University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—St. Paul's.
Enter Belmont and Wilford, disguised as Yeomen.
Bel.
Now, Wilford, still thy comrade when at school
Or college; when 'twas peace, thy playfellow,
Thy right-hand man in war; I'm by thee still
In simple guise of honest yeoman's son,
To do the bidding of thy fantasy.
What is't?—Why are we thus attired?—What road
Are we to take? on what adventure bound?
The argument wilt thou unfold to me
Of this romance which thus we now begin?
I see thy cheek is pale—thine eye, without
The gladsome light that speaks a heart at rest;
Still, to my questioning, answerest thou:—
“Come, don a yeoman's coat and roam with me.”—
Thy wish is done—Do mine. Unbosom thee,
For till I find thy heart, I lack my own.

Wilf.
Remember'st, Belmont, what thou saidst to me,
When such, or such, if e'er I took a wife,
I said should be the 'haviour of my bride?

Bel.
'Twas this:—“In vain premise or calculate,
How thou shalt fall in love. A fever that!
Which comes upon you, sudden as the plague,
Or intermittent! Love by rule, forsooth!—
Love by philosophy!—Thou shalt be smit
In the twinkling of an eye!—infected by
A touch!—this minute sound as mountain health,
And helpless next, as bed-rid tenant of
An hospital.” And hast thou proved it so?

Wilf.
Attend. Last week, I could not go the length
Of Ludgate Hill, but I must horse it thither.
Returning thence, a motley group of men,
Mechanics, servants, masters, old and young,
Collected round some object, which they seem'd
To gaze with most admiring wonder on,
Attracted me—What think you 'twas? A maid—
A maid attired in costless suit, but neat,
Of humble russet!—such a distance wide
Removed from any child of luxury
Or wealth, that e'en a simple ribbon knot
Denied its aid to set her bonnet off,
Or snowy coif and kerchief! But what wealth
Had nature rain'd where fortune seem'd to grudge
The poorest drop of her enriching shower!
Sight could not take it in!—the tongue would stop
Ere it could sum it half—all terms of praise
Too scant to value loveliness so rare!
At thought of winning it, the heart grow wild,
As his whom overflowing affluence
Lifts from the depth of want! There stood the maid,
Silent and motionless, with eyes on ground,
Abash'd by the reflection of herself,
Cast back upon her so on every side
From mirrors that her charms described, indeed,
By showing her their power!

Bel.
Remark'd she thee?

Wilf.
She did! My restless courser startled her;
She raised her eyes; and, lo! they fix'd on mine
With look, methought, of recognition, that
I felt as though our very souls embraced,
And through me ran a thrill unknown before;
When, spiteful chance! my steed more restive grew,
Defied command alike of spur or rein,
And bore me from the maid!

Bel.
Ask'd you not who
She was?

Wilf.
No.

Bel.
No!

Wilf.
As one in jeopardy
Will lack possession of himself, nor use
Some means of succour, at his very hand,
I did not think of that, till out of reach on't!
My steed, at length, compell'd—by whom I know not—
To check his mettle, I dismounted straight
And hasten'd back on foot—but she was gone!—
If my first look of her hath been my last,
I'll never care to look on woman more!

Bel.
Thy lot is cast! I told thee, Wilford, so!
To such conclusion ever comes his work
Who makes philosophy the rule of love.
Love knows no rule, and never rule knows less
Than when obedience we'd exact from it.
'Tis an uncertain and a froward guest;
Comes to us when it lists; abides as long
As pleases it; and its own humour takes,
Whatever may be ours! You'd go in quest on't—
And lo! 'tis with you before setting out;
You'd lay down terms for its sojourning with you—
And here it is on its own terms at home;
You'd fain be rid on't, and 'tis fain to stay;
You'd thrust it out of doors, and only find
The threshold's not your own, the moment love
Sets foot within it. Mean'st to seek this maid?

Wilf.
Ay, through the world!

Bel.
I'll help thee in the search;
And if we find the city holds her not,
As far as Rumford bear me company—
Whither, this week, perforce I must repair—
And thence, where'er thou point'st, will I be thine.

Wilf.
Come on! I tell thee, if I find her not,
I'm tenant for the house the sexton builds.

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—A Chamber in Old Small's.
Enter Old Small.
Old S.
Who'd have a son—a plague—to drive him mad?
To hunt for, or to watch, from morn till night,
To coax, to scold, and with no better thrift
To-day, than yersterday! A lackwit, caught
By this and that, and held by nothing. Now
At bowls; next hour at cocking; presently
A race, a show, a feast; and, after that,
Perchance a quarrel. Anything but work.
What, Peter! Peter!

Enter Peter.
Peter.
Master, here am I.

Old S.
Well, Peter, where's my son?

Peter.
I could not find him
In all Whitechapel, seek him where I would.
I call'd in at the Cock, he wasn't there;
The Fox and Geese, but came no better speed;
The Fountain was burn'd down last Tuesday night;
The Rising Sun has stopp'd since Lady-day;
The Crown and Mitre swore at me when last
I sought him there, so thither went I not;
The Duke of Buckingham and he are out
E'er since he broke the drunken tapster's pate;
And never goes he to the Loggerheads,
Except o' Sundays.

Old S.
Peter! Peter!

Peter.
Master?

Old S.
I sore mistrust thee, Peter.

Peter.
Master! me?

Old S.
Ay, by my troth, I do! mistrust thee, sore
Thou'rt in his secrets! I'll be sworn thou art.
I saw you wink to him, on Sunday last,
At dinner-time. Last Tuesday night, you said,
'Twas only ten when he came in; and not
A minute from the bolting of the door,
The clock struck twelve—I heard it! Wednesday noon
You took a bundle in, and said 'twas from
The laundress; when I open'd it, and found
A spendthrift cloak and jerkin, spick and span
New from the tailor's board; and, worse than that,
The whole of Thursday morning wast thou out;
And when I ask'd thee where, thou couldst not tell!
Canst tell me now?

Peter.
I went an errand, sir,
To Barbican—an errand of mine own.

Old S.
An errand of thine own to Barbican!
How came I then to see thee at Mile-end?

Peter.
At Mile-end, sir?

Old S.
At Mile-end, sir! Thou runn'st
An errand well.

Peter.
You saw me at Mile-end?

Old S.
When thou wast gone to Barbican! well, sir?

Peter.
From Barbican, I went, sir, to Mile-end,
Not finding what I sought at Barbican.

Old S.
I have thee now, my piece of innocence!
My spice of honesty! my serving-man,
That runs so well on errands! At Mile-end
I saw thee not, but saw thee at the foot
Of London Bridge!

Peter.
The foot of London Bridge?

Old S.
Ay, sir!

Peter.
And where should you have seen me else?
When what I sought and miss'd, at Barbican;
And miss'd again in seeking, at Mile-end;
At London Bridge I found.

Old S.
O didst thou so?
Would thou wast o'er the bridge! thou jackanapes!
Wast thou not too at Hackney that same time?
At Greenwich down, and Chelsea up, the Thames?
At Kensington and Islington besides?
The Tower, St. Paul's, and Westminster to boot?
Didst thou not foot, from breakfast-time till noon,
Ground it would take a man a week to ride?
Thou knave of nimble toe, but nimbler tongue!
Varlet! thou went'st not to Mile-end, nor yet
To foot of London Bridge, no more than I,
That never saw thee there! I know not where
Thou went'st, but whither thou wilt go I'll tell—
To Tyburn, sirrah! [Knock.]
Let thy master in!
[Peter goes out.
His kennel never likes your chainéd dog,
And there are men like dogs, who loathe the thing,
Howe'er it profit them, to which you tie them;
Who, like your dog, would forfeit house and mess
To break their chain, and forage for a bone.
What if I take the collar from his neck,
And leave him, like the prodigal of old,
To his own will, till sad experience proves
That freedom's is the bitterest mastery.
It shall be so. He cannot come to worse,
He may to better. I will do it straight.

Enter Young Small and Peter.
Young S.
Good morning, father!

Old S.
Morning, dog! 'tis noon.

Young S.
Well then, good noon!

Old S.
Nor morning, noon, nor night,
Thou bringest good to me; so wish me none;
Where hast thou been?

Young S.
Hard by, at Master All-gain's.

Old S.
And what about?

Young S.
Playing at loggats, sir.

Old S.
At loggats? Spendthrift! Idler! Play at pence,
Shillings, and pounds!

Young S.
I do what's next to that,—
Play for them, sir.

Old S.
To lose them, cur! to lose them;
Hast thou not lost to-day?

Young S.
No, by my troth.
I'm winner, save a halfpenny, by a groat;
And should have doubled that, but for foul play.
But three we wanted, and the bowl was mine—
There stood the loggats, sir, a glorious sight,
And only three to score! and here stood I—
There's not a lad in all Whitechapel, sir,
Is such a hand at loggats!—Here stood I,
With victory in hand, sure as the bowl
With which I thus took aim—A steady aim
Is half the game at loggats, sir—You mind
We wanted only three; the bowl was mine;
There stood the loggats; here stood I—they say
I have an air at loggats!—Thus I stand,
My left leg planted like a buttress, so—
My body poised upon the right, with knee
Bent neither more nor less; I'd like you, sir,
To see me play at loggats—Look, sir—

Old S.
Pshaw!
Come, throw the bowl, and make an end.

Young S.
An end
I should have made on't, had I thrown the bowl!

Old S.
What hinder'd thee?

Young S.
A needle-full of thread!
A nail of tape! a button-mould! a piece
Of list! the vapour of a smoothing-board!
Thus, as I said, I held the bowl—'Twas all
But thrown. Ne'er out of cannon-mouth look'd shot
More certain of its aim, than from my hand
The bowl look'd at the loggats. In a twink
Six of the nine at least were lying low!
“Stop!” cries a snivelling tailor; “Master Small,
'Tis not your turn to play”—The pair of shears,
To clip me so, and thus cut up the game!

Old S.
Now mark me, Thomas Small; thou'rt twenty-one!
What art thou master of?

Young S.
Of quarter-staff,
Rackets, and fives.—I'm capital at fives!—
Hop but the ball, I'm sure to make it fly
Like bullet from a gun.—I play at bowls
And quoits.—At quoits I'm famous for a ringer!—
And then I'll putt the stone with any man.

Old S.
Master thou art, I know, of idleness!
But name to me the craft thou'rt master of.
Art fit to be a turner?

Young S.
Burn the lathe!

Old S.
A cooper?

Young S.
Sooner I'd be staved to death!

Old S.
A smith?

Young S.
As lieve you'd hammer out my brains!

Old S.
A tailor?

Young S.
Slay me with a needle first!

Old S.
What then art fit to be?

Young S.
A gentleman!

Old S.
A gentleman? Thou scarce canst read!

Young S.
What then?
That's nothing in a gentleman!

Old S.
Thou writ'st—
But such a hand, the clerk's a cunning one
That makes it out.

Young S.
That's like a gentleman!

Old S.
Thou canst not cipher. Hand thee in a bill
Of twenty items, and 'twill puzzle thee
To add it up.

Young S.
That's quite the gentleman!
Father, thou truly saidst I'm twenty-one,
And he that's twenty-one by law's a man;
So I'm a man, and as a man am free.
I'm master now of handsome twenty pounds,
Left to me by my godfather; to them
Add thou what grace thy graciousness may please,
And, in my own way, let me try the world.

Old S.
Thou'rt like a wayward horse that will not break;
The training thee's all labour, profit none,—
And thrift of fruitless toil's to give it up.
Thy will would have thee free before thine age;
Thine age, like a false friend, now backs thy will;
Both are too strong for me, and so I yield.
Wait for me. I'll be with you presently.

[Old Small goes out.
Young S.
Does he consent, and am I free indeed!
New bonds I fear'd to curb me in new rights,
And he takes off the old.—I thrive apace.
Most hopeful setting out! So fair begun
Must needs fair ending have!

Peter.
You play'd that game
Of loggats passing well.

Young S.
I play'd a game—
But not at loggats, Peter. Never more
I'll play at loggats! Peter, nought I've done
But walk, since morning, up and down Cheapside,
Feasting my eyes on ladies of the court
And its precincts, that come to bargain there.
O Peter, homely are the silks they wear
To their more silken looks! A city coif
Hath twice their pride! No tossing of the head;
No turning of the shoulder, in disdain;
But eyes that drop when they your glances catch,
As if to let you gaze! Peter, I'll make
My fortune!

Peter.
Prithee, how?

Young S.
Now try and guess!

Peter.
I could not guess, were I to try a week!

Young S.
Peter, thou canst be shrewd. Look at me, Peter;
Scan me from head to foot. Premising, now,
Thou knew'st me not, wouldst take me for the son
Of Gilbert Small, the pin-maker?

Peter.
More like
I'd take you for the son of Walter Husk,
The baker, to the east of Aldersgate.

Young S.
A baker's son! A crust hath pith, as much
As thou hast wit! Take me for son of him!

Peter.
He's tall, and so art thou.

Young S.
What's tall?—What's tall?
Pronounce me son unto a barber's pole,
Because 'tis tall! To say a man is tall
Is nothing, Peter! Look at me again,
And guess what way I'll make my fortune. There,—
I fancy that's a leg.

Peter.
It is a leg!

Young S.
And thereunto's a foot.

Peter.
Yea is there, of
A verity!

Young S.
Go to! You flatter, now.
You think me vain; but I am not vain, although
I have a leg and foot,—ay, and a face
Moreover!

Peter.
Certainly you have a face.
He'd have a face who'd say thou hadst not one.

Young S.
Thou hast a wit, good Peter. Show thee but
A thing, thou see'st it.
Enter Old Small unperceived.
Look at my waist!
Now lift your eye a little farther up,
And ponder how my shoulders spread! Dost see?
Now on the whole—to speak it modestly—
Taking me altogether, am I not
A very personable man? Now, Peter,
How shall I make my fortune?—Why, you fool!
By love!

Old S.
[Coming forward.]
Who marries thee, loves not herself:
She goes a voyage in a fair-weather bark,
That scuds while wind and current favour it,
But, in itself, hath no sea-worthiness
To stand their buffeting! Here, have thy wish;
Thou'lt find no niggard hand has fill'd that purse.
I give it thee to feed thy wantonness;
But, e'en for that, I'd have thee chary on't!
There's not a piece in it that's not made up
Of grains of fractions, every one of which
Was slowly gather'd by thy father's thrift,
And hoarded by his abstinence! It holds—
How many minutes, torn from needful sleep!
How many customary wants, denied!
How many throbs of doubting—sighs of care,
Laid out for nothing through thy waywardness!
But take it with a blessing!—Fare thee well!
Thou never yet couldst suit thee, Thomas, to
Thy father's house; but, should there come the time,
Thou know'st the door, that still was open to thee!

[Old Small goes out.
Young S.
Peter, I'll stay at home. The good old man!
He loves me, Peter! Take him back the purse,
And say I'll stay at home.

Peter.
And keep at home?
Wait like his ledger on the desk?

Young S.
I will!—
That is—I would.

Peter.
And follows, if I could.

Young S.
I fear it does.

Peter.
What's got, return'd, may not be got again.

Young S.
Peter, you counsel like an oracle!

Peter.
You've rubb'd your eyes till they are red.

Young S.
Indeed?

Peter.
Look in the glass!

Young S.
A pity not to make
My fortune, Peter! Give me back the purse.
I'll make my fortune! Go and get my trunk,
And bring it after me to Cripplegate.
Thou saidst, as I came in, thy place was lost
On my account. I'll find for thee a new one.
[Peter goes out.
There's no controlling fate; and fate, I see,
By love, has destined me to make my fortune.
So farewell to my father's house! I could
Be sad at bidding it good-bye—but will not.
I'll think on nought but how we'll meet again,
When love fulfils what fate decrees for me;
Bids Thomas Small a golden wedding hail,
And sends him home a very gentleman!

[Young Small goes out.

SCENE III.

—An Apartment in Albert's House.
Enter Albert and Emma.
Emma.
Why sigh'st thou, Albert?

Al.
This has troubled me.
On Thursday, saidst thou?

Emma.
Yes.

Al.
I recollect!
I recollect!—Was't not on Ludgate Hill?

Emma.
On Ludgate Hill.

Al.
It was. I recollect!
She grasp'd my arms, as with the start, methought,
Of sudden fear, which I accounted for,
As at the self-same moment heard I near
The furious prancing of a fiery steed!
Rode he a steed?

Emma.
He did.

Al.
Then 'twas for him!
The image, say'st thou, of my likeness, which,
Before that field, which robb'd me of my sight,
I gave to thee?

Emma.
So said our child.

Al.
Where is
That likeness?

Emma.
In her custody. 'Twas that
Betray'd to me the secret of her heart.
She pray'd it from me. Of its costly case
Despoil'd, I gave it her—and wonder'd soon
To find her, when she thought she was alone,
All lost in gazing on't, with signs that spoke
Affection more than filial, getting vent
In very tears, which, as they fell, her breast
Uneasy heaving, seem'd with sighs to number!

Al.
Such things I've heard.

Emma.
What, Albert?

Al.
I have heard
That subtle passion from a glance hath sprung,
And in a moment e'en struck root so deep,
No art could pluck it out—So! Mark'd she how
He was attired?

Emma.
He seem'd a yeoman.

Al.
So!
That hope is quench'd:—of prouder state, this thing
That seems a weed, had haply proved a flower!

Emma.
I prithee, Albert, how?

Al.
That brother, who,
Unnatural, my lands confiscate seized,
'Tis said is father to a goodly son,
The very image of his uncle, dead,
As they believe me. Hope just kindled up,
The youth, she saw, might prove that very son.
He seem'd a yeoman? For this malady
We have, perhaps, a medicine—the knowledge of
What she is, which still we've hidden from her.
That she shall know to-morrow.

Emma.
Tell it her,
And quit this wayward life. Thou'st laid by store
Enough. Forsake the land which thee forsakes;
Another one makes thee a franchised man,
Far from the ban of this! There mayst thou take
Thy title, in thy own land forfeited,
And for our fair child find befitting mate.

Al.
I will not—cannot quit my native land!
Bann'd as I am, 'tis precious to me still!
It is my father's land—'tis loved for that!
'Tis thine—thy child's—it should be loved for you!
It should be loved, if only for itself!
'Tis free, it hath no despot, but its laws!
'Tis independent; it can stand alone!
'Tis mighty 'gainst its enemies—'tis one!
Where can I find the land the like of it?
Its son, though under ban and forfeiture,
Is envied. He's the brother of the free!
No! no! I cannot quit my native land.
For sight of other land I would not give
The feeling of its breath—the wall of him
That does not forfeit it, which none may scale,
However proud, unscathed, to do him wrong!
I cannot—will not—quit my native land!

Emma.
Then let us seek some quiet corner on't;
Nor spend on thriftless hope, what, husbanded
By wise content, would keep us more than rich.

Al.
Nor can I that. Who sees his house pull'd down,
And does not strive to build it up again?
Who sees his vessel sunk, and does not look
For other hull to plough the waves anew?
I cannot do't! I've lived on the high seas
Of restless life; I would be on them still!
Say I'm unfit for't—I'd be near them still!
The sailor, maim'd or superannuate,
Seeks not an inland home; but near some cliff
His hammock slings, in hearing of the surge
He wont to cleave of yore! Come, lead me forth.
Where's Bess?

Emma.
On errand gone to Aldersgate.

Al.
I would again she went not forth alone!
My heart hath strange misgivings, touching her.
Bold men infest our streets, who would not stop,
By force to take what right refuses them;
Like him who late, with his pernicious suit,
Wounded her tender ear.

Strap
[without].
What, hoa!

Al.
Come in,
Whose challenge sounds unwelcome, yet a friend's.
Is it not honest Master Strap?

Enter Strap (intoxicated).
Strap.
The same,
Master of cobbling, as thy shoes allow,
Which seek his lapstone old, and leave it new—
But to the matter, as they say.

Al.
What is't?

Strap.
Why, this it is—a truth as old as time—
Grief hath this soother, 'tis not solitary,
But, if 'twill look for't, finds its fellow grief.
So does the wise man teach. Thou know'st I lost
My daughter, Sunday week—she did not die.
Romances drove the giddy vixen mad,
And she eloped from me. For loss of her,
I have ne'er been sober since! No comforter
Like ale—save sack; but sack's for rich men's cares.—
Your friends!—Says one, “It might have fallen out worse;”
One, that it might be evil, sent for good;
One, that the plague itself will have an end;
And some will pity; some will scold; and some
Will try to laugh me out of sorrowing.
As twenty ways there are to mend a shoe
Besides the soling, heeling, welting on't!

Al.
But what is this to us?

Strap.
Philosophy!
If not philosophy, a moral, then—
And if not that, why, then, a hint that thou
Hast lost thy daughter, just as I lost mine.

Emma.
Have lost our daughter!

Strap.
With a difference, though—

Al.
Nay—

Emma.
Prithee, Albert, give him his own way;
He's sure, at last, to take it; so we lose
Our time, persuading him to progress ours.—
Well?

Strap.
Well, I said there was a difference,
But what of that? This road and that road meet—
Take which you will, you come to the same end.
It matters not, my daughter, with her will,
Thine against hers, is gone; since both alike
Are lost.

Al.
How?—Where?—Who forced our child away?

Strap.
A gallant, who behemm'd her in the street,
With good a score of lusty followers,
Flush'd swaggerers, that seem'd of no account
To reckon lawless deeds! I heard a rout,
And left my stall. There was she in the midst!
Some following with outcry 'gainst the deed,
But none with hand that dared to question it.
Upon my child I thought, at sight of thine—
Thought of thy loss mine own brought home to me—
My brain was swimming, and I rush'd on him
That held her—but a fillip laid me down!
Yet, brief as was the scuffle, and the end
Untoward; profit came of it. This ring
He wore, though how he left it in my hand
I know not!

Al.
Give it me!—A jewel hath it?
Yes! 'Tis no common ring. Perhaps a clue
To trace the ravisher? Give me a sword,
Get me a knife—a dagger!—anything,
So that it be a weapon! Wretchéd man!
Why don't I ask you first to get me eyes!
Thought of my heavy wrong, put out the thought
Of what must help me to revenge my wrong!
Oh, heavy loss! To have a father's heart—
To have a father's arm to second it,—
And both be useless for the lack of sight!
The queen! The queen!

Strap.
Wouldst see the queen? Then straight
Repair to Temple Bar; to-day begins
Her Royal Progress; there she's sure to wait,
The mayor and citizens give her greeting there.

Al.
Lead on! My child!—My child!—Whate'er betide,
This hour will I unfold myself, and find,
One way or other, period to my cares.
Knows't thou where dwells a notary on the way?
Conduct me to him!—On!—We'll meet our death
Or find our child.—On!—On!—Our child!—Our child!

[They go out.

SCENE IV.

—Temple Bar.
The Houses on each side adorned with cloths of silk or velvet, gold or silver, hanging from the upper windows.—A crowd of Citizens, men and women, assembled.
Officer.

Stand back, sirs! Stand back there, I say!—Why
press ye forward?—Back there! back! Keep order till her
highness pass.

First Citizen.

Will it be long, sir, ere she come?

Officer.

To answer that, I must know the measure of your
patience. Stretches it to some five minutes hence, I dare
warrant you she will be here quickly; for 'tis a good half-hour

beyond the time she appointed to set out from
Westminster.

Second Citizen.

Is't to Norwich, sir, her highness makes her
progress this time?

[Shouts without.
Officer.

To Norwich 'tis, sir.—Peace! her highness comes.
Each keep his place, nor press upon the other; so one and all
will see the sight. Here comes the lord mayor, with the
aldermen and council, to greet her highness. More room!—
Stand back!—Stand back!

Enter the Lord Mayor, &c. Enter Procession through the Gates; Soldiers, Gentlemen Pensioners, Band of Gentlemen, Band of Knights, Band of Barons, Trumpeters and Heralds. The Queen, accompanied by ladies, closed up with Guards.— The Lord Mayor, &c., advance and kneel to the Queen.
Mayor.
May't please your majesty, with duteous knees,—
That for our loving and right loyal hearts
Most truly vouch, as would our tongues for both—
Our happy privileges, of the which
Your gracious sceptre the high guardian is,
Thus lowly at your highness' feet we lay;
And with fair greeting, pray to welcome you
To your good city, here, of London.

Queen.
Freely
Do we accept your greeting, citizens
Of London; of our loyal cities, chief;
The princess fair of commerce, that defies
The world to show her peer; whose merchantmen
Throng the broad seas with gallant fleets, the which
To float, the treasuries of kings might brag!
The privileges, which at our feet you lay,
We pray you to resume; and truly guard
For her behoof, who, in her subjects' weal,
Is proud to boast she still locks up her own.

Mayor.
Our duties ever on your highness wait!

Queen.
Proceed.

Albert
[without].
The queen!—The queen!—Where!—
Where's the queen?

Officer.
Stand back!

Queen.
Make way!—Who calls upon the queen?

Officer.
So please your majesty, a beggar-man!
Stand back!

Albert.
The queen!—The queen!

Officer.
Stand back, I say!

Queen.
Hold, sirrah! Dare not stop my subjects' way
That come in suffering to me! Did I—when
My birth-right crown'd me, and I pass'd along,
My way beset with subjects, that more thick
Begirt me with their blessings, than their eyes—
My chariot frequent stay, that I might take
Their gifts of nosegays from poor women's hands,
And shall I now pass on, nor stop to hear
A poor man's prayer! Approach, whate'er thou art!

[The Officer makes way for Albert, who enters.
Albert.
[Presenting a scroll.]
Lead—Lead me to her highness' feet!
[Kneels.
Justice, great queen!—Justice and mercy!

Queen.
How!
Mercy appeals against justice; justice stops
The mouth of mercy!—Ask'st thou, then,
For both?

Albert.
For mercy I'd implore, great queen, for one,
Whose high offence hath long contrition half
Atoned for,—half, the loss of sight—his just
And heavy penalty for swerving duty!
Justice I'd ask on one, whose daring wrong,
In open day, has robb'd me of my child—
A virgin, gracious queen, of beauty rare,
Although her father's eyes ne'er vouch'd for it!

Queen.
But went she of her will?

Albert.
No!—No!—by force
Just now!—i' th'public street!—in open day!
Torn from her parents, whither know they not—
A mother that in him, who should protect
Her child and her, finds but a heavy charge!
A father, with the limbs, and heart of one,
Still without eyes, is lopp'd of heart and limbs—
Unfit to succour those that cleave to him!
O royal maiden, take a maiden's part,
And, for her wrong, o'erlook the wrong, might stand
Betwixt thy justice and her injury!

Queen.
Thy tears, old man, serve more than flashing eyes
To kindle up our wrath! Know'st thou the name
Of the offender?

Albert.
No.

Queen.
Nor rank?

Albert.
Nor rank—
Unless a ring—which, in a scuffle, that
Befel with one, who tried to take her part,
Came from the finger of the ravisher—
Serve as a clue to find him.

Queen.
Show it us!
This ring is not a stranger to us! Ha!
Waits in our train Lord Thomas Willoughby?

Wood.
No, gracious mistress.

Queen.
Read this document;
[Gives Albert's scroll.
Advise him straight of its contents; and add
Our will, that on receipt, with prompt despatch,
He lead the beggar's daughter to our feet—
His wedded bride! What to thyself relates,
We'll read at leisure; what to thy child, at once
We'll give our care to. Instruct us by what name
Thou, now, art known, or title?

Albert.
The Blind Beggar
Of Bethnal Green.

Queen.
Thy daughter's name?

Albert.
'Tis Bess.

Queen.
Our own!—Of beauty rare, thou say'st?

Albert.
Most rare!

Queen.
And good?

Albert.
Most good!

Queen.
[To Attendant.]
Look to this sightless man!
Our pleasure 'tis he waits upon us. On!
The glory it shall be of Bess's reign,
Her lowest subject, if his cause is right,
Hath, 'gainst her highest, odds; for beggar e'en,
He, still, shall have his queen to side with him!

[They go out.
Enter Young Small and Peter newly attired.
Young S.
There!—Said I not we should be late and lose
The setting out, wherein we might have mix'd
Unnoticed with the royal cavalcade;
And all through fault of thee, that took'st such time
To apparel thee—no doubt with wonderment
At such surpassing gear!—Let's breathe awhile.—
Peter, you'll ruin me! Is that a way
A serving-man should bear himself?—Consider—
Thy master, Peter, is a gentleman.

Peter.
To keep in mind on't strive I all I can!

Young S.
I say thou dost not, else would it appear.

Peter.
It shall appear.

Young S.
See that it do so, then—
Especially when thou walk'st out with me.
Then carry thus thy head, stand with an air!
Walk with a gait, as thou wast somebody;
And when thou speak'st, thou must speak up, like one
That values not who hears;—but not to me!
To me, good Peter, do thou none of these!
Speak small to me; wear thus thy head to me;
Stand thou not with an air when I am by;
Nor, when my eye's upon thee, move with gait
Of somebody! Thou'rt ever nobody
In presence of thy master!—minding still
To bear thee like a gentle serving-man.

Peter.
I'll mind.

Young S.
And do so!—And remember too
When I am seated, and thou wait'st on me,
Thou layest not thy hand upon my chair.
But stand at distance from't—nor yet in line,
But good a foot behind the rearmost leg;
Not in advance of that a barley-corn!
And balance not thy body on one leg,
With knee of t'other negligently bent,
As if it said “I care not!” 'Tis not meet.
But stand on both, as every joint of thee
Acknowledged me thy master—not astride,
But heel to heel!—And keep thy finger from
Thy button-hole!—but not to cram it in
Thy poke! Nor yet on hip to rest it!—'Twere
As thou wouldst say, “I think myself a lord!”
Thou wouldst not fold thine arms! Field-marshal, Peter,
Could do no more—do nothing with thine arms,
But let them hang! There! Seem'st thou now indeed
A serving-man.

Peter.
Will that content you?

Young S.
Yes.
But mark! Thou hast play'd with me at quoits and loggats,
No more of that!

Peter.
I'll mind.

Young S.
And when I have order'd me a tankard out,
And given it thee to hold, thou more than once
Hast quaff'd it off to my good luck.—Be sure
No more of that!

Peter.
I'll try and mind. But, sir—
Since so I must accost thee—what avail
The gait and air of gentle serving-man,
Without the pocket, should belong to one?
Look there!

Young S.
What's that?

Peter.
A melancholy rap!
A black-faced copper sixpence! Add to which
A button without shank, and you sum up
The pocket of your gentle serving-man!
I ne'er can do without allowances!

Young S.
Allowances!—What wages got you from
My father, Peter?

Peter.
'Twere a cunning clerk
Could count them,—Purse was never made, would wear
With hoarding them. To coin them took it not
Gold, silver, no nor copper! I served him for
My bed and board, that board and bed were none,
But shifts for them; a jerkin in the year
And doublet—old apparel new made up;
Hose, when the feet had walk'd away from them;
Shoes, whose last mending had the cobbler brought
To his last wits; and hat that gaped to see
Its crown was gone; with what good luck besides
Might send me.

Young S.
And thou want'st allowances!
Do I not promise thee a pound a year?
Jerkin and doublet, to provide thee with,
The thirtieth penny on the counter rang
The knell of half a crown! Hose got I thee,
With feet unto them, newly vamp'd and darn'd!
And from the cordiner, himself, direct,
Wast thou not shod? Nor was thy head forgot.
With thy well-furnish'd trunk to make it match.
Did I not treat it to a crown-whole hat,
Nor yet at outlay stopp'd, so ruinous,
But in the hat a comely feather stuck,
At charge of twice a groat? No more of this!
Believe when thou'rt well off.—There's twopence for thee,
To show thee that thou serv'st a gentleman!
Dream'st thou sometimes?

Peter.
I do.

Young S.
What's the best dream
A man can dream?

Peter.
They say 'tis hanging.

Young S.
So!
Didst thou not dream of hanging yesternight?

Peter.
I did.

Young S.
Thy dream's come out! Thy fortune's made,
But knew'st thou it—Come on! Content thee, and
Thou shalt have pence! Mind how thou bear'st thyself!
Well done! But keep to that! So.—Follow me.

[They go out.