University of Virginia Library

Actus Secundus.

Earthworm, Theodore.
Earth.
I do not more rejoyce in all my stores,
My wealthy bags, fill'd garners, crowded chests,
And all the envy'd heaps that I have glean'd
With so long care and labor, then I do
In thy most frugal nature, Theodore,
Concurring just with mine; in thee, my son,
I see, methinks, a perpetuity
Of all the projects which my soul has hatch'd,
And their rich fruits, I see my happiness
When I consider what great hoords of wealth
With long care rak'd together, I have seen
Even in a moment scatter'd; when I view
The gawdy heirs of thriving Aldermen
Fleeting like short-liv'd bubbles into ayr,
And all that fire expiring in one blaze
That was so long a kindling. But doe thou,
Do thou my son, go on, and grow in thrift,
It is a vertue that rewards it self:
'Tis matterless in goodness who excels:
He that hath coyn, hath all perfections else

Theod.
Sir, I am wholly yours, and never can
Degenerate from your frugality:
Or if my nature did a little stray,
Your good example would direct it still,
Till it were grown in me habitual.

Ear.
'Twill be a greater patrimony to thee
Then all my wealth: strive to be perfect in't,
Study the rules; one rule is general,
And that is this, Give away nothing, son,
For thrift is like a journy, every gift
Though nere so small, is a step back again.
He that would rise to riches or renown,
Must not regard, though he pull millions down.

The.
That lesson, Sir, is easie to be learn'd.

Ear.
Laugh at those fools that are ambitious
Of empty air, to be stil'd liberal;
That sell their substance for the breath of others,
And with the flattering thanks of idle drones
Are swell'd, while their more solid parts decay.
What cloathes to wear, the first occasion
Of wearing cloaths will teach a wise man best.

The.
True, Sir, It teacheth us how vain a thing
It is for men to take a pride in that
Which was at first the embleme of their shame.

Ear.
Thou hitt'st it right, but canst thou be content
With my poor diet too?

The.
Oh, wondrous well!
'Twas such a diet which that happy age
That Poets stile the golden, first did use.

Ear.
And such a diet to our chests will bring
The golden age again.

The.
Beside the gain
That flowes upon us, health and liberty
Attend on these bare meals; if all were blest
With such a temperance, what man would fawn,
Or to his belly sell his liberty?
There would be then no slaves, no sycophants
At great mens tables; if the base Sarmentus,
Or that vile Galba had been thus content,
They had not born the scoffs of Cæsar's board.
He whose cheap thirst the springs and brooks can quench,
How many cares is he exempted from?
Hee's not indebted to the merchants toile,
Nor fears that Pyrates force, or stormes should rob him
Of rich Canaryes, or sweet Candyan wines:
He smels nor seeks no feasts, but in his own
True strength contracted lives, and there enjoyes
A greater freedome then the Parthian King.

Ear.
Thou mak'st me more in love with my blest life.

The.
Besides, pure cheerful health ever attends it,
Which made the former ages live so long.
With riotous banquets sicknesses came in,
When death 'gan muster all his dismal band
Of pale diseases, such as Poets fain
Keep sentinel before the gates of hell,
And bad them wait about the gluttons tables;
Whom they, like venom'd pills, in sweetest wines.
Deceived swallow down, and hasten on
What most they would eschew, untimely death.
But from our tables here no painful surfets,
No fed diseases grow, to strangle nature,
And suffocate the active brain; no feavers,
No apoplexies, palsies or catarrhs
Are here, where nature not entic'd at all
With such a dangerous bait as pleasant cares
Takes in no more then she can govern well.

Ear.
But that which is the greatest comfort, son,
Is to observe, with pleasure our rich hoords
Dayly increase, and stuff the swelling bags:
Come, thou art mine, I see; here take these keys,
Keyes.
These keyes can shew thee such amazing plenty,
Whose very sight would feed a famish'd country.
I durst not trust my servants.

The.
Me you may,
Who equal with my life do prize your profit

Ear.
Well, Ile go in, I feel my self half sleepy
After the drinke I took.

The.
'Twill do you good, Sir.
Exit.
Work sweetly, gentle cordial, and restore
Those spirits again, which pining avarice
Has 'reft him of; ay me! how wondrous thin,
How lean and wan he looks! how much alas!
Has he defrauded his poor Genius,
In raking wealth? while the pale grisly sighs
Of famine dwell upon his aged cheeks.
Oh avarice! then thee a greater plague
Did nere infest the life of wretched man.
Heaven ayd my work; that rare extraction
Which he has drunk, beside the nourishment,
Will cast him in a safe and gentle sleep,
While I have liberty to work my ends,
And with his body's cure, a means Ile finde
To cure his fame, and which is more, his minde.
Enter Jasper.
Jasper?

Jasp.
Sir.

Theod.
Are those disguises ready
Which I bespoke?

Jasp.
They are all fitted Sir.

Theod.
Then at the hour which I appointed thee,
Invite those people Jasper, but be true
And secret to me.

Jasp.
As your own heart Sir.

The.
Take this, I will reward thy service better,
Counters.
Assoon as these occasions are dispatch'd.

Jasp.
I thank you Sir. I have a letter for you
Letter.
Left here but now from Mr. Euphues,
Old Mr. Freeman's nephew.

The.
Give it me,
I will anon peruse it, but my hast
Permits not now, Eugeny waits my coming.
Exit Theod.

Jasp.
I like this well yet, if I should prove false
To my old master for my young masters sake,
Who can accuse me? for the reason's plain
And very palpable, I feel it here:
This will buy ale, so will not all the hoords
Which my old master has: his money serves
For nothing but to look upon; but this
Knows what the common use of money is:
Well, for my own part, I'm resolv'd to do
Whatever he commands me, hee's too honest
To wrong his father in it; if he should,
The worst would be his own another day.

Exit.
Eugeny solus.
Eug.
Just thus in woods and solitary caves
The ancient hermits liv'd, but they liv'd happy,
And in their quiet contemplations found
More real comforts, then society
Of men could yeeld, then cities could afford,
Or all the lustres of a court could give;
But I have no such sweet preservatives
Against the sadness of this desert place.
I am my self a greater wilderness
Then are these woods, where horror and dismay
Make their abodes, while different passions
By turns do reign in my distracted soul.
Fortune makes this conclusion general,
All things shall help th'unfortunate man to fall.
First, sorrow comes, and tells me I have done
A crime, whose foulness must deserve a sea
Of pœnitent tears to wash me clean again;
Then fear steps in, and tels me if surpriz'd,
My wretched life is forfeit to the Law;
When these have done, enters the Tyrant Love,
And sets before me the fair Artemia,
Displayes her vertues and perfections,
Tels me, that all those graces, all those beauties
Suffer for me, for my unhappiness,
And wounds me more in her then in my self.
Ah Theodore! would I could ever sleep.
But when thou com'st; for in my self I find
No drop of comfort, welcome dearest friend.

Enter Theodore.
The.
Pardon the slowness of my visit, friend,
For such occasions have detain'd me hence,
As if thou knew'st, I know thou would'st excuse.

Eug.
I must confess, I thought the hours too long,
But the fruition of thy presence now
Makes me forget it all.

The.
Collect thy self,
Thou droop'st too much, my dearest Eugeny,
And art too harsh and sour a censurer
Of that unhappy crime, which thou wert forc'd
Lately to act; I did allow in thee
That lawful sorrow that was fit, but let
Well grounded comforts cure thee; nought extream
Is safe in man.

Eug.
'Tis time must work that cure.

The.
But why thy pardon is not yet obtain'd,
Let me be free in my conjectures to thee.

Eug.
Speak, friend, as to thy self.

The.
Sir Argent Scrape
Your old rich kinsman, who to morrow morning
Is to be married to the Lady Covet.

Eug.
Is that match come about? oh avarice!
What monsters thou begett'st in this vile age!

The.
Sr. Argent Scrape, I say, is next heir male
On whom thy whole estate was long ago
Entail'd.

Eug.
'Tis true.

The.
He must inherit it
Should thy life fail.

Eug.
'Tis granted.

The.
Then, friend, hear,
What not a bare conjecture, but strong grounds
Move me to utter; think upon that word
Thou spok'st so lately, thinke what avarice
Can make her bondmen do, that such a price
As fifteen hundred pounds a year, will make
Him labor not thy pardon, but thy death.

Eug.
Can there be such a miscreant in nature?

The.
I should not thinke so, if I weigh'd him only
As hee's thy kinsman. I have been inform'd
He labors under hand to apprehend thee
Just at the assizes now, and has layd plots
To stop all pardons, which in that short time
Might be procur'd; and then what bribes may do
In hastening execution, doe but consider:
If this be false, some Courtiers have abus'd
His fame. And pardon me, my dearest friend,
If I suspect the worst for fear of thee.

Eug.
When I consider what accurst effects
Proceed from wretched avarice, I begin
To feel a fear.

The.
This very age hath given
Horrid examples lately, brothers have been
Betray'd by brothers in that very kinde:
When pardons have been got by the next heirs,
They have arriv'd too late. No tie so neer,
No band so sacred, but the cursed hunger
Of gold has broken't, and made wretched men
To fly from nature, mock religion,
And trample under feet the holyest Laws.

Eug.
He has been ever noted for that vice,
Which with his age, has still grown stronger in him.

The.
Ah Eugeny! how happy were that last
Age of a man, when long experience
Has taught him knowledge, taught him temperance,
And freed him from so many loose desires
In which rash youth is plung'd, were not this vice:
But heark, heark friend, what ravishing sound is that?

Eug.
Ha! wondrous sweet! 'tis from th'adjoyning thicket.
Song.

The.
Ah Eugeny! some heavenly nymph descends
To make thee musick in these desert woods,
To quench or feed thy baleful melancholy:
It is so sweet, I could almost beleeve,
But that 'tis sad; it were an Angel's voice.

Eug.
What in the name of miracle is this?

The.
Remove not thou; Ile make discovery
Within this thicket.

Eug.
Ha! what means thy wonder?
What dost thou see?

The.
I know not how to tell thee;
Now I could wish my self to be all eyes,
As erst all ears. I see a shape as fair
And as divine as was the voyce it sent;
But clouded all with sorrow: a fair woman,
If by a name so mortal I may term her.
In such a sorrow sate the queen of Love,
When in the woods she wail'd Adonis death,
And from her crystal-dropping eyes did pay
A Lovers obsequy.

Eug.
Let me come neer.

The.
Sure, black is Cupid's colour; death and he
Have chang'd their liveries now, as in the fable
They did their quivers once.

Eug.
Ah! woe is me!

The.
What means that woe?

Eug.
Ah Theodore! my guilt
Pursues me to the woods, no place can keep
The monuments of my misdeeds away.

The.
I understand you not.

Eug.
It is Matilda
The slaughter'd Scudmore's Love, his vertuous Love.
Whose life by me unhappily was spilt.
The sad melodious ditty, which so late
Did pierce our ravish'd ears, was but the note
Of this fair turtle, for her slaughter'd mate:
In which (perchance) amidd'st her woes, she sends
Black curses up against my spotted self.
But I with prayers and blessings will repay
What ere thou vent'st 'gainst me. Oh! do not wish
More wretchedness to my distracted soul
Then I already feel. Sad sighs and tears
Are all the satisfaction that is left
For me to make to thy dead Love and thee.

The.
Those lips can vent no curses; 'twould take off
Much from the sweetness of her vertuous sorrow.
Where lives this lovely maid?

Eug.
In the next village.

The.
Has she a father living?

Eug.
No friend, he died
When she was in her infancy; her mother
Two yeers ago deceas'd, and left her all
The substance that she had, which was not great,
But does maintain her: in that little house
Ere since this fatal accident, she lives
A miracle of truth and constancy,
Wayling her Loves, and now it seems was come
To vent her woful passions to the woods.

The.
How happy had he been in such a Love,
If fate had spar'd his life! but he is dead,
Aside.
And time at last may wear this sorrow off,
And make her rellish the true joyes of love.
But why do I thus wander in my thoughts?
This passion must be curb'd in the beginning,
'Twill prove too stubborn for me if it grow.

Eug.
Come, let us to my cave, as we intended,
Ere this sad object stayd us.

The.
Sad indeed,
Beleeve me friend, I suffer with thee in it.
But we were wounded in two different kindes.
Come, let's be gone, though I could still dwell here.

Exeunt.
Enter Matilda.
Mat.
Methought I heard a noise within the wood,
As if men talk'd together not far off,
But could discover none. The time has been
In such a solitary place as this
I should have trembled at each moving leaf;
But sorrow and my miserable state
Have made me bold. If there be savages
That live by rapine in such woods as these,
As I have heard in ancient times there were,
My wretched state would move their pity rather
Then violence. Ile confidently go,
Guarded with nothing but my innocence.

Exit.
Enter Fruitful, Trusty.
Fru.
Come, master Steward, you have had a time
Of sweating for this wedding.

Tru.
I have tane
A little pains to day, your's Mr. Fruitful
Is yet to come, I mean your sermon

Fru.
Yes, but the pains are past, and that's the study.
But to our business that more concerns us:
Is the deed ready written that my Lady
Must seal to day?

Tru.
Do you beleeve shee'l seal it?

Fru.
I warrant you, I have so follow'd her,
And layd it to her conscience, that I dare
Hazard my life 'tis done.

Tru.
Well, here's the deed,
'Tis plainly written

Fru.
Ile peruse't anon.
I know the other feoffees are as true
And honest men as any are i'th' world.

Exit Trusty.
Enter Freeman, Euphues, Barnet, Dotterel, Lady Whimsey.
Free.
Save you, Mr. Fruitful.

Fru.
Worthy Mr. Freeman.

Free.
How does my Lady Sir? I have made bold
To bring her company.

Fru.
Please you draw neer Sir,
I will goe up and signifie unto my Lady
Exit Fruit.
That you are here.

Bar.
What's he? her Chaplain, Euphues?

Eup.
Oh, yes.

Lad.
She uses praying then it seems

Eup.
Yes, Madam, and fasting too, but gives no alms.

Lad.
Cannot he teach her that?

Eup.
'Tis to be doubted:
But he has other wayes which are far safer,
To speak against the fashion, against painting,
Or fornication; if he were your Chaplain,
He would inveigh as much 'gainst covetousness.

Lad.
He would hurt me little in that: but has he learning?

Euph.
No surely, Madam, he is full of knowledge
But has no learning at all; he can expound,
But understands nothing: One thing in him
Is excellent, though he doe hate the Bishops,
He would not make them guilty of one sin,
Which was to give him orders, for he hates
Orders as much as them.

Free.
Well, I have heard
Though he came lately to her, he has got
A great hand over her, and swayes her conscience
Which way he list.

Eup.
Uncle, 'tis very easie
To rule a thing so weak as is her conscience,
Ile undertake that a twin'd thread would doe it
As well as a strong cable; if he could
Rule her estate too, he would have a place on't.

Free.
Why that will follow tother.

Euph.
I thinke not,
Rather her conscience follows her estate;
Oppression had not else increas'd it so
She wrong'd a worthy friend of mine, young Scudmore,
And by meer fraud and bribery took away
His whole estate, five hundred pound a yeer.

Free.
I must confess, 'twas a foul cause indeed,
And he poor man lack'd means to prosecute
The cause against her. But he feels it not
At this time, nephew.

Bar.
Was't that Scudmore, Sir,
Whom Eugeny Sir Argent Scrapes young kinsman
Unfortunately kill'd?

Free.
The same. Well, let
All these things pass, we come now to be merry.

Lad.
Let's eat up her good chear; a niggards feast,
Is best they say.

Dot.
Shall we have wine good store?

Bar.
Oh! fear not that.

Dot.
Hold belly, hold, yfaith?

Bar.
Yes, and brain too.

Dot.
Nay, for my braine
Let me alone, I fear not that, no wine
Can hurt my braine.

Lad.
Say you so, Mr. Dotterel?
Why such a braine I love

Dot.
Madam, I am glad
I had it for you.

Lad.
For me, Sir?

Dot.
Yes, Lady,
'Tis at your service, so is the whole body.
Did I not tickle her there, old Lad?

Bar.
Yes, rarely.

Lad.
Shall I presume to call you servant then?

Dot.
Oh Lord! Madam! if I were worthy to be!

Lad.
Nay, I know you have good courtship, servant,
Wear this for my sake.

Dot.
'Tis your livery, Madam.

Scarf.
Bar.
Well, th'art a happy man, if thou knew'st all.

Euph.
Madam, I see your Ladyship can tell
How to make choice in dealing of your favors.

Dot.
It pleases you to say so, good Mr. Euphues.

Euph.
Why Sir, I speak but of the Ladyes judgment.

Dot.
'Twas more of her curtesie then my desert.

Enter Lady Covet on crutches.
Euph.
Here comes the Lady bride.

Free.
Joy to your Ladyship.

Lad. Cov.
I thanke you Sir, yo'are very welcome all.

Free.
I have made bold to bring my friends along
As you commanded Lady.

Lad. Cov.
They are most welcome.

Euph.
Me thinks your Ladyship looks fresh to day,
And like a bride indeed.

Lad. Cov.
Ah Mr. Euphues!
You I perceive can flatter.

Euph.
Does your glass
Tell you I flatter Madam?

Lad. Cov.
Bestow this
Upon young mayds, but let me tell you, Sir,
Old folks may marry too, it was ordain'd
At first to be as well a stay to age,
As to please youth; we have our comforts too,
Though we be old.

Euph.
Madam, I doubt it not:
You are not yet so old, but you may have
Your comfort well, and if Sir Argent Scrape
Were but one threescore yeers younger then h'is

Bar.
What a strange but thou mak'st?

Eup.
You would perceive it.

Lad. Whi.
Servant, could you finde in your heart to marry
Such an old bride?

Dot.
No mistress, I protest
I had rather have none.

Lad. Whi.
What age would you desire
To chuse your wife of?

Dot.
Just as old as you are.

Lad. Whim.
Well, servant, I beleeve you can dissemble.

Lad. Cov.
Wil't please you to draw neer? Sir Argent stayes
Expecting within.

Free.
Wee'l wait upon you.

Exeunt.
Manent Barnet, Dottrel.
Bar.
To what strange fortune, friend, are some men born?
I mean by thee; surely when thou wert young,
The fayries dandled thee.

Dot.
Why prethee Barnet?

Bar.
That Ladyes thus should doat upon thy person:
Dost thou not see how soon the Lady Whimsey
Is caught in love with thee?

Dot.
But is she think'st thou?

Bar.
Is she? Come, thou perceiv'st it well enough;
What else should make her court thee, and bestow
Her favors openly? and such a Lady
So full of wit as she is too, would she
Betray the secrets of her heart so far,
But that Love playes the Tyrant in her brest,
And forces her?

Dot.
True, and as thou sayest, Barnet,
Shee's a brave witty Lady, and I love
A wit with all my heart. What would she say
If she should know me truly, that thus loves,
And thinkes I am but a poor younger brother?

Bar.
Why still the greater is thy happiness,
Thou may'st be sure she loves thee truly now,
And not thy fortunes.

Dot.
Has she found me out
For all I sought to hide my self?

Bar.
The more
Thy worth appears, the more her judgment's seen.
Oh! 'tis a gallant Lady! Well, she might
Have cast her eye on me, or Euphues,
But 'twas not our good fortune.

Dot.
Doe not despair,
Some other woman may love thee as well,
Come, thou hast worth, Barnet, as well as I.

Bar.
Nay, nay, abuse not your poor friends, but tell me
What dost thou thinke of young Artemia now?

Dot.
Of her! a foolish girl, a simple thing,
Shee'd make a pretty wife for me: I confess
I courted her, but she had not the wit
To finde out what I was for all my talke.

Bar.
And that was strange she should not, but 'tis fate
That governs marriages

Dot.
Let her repent,
And know what she hath lost, when 'tis too late.
But dost thou thinke this gallant Lady Whimsey
Will marry me?

Bar.
Mak'st thou a doubt of that?
'Tis thy own fault boy, if thou hast her not.

Dot.
That I protest it shall not be; but tell me,
Shall I express my love to her in verse
Or prose?

Bar.
In which you will.

Dot.
I am alike
At both of them indeed.

Bar.
I know thou art.

Dot.
Come, let's goe in.

Bar.
Thou long'st to see thy mistress.

Dot.
Wee'l drink her health in a crown'd cup, my Lad.

Exeunt.