 | The wonder of A Kingdome |  |
Actus Tertius.
Scæna prima.
Trumpets sounding. Enter an Vsher bare, perfuming a roome, Signinior Torrenti gorgeously attyred, a company of Gallants.Tor.
This Roome smells.
1. Gal.
It has bin new perfum'd.
Tor.
Then 'tis your breeches; stand off—and shines
there (say you) a Sun in our horizon full as glorious,
as we our selfe?
2. Gal.
So cry the common people.
Tor.
The common people are Rascalls, lying devills,
Dung-hills, whose savor poisons brave mens fames,
That Ape of greatnesse (imitating mee)
I meane that slavish Lord Iacomo
Shall die a beggar, If at the yeares end,
His totall of expence dares equall mine;
How is his house built?
1. Gal.
Admirable faire.
Tor.
Faire? Ile guild mine (like Pompey's Theater)
All ore to out-shine his; the richest hangings
Persian, or Turke, or Indian slaves can weave,
Shall from my purse be bought at any rates;
Ile pave my great hall with a floare of Clowdes,
Wherein shall move an artificiall Sunne,
Reflecting round about me, golden beames,
Whose flames shall make the roome seeme all on fire,
And when 'tis night, just as that Sun goes downe,
A silver Moone shall rise, drawne up by starres,
And as that moves, I standing in her Orbe,
Will move with her, and be that man ith' moone,
So mock't in old wives tales; then over head,
A roofe of Woods, and Forests full of Deere,
Trees growing downwards, full of singing quiers.
And this i'le doe that men with prayse, may crowne
My fame, for turning the world upside downe:
And what brave gallants are Gentilies guestes?
1. Gal.
The Lord Iacomo Gentili feeds
Torr.
Hang Iacomo,
My boarde shalbe no manger for poore jades
To lick up provinder in.
2. Gal.
He welcomes souldiers.
Tor.
Let souldiors beg and starue, or steale and hange.
Wo'd I had heere ten-thousand Souldiors heads,
Their sculs set all in silver, to drinck healthes
To his confusion, first invented warre,
And the health drunck to drowne the bowles i'th Sea,
That very name of Souldior, makes me shrugg,
And thinck I crawle with vermin; give me Lutes,
Mischiefe on drumms, for souldiors; fetch me whores,
These are mens blisse; those every Kingdomes soares,
Wee gave in charge to search through all the world
For the best Cookes, rarest musitians,
And fairest girles, that will sell sinne for gold.
1. Gal.
Some of all sorts you have
Tor.
Let me have more
Then the grand Signior, And my change as rare,
Tall, low, and middle size, the browne, and faire;
Ide give a Princes ransome now to kisse
Blacke Cleopatra's cheeke; Onely to drinke
A richer perle, then that of Anthonyes,
That Fame (where his name stands) might put downe mine
Oh that my Mother had bin Paris Whore,
And I had liv'd to see a Troy on fire,
So that by that brave light, I might have danc'd
But one Lavalto with my Curtezan.
Enter fourth Gallant.
4. Gal.
Patterne of all perfection breath'd in man,
There's one without, before your Excellence
Desires accesse.
Tor.
What creature?
4. Gal.
Your owne brother,
At least hee termes himselfe so.
Tor.
Is he brave?
4. Gal.
Hee's new come from the Sea.
Tor.
'Tis true, that Iason
Rig'd out a Fleete to fetch the Golden-Fleece;
'Tis a brave boy, all Elementall fire,
His shipps are great with Child of Turkish Treasure,
And heere shall be delivered; marshall him in
Omnes.
Sound drums, and trumpets, for my Lord away.
Vsher him in Pare and ragged. At which Torrenti starts, his hat falls off, Offer it him.
Torr.
Thou whorson pesant, know me, burne that wind-fall,
It comes not to my head that drops so low,—Another
1. Gall.
Hatts for my Lord,—Hatt's brought in 3. or 4.
Torr.
It smells of earth, stood it againe so high,
My head would on a dung-hill seeme to lie.
How now? what scar-crow's this?
Broth.
Scar-crow? thy brother,
His bloud cleare as thine owne, but that it smoakes not,
With perfum'd fiers as thine doth.
Torr.
Has the poore snake, a sting; can he hisse?
What beggs the rogue for?
Broth.
Vengeance
From the just thunderer to throw Lucifer downe;
How high so ever thou rearest thy Babell-browes,
To thy confusion I this language speake:
I am thy fathers sonne.
Torr.
Ha, ha, the Skipper raves.
Broth.
The aw'd Venetian on St. Markes proud-day,
Never went forth to marry the rich-sea.
With casting in her lapp a ring of gold;
In greater bravery then my selfe did freight,
A fleete of gallant youthfull Florentines,
All vow'd to rescew Rhodes, from Turkish-slavery:
We went and waded up in our owne bloods,
Till most of us were drown'd.
Torr.
Faire rid dance on you.
Broth.
Where such a Peacock durst not spread his plumes;
We fought and those that fell left Monuments
Of unmatch't valour to the whole race of man,
They that were ta'ne, (mongst whom my selfe was chiefe)
Were three yeeres chain'd up to the tugging o're,
See here the relicts of that misery,
If thou wud'st know more, reade it on my backe,
Printed with the Bulls-peezele.
Torr.
Hang the dogge.
Broth.
'Tis thy brother tells thee so, note me.
Torr.
I know thee not;
Set mastives on him, worry him from my gates.
Broth.
The first unhappy breath I drew, mov'd heere,
And here I'le spend my last, e're brav'd from hence,
Heere I'le have meate and cloaths.
Torr.
Kick the curre out.
Bro.
Who dares?
Take from that sumpter-horses backe of thine,
Some of those gaudie trappings to cloathe mine,
And keepe it from the keene aire, fetch me food,
You fawning spaniells
1. Gall.
Some spirit of the buttery.
2. Gall.
It should be by his hunger.
Broth.
I am starv'd,
Thirsty, and pinde to th'bare bones, heere; I'le eate at thine
Owne scorneful board, on thine owne meate, or teare it from
Thy throate as 'tis chewing downe.
Torr.
I'le try that; if my dinner be prepared,
Serue me in my great state along'st this way,
And as you passe two there with pistolls stand
To kill that ravenous Vulture; if he dare thrust his tallents
Forth to make one dish his prey.
(Exeunt all.
Broth.
Now view my face, and tho' perhaps you shamd
To owne so poore a brother, let not my heart-strings,
In sunder cracke, if we now being lone,
You still disdaine me.
Torr.
Wretch I know thee not,
And loath thy sight.
Broth.
Slave, thou shalt know me then;
I'le beate thy braines out with my Gally-chaine.
Torr.
Wilt murther thine owne brother?
Broth.
Pride doth it selfe confound,
What with both hands the Devill strove to have bound,
Heaven with one little finger hath untyed,
This proves that thou maiest fall, because one blast
Shakes thee already, feare not, I'le not take
The whip out of your hand and tho' thou break'st
Lawes of humanitie, and brother-hood;
I'le not doe soe, but as a begger should
Of thy hard heart for pitty to come forth,
And looke upon my wretchednes, A shot
Kneeles.
Toore to the keele that gally where I row'd;
Sunke her, the men slaine, I by dyving scaped,
And sat three leagues upon a broken-mast,
Wash't with the salt teares of the Sea, which wept,
In pitty, to behold my misery.
Torr.
Pox on your, tarry misery.
Broth.
And when heavens blest-hand hal'de me to a shoore
To dry my wet-limbes, was I forc'd to fire,
A dead-mans straw-bed throwne into the streete.
Torr.
Foh, th'art infectious.
Broth.
Oh remember this!
He that does good deeds, here waits at a Table,
Where Angells are his fellow servitours.
Torr.
I am no Robbin-red-breast to bring strawes
To cover such a coarse.
Broth.
Thou art turn'd devill,
Kizes.
Trumpets sound. Enter an arm'd sewer, after him a company with covered dishes: Coronets on their heads. Two With pistolls to guard it.
Torr.
Where's thy great stomack, eat, stand, let him choose
What dish he likes.—snatches a pistoll: all flye off.
Broth.
This then which I'le carve up
On thy base bosome, see thou Tryviall foole,
Thou art a Tyrant (o're me) of short reigne,
This cock out crow's thee, and thy petty kings,
Th'art a proud-bird, but fliest with rotten wings,
To shew how little for thy scorne I care,
See my revenge turn's all to idle-aire,
Shootes up.
It upward flies and will from thence I feare
Shoote darts of lightning to confound thee heere.
Farewell thou huge Leviathan, when th'ast drunk dry,
That Sea thou rowl'st in, on some base shore dye.
Enter Gallants all drawne.
Omnes.
Where is the Traitor?
Tor.
Now the house is fiered,
You come to cast on waters; barre up my doores,
But one such tattered ensigne here being spread,
Drawes numbers hither, here must no rogues be fed;
Command my carpenters invent od engines.
To manacle base beggers, hands and feete,
And by my name call 'em my whipping posts;
If you spye any man that has a looke,
Stigmatically drawne, like to a furies,
(Able to fright) to such I'le give large pay,
To watch and ward for poore snakes night and day,
And whip 'em soundly if they approch my gates;
The poore are but the earths-dung fit to lie
Cover'd on muck-heapes not to offend the eye.
Enter 1. Gall.
1. Gall.
Two Gentlemen sent from the Florence Duke,
Require speech with your Lord-ship—
Torr.
Give'm entrance
Enter Mutio, Philippo,
What re you? and whence come you?
Mut.
From the Duke.
Tor.
Your businesse?
Mut.
This, fame sounding forth your worth
For hospitable princely house-keeping;
Our Duke drawne by the wonder of report,
Invites himselfe (by us) to be your guest.
Tor.
The honour of Embassadors be yours;
Say to the Duke that Cæsar never came,
More welcome to the Capitoll of Rome,
Then he to us—healthes to him—fill rich wines.
Mut.
You have this wonder wrought, now rare to men;
By you they have found the golden age agen.
Tor.
Which I'le uphold, so long as there's a sunne,
To play the Alchymist.
Phil.
This proud fellow talkes
As if he grasped the Indies in each hand.
Torr.
Health to your Duke.
Amb.
We pledge it on our knees.
Tor.
I'le stand to what I do, but kneele to none.
Musicke, drinck, breake the glasse, they pledge it in plate, Which offering, both servitours refuse to take.
Tor.
Breake not our custome (pray ye) with one beame,
The god of mettailes makes both gold and wine
I can bestow Wine, I can give gold too,
Take them as free as Bacchus spends his blood;
And in them drinke our health.
Mut.
Your bounty farre
Exceeds that of our Cæsars.
Tor.
Cæsar ero, vel nihil ero:
What are Gold heapes? but a rich dust for Kings
To scatter with their breath, as chaffe by winde?
Let him then that hath gold, beare a Kings minde,
And give till his arme akes, who bravely powres
But into a wenches lap his golden showres,
May be Ioves equall, oh but hee that spends
A world of wealth, makes a whole world his debter,
And such a Noble spender is Ioves better;
That man Ile be, I'me Alexanders heire
To one part of his minde, I wish there were
Ten Worlds, yet not to conquer, but to sell
For Alpine hills of silver, And that I.
Might at one feast, spend all that treasure drie;
Who hoards up wealth, is base; who spends it, brave,
Earth breeds gold, so I tread but on my slave;
Beare backe our gratulations to your Duke.
Exit.
Amb.
Wee shall great sir.
Mut.
Torrenti call you him; 'tis a prowd rough streame.
Phil.
Hee's of the Romane Family indeede.
Mut.
Lord Vanni? rather my Lord Vanitie.
Phil.
And heapes of money sure have strucke him mad.
Mut.
Hee'le soone pick up his witts, let him but bleede
Thus many ownces at one time; All day
Could I drinke these deare healthes, yet nere be drunke.
Phil.
And carry it away most cleanely.
Mut.
Not a pin the worse;
What might his father leave him?
Phil.
A great estate,
Of some 300000 Crownes a yeare.
Mut.
Strange hee's not begg'd, for fooles are now growne deare;
An admirable Cocks-combe!
Phi.
Let wonder passe,
Hee's both a brave Lord, and a golden-Asse.
Exit.
Ang.
I pray you hush all, a little hush, le faire Lady by her
owne volunter disposition, has take a ring dat is of such a grand
operation, it shall make a de stone for slepe.
Flo.
What, Noble Doctor, is the name of it?
Ang.
'Tis not your scurvie English Poppy, nor Mandragon,
nor a ting so danger as Oppium, but tis de brave ting a de vorld,
for knock a de braine asleepe.
Pisa.
I am glad shee takes this rest.
Ang.
Peace, be gor it is snore and snore, two mile long; now
if your grace vill please for procure Musick, be restore as brave as
de fish.
Flo.
Call for the Musicke.
Ang.
Make a no noise, but bring in de Fidlers, and play sweet—
Nico.
Oh out upon this Doctor; hang him, does he thinke to
cure dejected Ladies with Fidlers—
Ang.
De grand French poo stopa de troate, pray void le
Shambera.
Flo.
All, all part softly; peace Nurse, let her sleepe.
Nurs.
I, I, go out of her prospect, for shee's not to bee cur'd
with a song.
Exit.
Ang.
Baptista, see the doore fast, watch that narrowly.
Bapt.
For one friend to keepe doore for another, is the office
now amongst gallants, common as the Law; Ile bee your porter
Sir.
Ang.
Shee does but slumber, Fiametta, Love.
Fia.
The Pisan Prince comes: daggers at my heart.
Ang.
Looke up, I am not hee, but Angelo?
Fia.
Ha! who names Angelo?
Ang.
Angelo himselfe,
Who with one foote treads on the throat of death,
Whilst t'other stepps to embrace thee, thus ith'shape
Of a French Doctor.
Fya.
Oh my life, my soule.
Ang.
Heare me.
Fya.
Ime now not sicke, Ile have no Phisicke,
But what thy selfe shall give mee.
Let not Ioy confound our happinesse, I am but dead,
If it be knowne I am heere.
Fya.
Thou shalt not hence.
Ang.
Be wise deare heart; see here the best of men,
Faithfull Baptista—
Fya.
Oh, I love Baptista,
Cause he loves thee; But my Angelo I love bove kings.
Bapt.
Madam you'le spoile,
Vnlesse you joyne with us in the safe plot
Of our escape.
Ang.
Sweete Fyametta heare me.
For you shall hence with us.
Fya.
Over ten worlds,
But Ile not hence; my Angelo shall not hence,
True love, like gold, is best being tried in fire;
Ile defie Father, and a thousand deaths—for thee—
Ang.
Vndone, vndone.
Knock within.
Bapt.
At the Court gate,
I see a Iebbit already, to hang's both;
Death! the Duke beates at the doore.
Fya.
He shall come in;
Enter Omnes.
One frowne at thee, my Tragedie shall begin;
See Father—
Flo.
I told you that I heard—her tongue—
Fya.
See Father.
Flo.
What sweete girle?
Fya.
That's Angelo, and you shall pardon him.
Flo.
With all my heart.
Fya.
Hee sayes hee pardons thee with all his heart.
Ang.
Mee Lor, be all mad, le braine crowe, and run whirabout
like de windmill saile, pardon a moy, por quoy my sweete Madam,
pardon your povera Doctor.
Fya.
Because thou art my banish't Angelo.
Flo.
Starke mad.
Pisa.
This her recoverie?
Fya.
Hee is no Doctor,
Nor that his man, but his deare friend Baptista;
Has black't his beard like a Comœdian
To play the Mountibanke; away, Ile marry
None but that Doctor, and leave Angelo.
Ang.
I doe pray Artely, Madam.
Fya.
Leave off thy gibberishe, and I prethee speake
Ang.
Par-ma-soy all French be-gor shee be mad as the moone.
Flo.
Sweet girle, with gentle hands sir, take her hence.
Fya.
Stand from mee, I must follow Angelo.
Pisa.
Thine eyes drinke sleepe from the sweet god of rest.
Fya.
Oh, you shoote poyson'd arrowes thorow my breast.
Manent Florence, Angelo, Baptista.
Flo.
What strange new furie now possesseth her?
Ang.
Begar her Imaginashon be out a de vitts, and so dazell de
two nyes, and come downe so into de bellie, and possibla for
make her tinke mee or you to be le shentle-man shee lovea, and
so shee takea my man for a Iack-a-nape, mee know not who.
Bapt.
For one Baptista.
Ang.
Povera garshon a my trat.
Flo.
I doe beleeve you both, but honest Doctor,
Straine all thy Art, and so thou leave her well,
I care not if you call up feinds from hell.
Ang.
Dat be too much devill in de body all ready be my trat
my Lor, mee no stay heere for ten hundred hundred Coronaes,
she cry upon mee 'tis Master Angelo, you tink so not one and two
time, but a tyrd time, you smell a me out; And so cutta my troate;
adue my Lor.
Flo.
Still your opinion holds to kill that villaine,
And give her his heart dried.
Ang.
In de pot a vine, wee, very fine.
Flo.
This gold take for thy paines to make her sownde,
There needs a desperate cure to a desperate wounde.
Exit.
Ang.
How blowes it now?
Bapt.
Faire, with a prosperous gale.
Ang.
Poore love, thou still art strucke with thine owne fate;
My life hangs at a thred, friend I must flie.
Bapt.
How, to be safe?
Ang.
I will take sanctuary,
I know a reverend Fryar, in whose cell
Ile lurke till stormes blow ore; If women knew
What men feele for them, None their scornes should rue.
Enter Tibaldo in Womans attire, Alphonsina.
Alph.
Is't come to this, have the walls of the Castle beene besieged
Give fier to once piece? oh y'ar a proper soldyor, good
Sister, brother follow your game more close, or ile leave you.
Tib.
What wu'd you have me doe?
Alp.
Why I would ha'you (tho'you be in womans apparrell)
to be your selfe man, and do what you come for.
Tib.
I have bin giving her a thousand on setts,
And still a blushing cheeke makes me retire;
I speake not three words, but my tongue is ready
To aske forgivenes of her.
Alp.
Must thou needs at thy first encounter tell her thou art
a man, why when you walke together, cannot you begin a tale
to her, with once upon a time there was a loving couple that having
tyred themselves with walking, sat downe upon a banck,
and kist, and embraced, and plaid, and so by degrees bring the
tale about to your owne purpose. Can you not? fie, you are the
worst at these things Sir.
Tib.
I am sister indeed.
Alp.
And the more foole you indeed: you see how the old
stinking fox her husband is stil rubbing me as if I had the palsy,
Ile not have his wither'd hands (which are as molst as the side of
stock-fish) lye pidling in my bosome, therefore determine some
thing, or farewell.
Tib.
I have deare sister, if you will but heare me.
Alp.
Come on, out with't then.
Tib.
Give you the old man promise of your love,
And the next night appoint him for your bed;
Rap'd with joy, he'le feigne businesse of state,
To leave, his lady, and to lie alone,
Alp.
Very good.
Tib.
Then my request shall be, that for that night
She would accept me for her bed-fellow,
And there's no question sister of the grant,
Which being Injoy'd I doubt not but to manage
And carry also even on levill ground,
That my offence shall in my love seeme drownde.
Alp.
The clocke for your businesse thus far goes true,
but now for me, what shall I do with the old cock in my Roost?
Tib.
Sister, you have some tricke (no doubt) to keepe
Him within compasse.
Alp.
No not I beleeve me, I know not what to doe with him,
away the night, but brother, to pleasure you, Ile venter a joynte,
and yet it troubles me too, that I should prove a Traytor to my
sex, I doe betray an Innocent Lady, to what ill I know not.
But Love the author of it wil I hope
Turne it quite otherwise, and perhaps it may be
So welcome to her as a courtesie.
Tib.
I doubt not but it shall.
Alp.
We nothing can,
Vnlesse man woman helpe, and woman man.
Exeunt.
| The wonder of A Kingdome | |