University of Virginia Library

Actvs I.

Scena 1.

Fortune descends downe from heauen to the Stage, and then shee cals foorth foure Harpers, that by the sound of their Musicke they might awake the ancient Bardh, a kind of Welsh Poet, who long agoe was there intoombed.
Fortune.
Thus from the high Imperiall Seate of Ioue,
Romes awfull Goddesse, Chaunce, descends to view
This Stage and Theater of mortall men,
Whose acts and scenes diuisible by me,
Sometime present a swelling Tragedy
Of discontented men: sometimes againe
My smiles can mould him to a Comicke vayne:
Sometimes like Niobe, in teares I drowne
This Microcosme of man; and to conclude,
I seale the Lease of mans beatitude:
Amongst the seuerall obiects of my frownes,
Amongst the sundry subiects of my smiles,
Amongst so many Kings housde vp in clay,
Behold, I bring a King of Cambria:
To whom great Pyrrhus, Hector poysde in scales
Of dauntlesse valour, weighes not this Prince of Wales.
Be dumbe you scornefull English, whose blacke mouthes
Haue dim'd the glorious splendor of those men,
Whose resolution merites Homers penne:
And you, the types of the harmonious spheares,
Call with your siluer tones, that reuerend Bardh,
That long hath slept within his quiet vrne,
And let his tongue this Welshmans Crest adorne.

The Harpers play, and the Bardh riseth from his Tombe.
Bardh.
Who's this disturbs my rest?

Fortune.
None, Poet Laureat: but a kind request
Fortune prefers vnto thy ayry shape,
That once thou wouldst in well-tunde meeter sing
The high-swolne fortunes of a worthy King,
That valiant Welshman, Caradoc by name,
That foylde the haughty Romanes, crackt their fame.

Bardh.
I well remember, powerfull Deity,
Arch-gouernesse of this terrestriall Globe,
Goddesse of all mutation man affords,
That in the raigne of Romes great Emperour,
Ycleped Claudian, when the Bryttish Ile
Was tributary to that conquering See,
This worthy Prince suruiued, whose puissant might
Was not inferiour to that sonne of Ioue,
Who, in his cradle chokte two hideous Snakes.
Which, since my Fortune is to speake his worth,
My vtmost skill aliue shall paint him forth.

Fort.
Then to thy taske, graue Bardh: tell to mens eare,
Fame plac't the valiant Welshman in the spheare.

Exit.
Bardh.
Then, since I needs must tell the high designes
Of this braue Welshman, that succeeding times,
In leaues of gold, may register his name,
And feare a Pyramys vnto his fame;
This onely doe I craue, that in my song,
Attention guyde your eares, silence your tongue.
Then know all you, whose knowing faculties
Of your diuiner parts scorne to insist
On sensuall obiects, or on naked sense,
But on mans highest Alpes, Intelligence.
For to plebeyan wits, it is as good,
As to be silent, as not vnderstood.
Before faire Wales her happy Vnion had,
Blest Vnion, that such happinesse did bring,
Like to the azure roofe of heauen full packt
With those great golden Tapers of the night,
Whose spheares sweat with their numbers infinite;
So was it with the spacious bounds of Wales,
Whose firmament contaynd two glorious sonnes,
Two Kings, both mighty in their arch-cōmands,
Though both not lawfull in their gouernement:
The one Octauian was, to whom was left,
By lineall descent, each gouernment:
But that proud Earle of Munmouth stealing fire,
Of high ambition did one throne aspire,
Which by base vsurpation he detaines.
Of lawfull (right) vnlawfull treason gaines.
Twise, in two haughty set Battalions,
The base vsurper Munmouth got the day:
And now Octauian spurde with griefe and rage,
Conducted by a more propitious starre,
Himselfe in person comes to Shrewsbury,
Where the great Earle of March, great in his age,
But greater in the circuit of his power,
Yet greatest in the fortunes of his sonnes,
The Father of our valiant VVelshman calld,
Himselfe, his warlike sonnes, and all doth bring,
To supplant Treason, and to plant their King.
No more Ile speake: but this olde Barde intreats,
To keepe your vnderstanding and your seates.

Scena 2.

Enter Octauian, King of Northwales, Gloster, Codigunes base sonne, Morgan, Earle of Anglesey, and his foolish sonne with souldiers.
Octauian.
Gloster, Lord Codigune,
And Noble Morgan, Earle of Anglesey,
Can the vsurping name of Monmouth liue
VVithin the ayry confines of your soules,
And not infect the purest temprature
Of loyalty and sworne allegeance,
With that base Apoplexie of reuolt,
And egre appetite of soueraigne might,
Counting the greatest wrong, the greatest right?
Full many Moones haue these two aged lights
Beheld in peacefull wife: Now, to my griefe,
When the pure oyle, that fed these aged Lampes,
Is almost spent, and dimly shines those beames,
That in my youth darted forth spritefull rayes,
Must now die miserable and vndone,
By monstrous and base vsurpation.

Codig.
Thrise noble king, be patient, this I reade,
The Gods haue feet of wooll, but hands of lead:
And therefore in reuenge as sure, as slow.
What though two Royall Armies we haue lost?
He that beares man about him, must be crost:
And that base Monmouth, that with his goldēhead
Salutes the Sunne, may with the Sunne fal dead.
For base Rebellion drawes so short a breath,
That in the day she moues, she moues to death:
And like the Marigold opens with the Sunne,
But at the night her pride is shut and done.

Morgan.

Harke you, me Lord Codigune,
By the pones of Saint Tauy, you haue prattled to the King

a great deale of good Phisicke, and for this one of her good
lessons and destructions, how call you it, be Cad, I know
not very well, I wil fight for you with all the George Stones,
or the Ursa maiors vnder the Sunnes. Harke you me, Kings:
I pray you now, good Kings, leaue your whimbling, and
your great proclamations: let death come at her, and ha
can catch her, and pray God blesse her. As for the Rebell
Monmouth, I kanow very well what I will do with her. I
will make Martlemas beefe on her flesh, and false dice on
her pones for euery Conicatcher: I warrant her for Case
bobby and Metheglin: I will make her pate ring noone for
all her resurrections and rebellions.

The Drumme soundeth afarre off.
Octauian.
But soft, what Drum is this,
That with her silent march salutes the ayre?
Herald, go see.

Herald.
And't please your Grace, Cadallan, Earle of March
Spurred on by duty and obsequious loue,
Repining at the Fortune of your foe,
Whose rauening tyranny deuoures the liues
Of innocent subiects, now in person comes,
To scourge base vsurpation with his sonnes.

Octa.
Conduct them to our presence.
Enter March.
Welcome, braue Earle, with these thy manly sonnes:
Neuer came raine vnto the Sunne-parcht earth,
In more auspicious time, then thy supply,
To scourge vsurping pride and soueraignety.

Cadallan.
Oh my gracious Lord,
Cadallan comes drawne by that powerfull awe
Of that rich Adamant his soule adores.
The needles poynt is not more willing to salute the North,
Man ioyfuller to sit inshrinde in heauen,
Then is my loyalty to ayde my King.
I know, dread Liege, that each true man should know,
To what intent dame Nature brought him forth:
True subiects are like Commons, who should feede
Their King, their Country, and their friends at need.

Octa.
Braue Earle of March, I need not here delude
The precious time with vaine capituling
Our own hereditary right. Graues to the dead,
Balsum to greene wounds, or a soule to man
Is not more proper, then Octauian
To the vsurped Title Monmouth holds.
Then once more on: this be our onely trust:
Heauens suffer wrongs: but Angels gard the iust.

Exeunt.

Scena 3.

Enter Monmouth the vsurper in armes with Souldiers.
Mon.
Now valiant Countreymen, once more prepare
Your hands and hearts vnto a bloudy fight.
Sterne Mars beginnes to buckle on his helme,
And waues his sanguine colours in the ayre:
Recount, braue spirits, two glorious victories,
Got with the death of many thousand soules.
Thinke on the cause, for which we stand ingagde,
Euen to the hazard of our goods and liues:
That were Octauians forces like the starres,
Beyond the limits of Arithmetike:
Or equall to the mighty Xerxes hoste:
Yet like the poles, our dauntlesse courage stands,
Vnshaken by their feeble multitudes.
The Drum beats afarre off.
But soft: what Drum is this? Souldiers, look out.
Did Cesar come, this welcome he should haue,
Strong armes, bigge hearts, and to conclude, a graue.

Souldiers.
My Lord Octauian,
Backt with the Earle of March and his three sonnes,
Intends to giue you battell.

Mon.
No more, no more: fond doting Earle:
Is not there roome enough within Churchyards,
To earth his aged bodie, with his sonnes,
But hee must hither come to make their graues?
Drums, beat aloud. Ile not articulate.
My soule is drown'd in tage. This bloudy fight
Shall toombe their bodies in eternal night.

Exeunt. Alarum.
Enter Cadallan wounded, with his sonnes.
Caradoc.
Rot from his cursed trunke that villaines arme,
That gaue this fatall wound to reuerend age.
How fares our Princely father?

Cad.
As fares the sicke man, when the nights blacke bird
Beates at his casements with his sable wings:
Or as the halfe dead captiue being condemn'd,
Awaites the churlish Iaylors fearefull call
Out of his lothsome dungeon to his death:
So fares it with the wounded Earle of March:
The current of my bloud begins to freeze,
Toucht by the Icy power of gelid death:
A sad Eclipse darkens these two bright lights:
My vitall spirits faint, my pulses cease,
And natures frame dissolues to natures peace,
All by that damn'd vsurper.

He dies.
Cara.
Eternall peace, free from the hate of men,
Inspheare thy soule, and mount it to the stars.
Brothers, surcease your griefe, goe to the field,
Cheare vp the Souldiers, whilst I single forth
This bloudy Monmouth, that I may sacrifice
His canceld life vnto my fathers ghost,
And rid the land of this Egean filth,
His vsurpation stables. Oh, tis good,
To scourge with death, that crying sinne of bloud.

Morgan meets Caradoc going in.
Morgan.

Cousin Caradoc, well, in all these pribble prabbles,
I pray you, how dooth our vncle Cadallan? bee
Cad, I heard he had got a knocke: if it bee so, I pray you
looke that the leane Caniball, what doe you call him that

eate vp Iulius Cesars and Pompeyes: a saucy knaue, that cares
no more for Kings, then lowsie beggers & Chimney-sweepers.

Cara.

Why, death, man.

Morgan.

I, I, Death, a poxe on her: as Cad shudge mee,
hee will eate more Emperours and Kings at one meale, then
some Taylors halfe penny loaues, or Vsurers decayed shentlemen
in a whole yeare: therefore I pray you Cousin, haue
a care of her vncle.

Cara.

He is in heauen already.

Morgan.

In heauen! why did you let her goe thither?

Cara.

It is a place of rest, and Angels blisse.

Morgan.

Angells! Cots blue-hood: I warrant her, there
is ne're a Lawyer in the whole orld, but had rather haue eleuen
shillings, then the best Anshell in heauen. I pray you
who sent her thither?

Cara.
I cannot tell, but from his dying tongue
He did report Monmouth the bloudy meanes.

Morgan.

Monmouth! Iesu Christ! did hee send her vncle
to Saint Peters and Saint Paules, and not suffer her cousin
Morgan to bid her Nos Dhieu? harke you, Cousin, Ile seeke
her out be Cad. Farewell, Cousin, Ile make her pring packe
her Nuncle with a venshance.

Cara.
Farewell, good Cousin; whilst I range about
The mangled bodies of this bloudy field,
To finde the Traytor forth, whose spotted soule
Ile send posthaste vnto that low Abisse,
That with the snaky furies he may dwell,
And ease Promotheus of his paines in hell.

Alarum againe.
Enter at one dore Monmouth with Souldiers, at the other Codigune: they fight: Monmouth beates them in; then enter Caradoc at the other.
Caradoc.
Turne thee, Vsurper, Harpey of this Clime,
Ambitious villaine, damned homicide.

Mon.
Fondling, thou speakest in too milde consonants:
Thy ayry words cannot awake my spleene:
Thou woundst the subtle body of the ayre,
In whose concauity we stand immured:
Thou giuest me cordials, and not vomits now:
Thy Physicke will not worke: these names thou speakst,
Fill vp each spongy pore vviihin my flesh,
With ioy intolerable: and thy kind salutes
Of villany, and ambition, best befits
The royall thoughts of Kings: Reade Machiauell:
Princes that would aspire, must mocke at hell.

Cara.
Out, thou incarnate Deuill; garde thee, slaue:
Although thou fear'st not hell, Ile dig thy graue.

Mon.
Stay, Prince, take measure of me first.

Cara.
The Deuill hath done that long ago.

Alarum there.
They both fight, and Caradoc killeth him.
Enter Constantine.
Const.
Surcease, braue brother; Fortune hath crownd our browes
With a victorious wreath; Their Souldiers flee,
And all their Army is discomfited.
The King sounds a retreat. What is the Traytor dead?
This act hath purchast honour to our name,
And crownde thee with immortall memory.
Off with his head: and let the King behold,
His greatest foe and care lies dead and cold.

Scena 4.

Enter Octauian, Codigune, Cornwall, Gloster, Mauron with colours and souldiers.
Octa.
Here ends the life and death of bloudy warre,
Whose graue-like Paunch did neuer cry, Inough:
And welcome, Peace, that long hath liu'd exilde,
Immurde within the Iuory wals of blisse.
Ambition now hath throwne her snaky skin,
From off her venomde backe. Oh may shee die,
Congeal'd, and neuer moue again to multiply.

Enter Caradoc, Morgan and Constantine.
Morgan.

God plesse her. Be Cad, Kings, all the Sybilles
in the whole orld speake not more tales and prophesies,
then our Cousin Morgan: Looke you now Kings, our cousin
Caradoc, and our cousin Constantine, breake our fasts with
mince-pyes and Gallymawfryes of legs and armes. Is your
Grace a hungry? If you bee, I haue prought you a Calues
head in wooll, bee Cad; tis in my Knappesacke.

Octa.

Thanks, gentle Earle.

Mor.

Thanks for a Pigge in a poake, tis pleeding new;
and I pray you thanke our cousin Caradoc for it: for as Cad
shudge me, hee was the Caterer: be Cad, hee did kill her
with one blow in the crag, as you vse to kill Conies.

Octa.

Why, Cousin Morgan, I vse not to kill Conyes.

Mor.

Do you not? Harke you me: you were a great deale
petter to kil al the Conyes in Wales, then they to kil her. Be
Cad, I haue knowne tall men as Hercules, beene wounded
to death, and kicke vp her heeles in an Hospitall, by the byting
of a tame Conyes in the City: therefore your wilde
Conyes in the Suburbs, that eate of nothing but Mandrakes
& Turne-her-vps, mark you me now, by Sheshu, are worse
then Dog dayes.

Octa.
VVell, Cousin, you are merry.
But now, braue plants of that vnhappy tree,
VVhom chaunce of warre hath leueld with the earth,
And in our cause: We cannot but lament
The sudden downefall of that aged Earle.
But since the wil of heauen is not confinde
Vnto the will of man: his soule's at rest.
Our bounties and our loue to you aliue,
Shall well confirme the loue we owe him dead.
And first, because your worthy selues shall see,
Our Royall thoughts adore no peasants god,
Or dung-hill basenesse: but in that spheare we moue,
Where honour sits coequall with high Ioue.
To thee braue Knight, heauens chiefest instrument
Of our new-borne tranquility and peace,
We giue for thy reward, this golden Fleece,
Our Royall daughter, beautious Guiniuer,
And after our decease, our Kingly right.
Speake, valiant Knight, wilt thou accept of this?

Cara.
Accept of it, great King!
The Thracian Orpheus neuer entertayn'd
More loy in sight of his Euridice,
When with his siluer tunes he did inchaunt
The triple-headed dog, and reassumde,
His soules beatitude, from Plutoes Court,
Then your deuoted seruant in this gift,
Wherein such vnrespected ioy concurs,
That euery sense daunces within his blest circumference,
And cals my blisse, A Newyeeres gift from Ioue;
And not from that which reason or discourse
Proudly from beasts doth challenge, as from man.
In briefe, my Lord,
Looke how proud Nature in her store,
Because shee hath one Phenix and no more,
Whose indiuiduall substance being but one,
Makes Nature boast of her perfection:
So ist with me, great King; more blest in this,
Then man turn'd constellation, starr'd in blisse.
Her gracious answere, and I am content.

Mor.

Her consent, Cousin Caradoc, I warrant her there
is neuer a Lady in England, but consent to giue prike and
prayse to a good thing; goe you together: I warrant
her.

Octa.

How now, my Lord, doe you play the Priest?

Mor.

Priests! Cads blue-hood, I should be mad fellow
to make Priests: for marke you now, my Lord: the Priests
say, Let no man put her asunder: thats very good. But belieue
mee, and her will, it is a great deale petter to put her
betweene; because the one is a curse, and the fruites of the
wombe is a great plessing.

Octa.
Now Princely sonne, reach me each others hand.
Here in the sight of heauen, of God and men,
I ioyne your Nuptiall hands. Oh, may this howre
Be guided by a fayre and kind aspect.
Let no maleuolent Planet this day dart
Her hateful influence, 'gainst these hallowed rites.
You heauenly Pilots of the life of man,
Oh, be propitious to this sacred cause,
That God and men may seale it with applause.
So now to Ceremonies. Musicke, sound shrill thy note:
'Tis Hymens holyday; Let Bacchus flote.

Exeunt.
Manet solus Codigune.
Codig.
Go you vnto the Church, and with your holy fires
Perfume the Altars of your country gods,
Whilst I in curses, swifter in pursute,
Then winged lightning, execrate your soules,
And all your Hymeneall iollity.
Now swels the wombe of my inuention,
With some prodigious proiect, and my brayne
Italianates my barren faculties
To Machiuilian blacknesse. Welshman, stand fast;
Or by these holy raptures that inspire
The soule of Polititians with reuenge,
Blacke proiects, deepe conceits, quaynt villanies,
By her that excommunicates my right
Of my creation, with a bastards name,
And makes me stand nonsuted to a crowne;
Ile fall my selfe, or plucke this Welshman down.
Cornwall, he kild thy brother. There's the base,
Whereon my enuy shall erect the frame
Of his confusion. Gloster, I know,
Is Natures master-piece of enuious plots,
The Cabinet of all adulterate ill
Enuy can hatch; with these I will beginne,
To make blacke enuy Primate of each sin.
Now, in the heate of all their reuelling,
Hypocrisie, Times best complexion,
Smooth all my rugged thoughts, let them appeare
As brothell sinnes benighted, darkely cleare.
Lend me thy face, good Ianus, let mee looke
Iust on Times fashion, with a double face,
And clad my purpose in a Foxes case.

Exit.