 | The Captaine |  |
Actus Secundus
Scæna Prima.
Enter Jacamo and Fabricio.Iaco.
Seigneur, What thinke you of this sound of warrs?
Fab.
As onely of a sound; they that intend
To doe are like deepe waters that run quietly
Leaving no face of what they were behind'em,
This rumour is too common and too loude
To carry truth.
Iac.
Shall we never live to see
Men looke like men againe,
Upon a march?
This cold dull rusty peace makes us appeare
Like empty Pictures, onely the faint shadowes
Of what we should be:
Would to God my Mother
Had given but halfe her will to my begetting
And made me woman, to sit still and sing,
Or be sicke when I list, or any thing
That is too idle for a man to thinke of:
Would I had been a whore 'thad been a course
Certaine, and of my conscience of more gaine
Then two commands, as I would handle it:
Faith I could wish I had been any thing
Rather then what I am, a Soldier
A Carriere, or a Cobler, when I knew
What 'twas to weare a Sword first; for their trades
Are and shall be a constant way of life,
While men send cheeses up, or weare out buskins.
Fab.
Thou art a little too impatient,
And mak'st thy anger a far more vexation
Then the not having warrs: I am a Soldier
Which is my whole Inheritance, yet I
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If not dishonourable, I am not so malitious,
To curse the faire peace of my Mother Countrey;
But thou want'st money; and the first supply
Will bury these thoughts in thee.
Jac.
Pox a peace.
It fills the Kingdome full of holydayes,
And onely feedes the wants of whores and pipers;
And make the idle drunken Rogues, get Spinsters.
'Tis true I may want money, and no litle,
And almost cloathes too: of which if I had both
In full abundance: yet against all peace,
That brings up mischiefe thicker then a showre,
I would speake louder then a Lawyer;
By heaven it is the surfet of all youth,
That makes the toughnesse, and the strength of nations
Melt into women. 'Tis an ease that broodes
Theeves, and basterds onely.
Fab.
This is more,
(Though it be true) then we ought to lay open,
And seasons onely of an indiscretion,
Believe me Captaine such distemper'd spirits
Once out of motion, though they be proofe valiant,
If they appeare thus violent and fierie,
Breed but their owne disgraces; and are nearer
Doubt, and suspect in Princes, then rewardes.
Jac.
'Tis well they can be neere 'em any way,
But call you those true spirits, ill affected
That whil'st the warres were, serv'd like walls and ribs,
To girdle in the Kingdome?
And now falne
Through a faint peace into affliction,
Speake but their miseryes? come, come, Fabritio
You may pretend what patience ye please,
And seeme to yoake your wants like passions;
But while I know thou art a Souldier,
And a deserver, and no other harvest
But what thy Sword reapes for thee to come in,
You shall be pleas'd to give me leave to tell ye,
You wish a Devill of this musty peace:
To which prayer,
As one that's bound in conscience, and all
That love our trade, I cry, Amen.
Fab.
Prethee no more, we shall live well enough,
There's wayes enough besides the warrs to men
That are not loggs, and lye still for the handes
Of others to remove 'em.
Jac.
You may thrive Sir,
Thou art young and handsome yet, aud well enough
To please a widdow: thou canst fing, and tell
These foolish love-tales; and indite a little,
And if need be, compile, a pretty matter
And dedicate it to the honourable,
Which may a waken his compassion,
To make ye Clarke a'th kitchen, and at length
Come to be married to my Ladyes woman,
After she's crack't 'ith ring.
Fab.
'Tis very well Sir.
Jac.
But what dost thou thinke shall become of me,
With all my imperfections? let me dye
If I thinke I shall ever reach above.
A forlorne Tapster, or some frothy fellow,
That stincks of stale beere.
Fab.
Captaine Jacamo,
Why should you thinke so hardly of your vertues?
Ja.
What vertues? by this light I have no vertue,
But downe right buffeting: what can my face
That is no better then a ragged Map now
Of where I have marcht and traveled profit me?
Unlesse it be for Ladyes to abuse, and say
'Twas spoil'd for want of a Bongrace when I was young,
And now 'twill make a true prognostication
Of what man must be? Tell me of a fellow
That can mend noses, and complaine,
So tall a souldier should want teeth to his stomach?
And how it was great pitty, that it was,
That he that made my body, was so busied
He could not stay to make my leggs too? but was driven
To clap a paire of cat-skins to my knees, for which
I am indebted to two Schoole-boyes? this
Must follow necessary.
Fab.
Ther's no such matter.
Ja.
Then for my morals, and those hidden pieces,
That art bestowes upon me, they are such
That when they come to light: I am sure will shame me.
For I can neither write, nor read, nor speake
That any man shall hope to proffet by me,
And for my Languages, they are so many
That put them altogether, they will scarce
Serve to beg single beere in: the plaine truth is,
I love a Souldier, and can lead him on,
And if he fight well I dare make him drunk:
This is my vertue, and if this will do
I'le scramble yet amongst 'em.
Fab.
'Tis your way
To be thus pleasant still, but feare not man
For though the warrs fail, we shall screw our selves
Into some course of life yet.
Ja.
Good Fabritio,
Have a quick eye upon me, for I feare
This peace will make me something that I love not;
For by my troth though I am plaine and dudgion,
I would not be an Asse: and to sell parcels,
I can as soone be hang'd; preethee bestowe me
And speake some little good, though I deserve not.
Enter Father.
Fab.
Come wee'l consider more: stay, this
Should be another winde-fall of the warrs.
Jac.
He lookes indeed like an old tater'd Colours,
That every winde would borrow from the Staffe;
These are the hopes we have for all our hurts:
They have not cast his tongue too.
Father.
They that say
Hope never leaves a wretched man that seekes her,
I thinke are either patient fooles, or lyers,
I am sure I finde it so, for I am master'd,
With such a misery and griefe together
That that stay'd Anchor men lay hold upon
In all their needs, is to me lead that bowes,
Or breakes, with every strong sea of my sorrowes.
I could now question heaven, (were it well
To looke into their justice) why those faultes,
Those heavy sinnes, other provoke 'em with
Should be rewarded on the heads of us,
That hold the least alliance to their vices?
But this would be too curious; for I see
Our suffering, not disputing, is the end,
Reveal'd to us of all these miseryes.
Jac.
Twenty such holy Hermits in a Campe,
Would make 'em all Caribusians, I'le be hang'd
If hee know what a whore is: or a health,
Or have a nature liable to learne,
Or so much honest nurture to be drunke.
I do not thinke he has the spleene to sweare
A greater oath then Sempsters utter Sockes with,
S'pur him a question.
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They are strangers both
To me, as I to them I hope: I would not have
Me and my shame together known by any,
I'le rather lye my selfe unto another.
Fab.
I need not aske you Sir your Countrey,
I heare you speake this tongue: pray what more are ye?
Or have you been? if it be not offensive
To urge ye so far, misery in your yeares,
Gives every thing a tongue to question it.
Fath.
Sir, though I could be pleas'd to make my ills
Only mine owne, for grieving other men,
Yet to so faire and courteous a demander
That promises compassion, at worst, pity,
I will relate a little of my story.
I am a Gentleman, however thus
Poore and unhappy; which beleeve me fir
Was not borne with me: for I well have tri'd
Both the extreams of fortune; and have found
Both dangerous: my younger yeares provok'd me,
Feeling in what an ease I slept at home,
Which to all stirring spirits is a sicknesse,
To see far Countreyes, and observe their Customes.
I did so; and I travelld till that course
Stor'd me with language, and some few slight manners,
Scarce worth my money; when an ich possest me
Of making armes my active end of travell.
Fab.
But did you so?
Fath.
I did; and twenty winters
I wore the Christian Cause upon my sword
Against his enemies, at Buda fiege
Full many a cold night have I lodg'd in armour
When all was frozen in me but mine honour:
And many a day, when both the Sun and Canon
Strove, who should most destroy us: have I stood
Malld up in steele, when my rough sinews shrunke,
And this parch'd body ready to consume
As soone to ashes, as the pike I bore:
Want has been to me as another nature,
Which makes me with this patience still professe it;
And if a Souldier may without vaine-glory
Tell what h'as done, beleeve me Gentlemen
I could turne over annals of my dangers:
With this poor weaknesse have I mann'd a breach,
And made it firme with so much blood, that all
I had to bring me off alive was anger.
Thrice was I made a slave, and thrice redeem'd
At price of all I had; The miseries
Of which times, if I had a heart to tell,
Would make ye weep like children; But I'le spare ye
Ja.
Fabricio, we two have been souldiers
Above these fourteen yeares, yet a my conscience
All we have seen, compar'd to his experience
Has been but cudgel-play, or Cock-fighting.
By all the faith I have in armes, I reverence
The very poverty of this brave fellow:
Which were enough it selfe, and his to strengthen
The weakest towne against halfe Christendome.
I was never so asham'd of service
In all my life before, now I consider
What I have done; and yet the rogues would sweare
I was a valiant fellow; I do finde
The greatest danger I have brought my life through,
Now I have heard this worthy, was no more
Then stealing of a May-pole, or at worst,
Fighting at single billet with a Barge-man.
Fab.
I do believe him Jacamo.
Jac.
Beleeve him?
I have no faith within me, if I doe not.
Fath.
I see they are souldiers?
And if we may judge by affections
Brave and deserving men: how they are stir'd
But with a meer relation of what may be?
Since I have wonne beliefe, and am not known,
Forgive me honour, i'le make use of thee.
Fab.
Sir would I were a man, or great, or able
To looke with liberall eyes upon your vertue.
Jac.
Let's give him all we have, and leave off prating:
Here Souldier, there's even five months pay: be merry,
And get thee handsome cloths.
Fab.
What meane you Jacamo?
Jac.
Ye are a foole.
The very story's worth a hundred pound.
Give him more money.
Fath.
Gentlemen, I know not
How I am able to deserve this blessing.
But if I live to see faire dayes againe,
Something i'le doe in honour of your goodnesse,
That shall shew thankfulnesse, if not desert.
Fab.
If you please Sir, till we procure ye place,
To eate with us, or weare such honest garments
As our poor meanes can reach to, you shall be
A welcome man; to say more, were to feede ye
Only with words; we honour what y'ave been,
For we are souldiers, though not neere the worth
You spake of lately.
Fath.
I do gheste ye so,
And knew, unlesse he were a souldier,
He could not find the way to know my wants.
Ja.
But me thinks all this while y'are too temperate;
Do you not tell men sometimes of their dulnesse
When you are grip't, as now you are with need?
I do, and let them know those silkes they weare
The Warre weaves for 'em: and the bread they eate
We sow, and reape again to feed their hunger:
I tell them boldly, they are masters of
Nothing but what we fight for: their faire women
Lye playing in their armes, whilst we like Lares
Defend their pleasures: I am angry too,
And often raile at these forgetfull great men
That suffer us to sue for what we ought
To have flung on us, ere we aske.
Fath.
I have
Too often told my griefes that way, when all
I reapt, was rudenesse of behaviour;
In their opinions men of Warre that thrive,
Must thank 'em when they raile: and wait to live.
Fab.
Come Sir, I see your wants need more relieving,
Then looking what they are: pray goe with us.
Fath.
I thanke you Gentlemen: since you are pleas'd
To do a benefit, I dare not crosse it,
And what my service or endeavours may
Stand you in need, you shall command, not pray
Ja.
So you shall us, i'le to the Taylors with you bodily
Exeunt
Scæna Secunda.
Enter Fredericke, Lodovico, and Piso.Lod.
Well, if this be true; I'le believe a woman
When I have nothing else to do.
Piso.
'Tis certaine; if there be a way of truth,
In blushes, smiles, and commendations;
For by this light, I have heard her praise yon fellow
In such a pitch, as if th'ad studied
To croude the worths of all men into him,
And I imagine these are seldome us'd
Without their speciall ends, and by a maide
Of her desires and youth.
Fred.
It may be so.
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By that prerogative, a liberall choise
In the bestowing of her love.
Lod.
Bestowing?
If it be so, she has bestowed her selfe
Upon a trim youth: Piso, what do you call him?
Piso.
Why, Captain Jacamo.
Lod.
O Captaine Jack-boy,
That is the Gentleman.
Fred.
I thinke he be
A Gentleman at worst.
Lod.
So think I too,
Would he would mend Sir.
Fred.
And a tall one too.
Lod.
Yes of his teeth; for of my faith I thinke
They are sharper then his sword, and dare do more
If the Beuffe meet him fairely.
Fred.
Very well.
Piso.
Now do I wonder what she meanes to doe
When she has married him.
Lod.
Why well enough,
Traile his pike under him, and be a Gentlewoman
Of the brave Captaines company.
Fred.
Doe you heare me?
This woman is my sister, Gentlemen.
Lod.
I am glad she is none of mine: but Fredericke,
Thou art not such a foole sure to be angry
Unlesse it be with her; We are thy friends man.
Fred.
I thinke ye are.
Lod.
Yes faith, and do but tell thee
How shee will utterly orethrow her credit,
If she continue gracing of this pot-gun.
Piso.
I thinke she was bewitcht, or mad, or blinde,
She would never have taken such a scar-crow else
Into protection: of my life he lookes
Of a more rusty swarth complexion
Then an old arming doublet.
Lod.
I would send
His face to the Cutlers then, and have it sanguin'd,
'Twill looke a great deale sweeter; then his nose
I would have shorter, and my reason is,
His face will be ill mounted else.
Piso.
For his body,
I will not be my own Judge, least I seeme
A railer, but let others look upon't,
And if they finde it any other thing
Then a trunke-seller, to send wines downe in,
Or a long walking-bottle, I'le be hang'd for't:
His hide, (for sure he is a beast) is ranker
Then the Muscovy leather: and grain'd like it.
And by all likeli-hoods he was begotten
Between a stubborn paire of winter boots.
His body goes with straps, he is so churlish.
Lod.
Hee's poor and beggerly besides all this:
And of a nature farre uncapable
Of any benefit: for his manners cannot
Shew him a way to thanke a man that does one,
He's so uncivill: you may do a part
Worthy a brother, to perswade your sister
From her undoing: if she prove so foolish
To marry this cast Captaine, looke to finde her
Within a month, where you, or any good man
Would blush to know her: selling cheese and prunes,
And retayl'd bottle ale: I grieve to think
Because I lov'd her, what a march this Captaine
Will set her into.
Fred.
You are both, beleeve me,
Two arrant Knaves; and were it not for taking
So just an execution from his hands
You have beli'd thus, I would swaddle ye,
Till I could draw off both your skins like scaberds.
That man that you wrong'd thus, though to me
He be a stranger, yet I know, so worthy,
However low in fortune, that his worst parts,
The very wearing of his cloths, would make
Two better Gentlemen then you dare be,
For there is vertue in his outward things.
Lod.
Belike you love him then.
Fred.
Yes marry do I.
Lod.
And will be angry for him.
Fred.
If you talke
Or pull your face into a stich againe,
As I love truth I shall be very angry.
Do not I know thee, though thou hast some land
To set thee out thus among Gentlemen,
To be a prating and vain-glorious asse?
I do not wrong thee now, for I speake truth.
Doe not I know thou halt been a cudgel'd coward,
That has no cure for shame but cloath of silver?
And thinkst the wearing of a gawdy suite
Hides all disgraces?
Lod.
I understand you not, you hurt not me
Your anger flies so wide.
Piso.
Signeur Frederick,
You much mistake this Gentleman.
Fred.
No Sir.
Piso.
If you would please to be lesse angry,
I would tell you how.
Fred.
You had better study Sir
How to excuse your selfe if ye be able,
Or I shall tell you once againe.
Piso.
Not me Sir;
For I protest what I have said, was only
To make you understand your sisters danger.
Lod.
He might if it pleas'd him conceive it so.
Fred.
I might if it pleas'd me stand still and heare
My sister made a may-game, might I not?
And give allowance to your liberall jests
Upon his person, whose least anger would
Consume a legion of such wretched people,
That have no more to justifie their actions
But their tongues ends? that dare lye every way
As a mill grindes? From this houre I renounce
All part of fellowship that may hereafter
Make me take knowledge of ye, but for Knaves;
And take heed, as ye love whole skins, and coxcombs,
How, and to whom ye prate thus; for this time
I care not if I spare ye: do not shake,
I will not beat ye, though ye doe deserve it
Richly.
Lod.
This is a strange course Fredericke;
But sure you do not, or you would not know us,
Beate us?
Piso.
'Tis somewhat low Sir, to a Gentleman.
Fred.
I'le speak but few words, but I'le make 'em truths;
Get you gone both, and quickly, without murmuring,
Or looking big: and yet before you goe
I will have this confest, and seriously,
That you two are two rascalls.
Lod.
How?
Fred.
Two Rascals.
Come speake it from your hearts, or by this light
My sword shall flye among ye; answer me,
And to the point directly.
Piso.
You shall have
Your will for this time: since we see y'are grown
55
In your opinion.
Fred.
Do not mince the matter,
But speake the words plaine; and you Lodovick
That stand so tally on your reputation,
You shall be he shall speake it.
Lod.
This is pretty,
Fred.
Let me not stay upon't.
Lod.
Well we are rascalls,
Yes Piso, we are rascals.
Exit Lod. and Piso.
Fred.
Get ye gone now, not a word more, y'are rascals.
Enter Fabritio.
Fab.
That should be Fredericke.
Jac.
'Tis he: Fredericke?
Fred.
Who's that?
Jac.
A friend Sir.
Fred.
It is so, by the voyce
I have sought you Gentlemen, and since I have found you,
So neare our house, I'le force ye stay a while,
I pray let it be so.
Fab.
It is too late,
Wee'l come and dine to morrow with your sister,
And do our services.
Jac.
Who were those with you?
Fred.
We met two came from hence:
Two idle fellows,
That you shall beate hereafter, and I'le tell ye
Some fitter time a cause sufficient for it.
Fabr.
But Fredericke, tell me truly; do you thinke
Shee can affect my friend?
Fred.
No certainer
Then when I speake of him, or any other,
She entertaines it with as much desire
As others do their recreations.
Fabr.
Let not him have this light by any meanes;
He will but thinke he's mockt, and so grow angry,
Even to a quarrell: he's so much distrustfull
Of all that take occasion to commend him—
Women especially: for which he shuns
All conversation with 'em, and beleeves
He can be but a mirth to all their Sex.
Whence is this musique?
Fred.
From my sisters chamber.
Fab.
The touch is excellent' let's be attentive.
Jac.
Harke, are the waights abroad?
Fabr.
Be softer prethee,
'Tis private musicke.
Jac.
What a dyn it makes?
I had rather hear a Jews-trump then these Lutes,
They crye like Schoole-boyes.
Fabr.
Prethee Jacamo.
Jac.
Well I heare, or sleepe, I care not whether.
The SONG.
Enter at the window Francke and Clora.
1.
Tell me dearest what is Love?
2.
'Tis a lightning from above,
'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,
'Tis a boy they call Desire.
Both.
'Tis a grave,
Gapes to have
Those poore fooles that long to prove.
1.
Tell me more, are women true?
2.
Yes, some are, and some as you.
Some are willing, some are strange,
Since you men first taught to change.
Both.
And till troth
Be in both,
All shall love, to love anew.
1.
Tell me more yet, can they grieve?
2.
Yes, and sicken some, but live:
And be wise, and delay,
When you men are as wise as they.
Both.
Then I see
Faith will be,
Never till they both beleeve.
Franc.
Clora, come hither; who are these below there?
Clor.
Where?
Fran.
There.
Clor.
Ha? I should know their shapes
Though it be darkish; there are both our brothers,
What should they make thus late here?
Fran.
What's the tother?
Clor.
What tother?
Fran.
He that lyes along there.
Clor.
O, I see him
As if he had a branch of some great Petigree
Grew out on's belly.
Fra.
Yes.
Clor.
That should be,
If I have any knowledge in proportion.—
Fab.
They see us.
Fred.
'Tis no matter.
Fab.
VVhat a log
Is this, to sleep such musique out?
Fred.
No more let's heare 'em.
Clor.
If I have any knowledge in proportion,
The Captaine Jacamo, those are his legs
Upon my conscience.
Fra.
By my faith, and neate ones.
Clor.
You mean the boots, I thinke they are neate by nature,
Fra.
As thou art knavish, would I saw his face!
Clor.
'Twould scare you in the dark.
Fra.
A worse then that
Has never scar'd you Clora to my knowledge.
Clora.
'Tis true, for I never have seen a worse;
Nor while I say my prayers heartily,
I hope I shall not.
Fran.
VVell, I am no tell tale:
But is it not great pitty, tell me Clora,
That such a brave deserving Gentleman
As every one delivers this to be,
Should have no more respect, and worth flung on him
By able men? VVere I one of these great ones,
Such vertues should not sleep thus.
Clora.
VVere he greater
He would sleep more I thinke: I'le waken him.
Frank.
Away ye foole.
Clor.
Is he not dead already, and they two taking order
About his Blacks? me thinks they are very busie,
A fine cleane coarse he Is: I would have him buried
Even as he lyes, crosse legg'd, like one o'th Templers
(If his west-phaly gammons will hold crossing)
And on his brest, a buckler with a pike in't,
In which I would have some, learned Cutler
Compile an Epitaph, and at his feete
A musquet, with this word upon a Labell
VVhich from the cocks mouth thus should be delivered,
I have discharged the office of a Souldier.
Frank.
VVell, if thy Father were a Souldier
Thus thou wouldst use him.
Clora.
Such a Souldier,
I would indeed.
Fab.
If he heare this, not all
The power of man could keep him from the windowes
56
For Gods sake make her cooler: I dare not venture
To bring him else; I know he will goe to buffetts
Within five words with her, if she holds this spirit;
Let's waken him, and away, we shall heare worse else.
Fran.
Well if I be not even with thee Clora
Let me be hang'd for this: I know thou dost it
Onely to anger me, and purge your witt
Which would breake out else.
Clora.
I have found ye,
I'le be no more crosse, bid 'em good night
Fran.
No, no, they shall not know, we have seen 'em;
Shut the window.
Exit Fran. and Clora.
Fab.
Will you get up Sir?
Jac.
Have you paid the Fidlers?
Fab.
You are not left to doe it: Fie upon thee,
Hast thou forsworne manners?
Jac.
Yes unlesse
They would let me eate my meate without long graces
Or drinke without a preface to the pledger;
Oft will it please you, shall I be so bold sir
Let me remember your good bedfellow,
And lye and kisse my hand unto my Mistris
As often as an Ape does for an Aple?
These are meere Schismes in Soldiers; wher's my friend?
These are to us as bitter as purgations,
We love that generall freedome we are bred to;
Hang these faint fooleries, they smell of peace,
Doe they not friend?
Fab.
Faith Sir to me they are
As things indifferent, yet I use 'em not,
Or if I did, they would not prick my conscience.
Fred.
Come, shall we goe? 'tis late.
Jac.
Yes any whether,
But no more Musick, it has made me dull.
Fab.
Faith any thing but drinking disturbs thee Jacomo
Wee'l ev'n to bed.
Jac.
Content.
Fab.
Thou wilt dreame of wenches.
Jac.
I never thinke of any I thanke God
But when I am drunke, and then tis but to cast
A cheape way how they may be all destroyd
Like vermine; let's away I am very sleepy.
Fab.
I, thou art ever so, or angry, come.
Exeunt.
| The Captaine | |