
My last will, which I will that you performe:
My crowne I haue disposde already of.
Item, I giue my withered flowers, and herbes,
Vnto dead corses, for to decke them with,
My shady walkes to great mens seruitors,
Who in their masters shadowes walke secure,
My pleasant open ayre, and fragrantsmels,
To Croyden and the grounds abutting round,
My heate and warmth to toyling labourers,
My long dayes to bondmen, and prisoners,
My short nights to young married soules,
My drought and thirst, to drunkards quenchlesse throates,
My fruites to Autumne my adopted heire,
My murmuring springs, musicians of sweete sleepe,
To murmuring male-contents, with their well tun'de cares,
Do lull their eares asleepe, listning themselues.
And finally, O words, now clense your course,
Vnto Eliza that most sacred Dame,
Whom none but Saints and Angels ought to name;
All my faire dayes remaining, I bequeath
To waite vpon her till she be returnd.
Autumne, I charge thee, when that I am dead,
Be prest and seruiceable at her beck,
Present her with thy goodliest ripened fruites,
Vnclothe no Arbors where she euer sate,
Touch not a tree, thou thinkst she may passe by.
And Winter, with thy wrythen frostie face,
Smoothe vp thy visage when thou lookst on her,
Thou neuer lookst on such bright maiestie:
A charmed circle draw about her court,
Wherein warme dayes may daunce, & no cold come,
On seas let winds make warre, not vexe her rest,
Quiet inclose her bed, thought flye her brest.
Ah gracious Queene, though Summer pine away,
Yet let thy flourishing stand at a stay,
First droupe this vniuersals aged frame,
E're any malady thy strength should tame:
Heauen raise vp pillers to vphold thy hand,
Peace may haue still his temple in thy land.
Loe, I haue said, this is the totall summe.
Autumne and Winter, on your faithfulnesse,
For the performance I do firmely builde.
Farewell, my friends, Summer bids you farewell,
Archers, and bowlers, all my followers,
A dieu, and dwell with desolation,
Silence must be your masters mansion:
Slow marching thus, discend I to the feends.
Weepe heauens, mourne earth, here Summer ends.
Gone is our sport, fled is poore Croydens pleasure:
Short dayes, sharpe dayes, long nights come on apace,
Ah who shall hide vs, from the Winters face?
Colde dooth increase, the sicknesse will not cease,
And here we lye God knowes, with little ease:
From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliuer vs.
Trades cry, Woe worth, that euer they were borne:
The want of Terme, is towne and Cities harme,
Close chambers we do want, to keepe vs warme,
Long banished must we liue from our friends:
This lowe built house, will bring vs to our ends.
From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliuer vs.
Wil Summer.
How is't? how is't? you that be of the grauer
sort, do you thinke these youths worthy of a Plaudite for praying
for the Queene, and singing of the Letany? they are poore
fellowes I must needes say, and haue bestowed great labour in
sowing leaues, and grasse, and strawe, and mosse vpon cast
suites. You may do well to warme your hands with clapping,
before you go to bed, and send them to the tauerne with merry
Enter a little boy with an epilogue.
hearts. Here is a pretty boy comes with an Epilogue, to get
him audacity. I pray you sit still a little, and heare him say his
lesson without booke. It is a good boy, be not afraide, turne
thy face to my Lord. Thou and I will play at poutch, to morrow
morning for a breakfast. Come and sit on my knee, and
Ile daunce thee, if thou canst not indure to stand.
The Epilogue.
[A little boy.]
Vlisses
Dwarffe, and the prolocutor for the Græcians,
gaue me leaue that am a Pigmee, to doe an Embassage
to you from the Cranes: Gentlemen (for Kings are no
better) certaine humble Animals, called our Actors,
commend them vnto you; who, what offence they haue committed,
I know not (except it be in purloyning some houres out
of times treasury, that might haue beene better imployde; but
by me (the agent for their imperfections) they humbly craue
pardon, if happily some of their termes haue trodde awrye, or
their tongues stumbled vnwittingly on any mans content. In
much Corne is some Cockle; in a heape of coyne heere and
there a peece of Copper; wit hath his dregs as well as wine;
words their waste, Inke his blots, euery speech his Parenthesis,
Poetical fury, as well Crabbes as Sweetings for his Summer
fruites. Nemo sapit omnibus horis. Their folly is deceased, their
feare is yet liuing. Nothing can kill an Asse but colde: colde
entertainement, discouraging scoffes, authorized disgraces,
may kill a whole litter of young Asses of them heere at once,
that haue traueld thus farre in impudence, onely in hope to sit
a sunning in your smiles. The Romanes dedicated a Temple
to the feuer quartane, thinking it some great God, because
it shooke them so: and another, to Ill fortune in Exquilliis
a Mountaine in Roome, that it should not plague them at
Cardes and Dice. Your Graces frownes are to them shaking
feuers, your least disfauours, the greatest ill fortune that may
betide them. They can builde no Temples, but themselues
and their best indeuours, with all prostrate reuerence, they
here dedicate and offer vp, wholy to your seruice. Sis bonus, O
fælixque tuis. To make the gods merry, the cœlestiall clowne
Vulcan tun'de his polt foote, to the measures of Apolloes
Lute, and daunst a limping Gallyard in Ioues starrie hall.
To make you merry that are the Gods of Art, and guides vnto
heauen, a number of rude Vulcans, vnweldy speakers, hammer-headed
clownes (for so it pleaseth them in modestie to
name themselues) haue set their deformities to view, as it were
in a daunce here before you. Beare with their wants, lull melancholie
asleepe with their absurdities, and expect hereafter
better fruites of their industrie. Little creatures often terrifie
great beasts: the Elephant flyeth from a Ramme, the Lyon
from a Cock and from fire; the Crocodile from all Sea-fish,
the Whale from the noyse of parched bones; light toyes chase
great cares. The great foole Toy hath marde the play: Good
night, Gentlemen; I go, let him be carryed away.
Wil Summer.
Is't true Iackanapes, doo you serue me so? As
sure as this coate is too short for me, all the Points of your hoase
for this are condemnde to my pocket, if you and I e're play at
spanne Counter more. Valete, spectatores, pay for this sport
with a Plaudite, and the next time the winde blowes from this
corner, we will make you ten times as merry.
| A Pleasant Comedie, called Summers last will and Testament | |