University of Virginia Library

ACTVS I.

SCEN. I.

Enter Bird a Featherman, and Mr s Flowrdew wife to a Haberdasher of small wares; the one having brought feathers to the Play-house, the other Pins and Looking-glasses; two of the sanctified fraternity of Black-friers.
Flo.
See Brother how the wicked throng and crowd
To works of Vanity! not a nooke, or corner
In all this house of sin, this cave of filthinesse,
This den of spirituall theeves, but it is stuff'd,
Stuffed, and stuff'd full as is a cushion
With the lew'd Reprobate.

Bird.
Sister, were there not before Innes,
Yes I will say Inns, for my zeale bids me
Say filthy Innes, enough to harbour such
As travell'd to destruction the broad way;
But they build more and more, more shops of Satan.

Flowrd.
Iniquity aboundeth, though pure zeale
Teach, preach, huffe, puffe and snuffe at it, yet still
Still it aboundeth. Had we seen a Church,
A new built Church erected North and South,
It had been something worth the wondring at.

Bird.
Good workes are done.

Flowrd.
I say no works are Good.
Good works are meerely Popish and Apocryphall.

Bird.
But th'bad abound, surround, yea & confound us.
No marveile now if Play-howses increase,
For they are all grown so obscene of late
That one begets another.

Flowerd.
Flat fornication!
I wonder any body takes delight
To hear them prattle.

Bird.
Nay and I have heard
That in a—Tragedy, I think they call it,
They make no more of killing one another,
Then you sell pinnes.

Flow.
Or you sell feathers brother.
But are they not hang'd for it?

Bird.
Law growes partiall,
And findes it but Chance-medly: And their Comedies
Will abuse you, or me, or any body;
We cannot put our monies to increase
By lawfull Vsury, nor Breake in quiet,
Nor put off our false wares, nor keep our wives
Finer then others, but our Ghosts must walke
Vpon their stages.

Flow.
Is not this flat conjureing,
To make our Ghosts to walke ere we be dead?

Bird.
Thats nothing Mr s Flowrdew, they will play
The Knave, the Foole, the Divell and all for mony.

Flow.
Impiety! O that men indued with reason
Should have no more grace in them!

Bird.
Be there not other
Vocations as thriving, and more honest?
Bailies, Promooters, Iaylors, and Apparitours,
Beadles, and Martialls men, the needfull instruments
Of the Republique; but to make themselves
Such monsters? for they are monsters, th'are monsters,
Base, sinfull, shamelesse, ugly, vile, deform'd
Pernitious monsters.

Flow.
I have heard our Vicar
Call Play-houses the Colledges of Transgression,
Wherein the seven deadly sinnes are studied.

Bird.
Why then the City will in time be made
An Vniversity of Iniquity.
We dwell by Black-Friers Colledge, where I wonder
How that prophane nest of pernitious Birds
Dare roost themselves there in the midst of us,
So many good and well disposed persons.
O impudence!

Flow.
It was a zealous prayer
I heard a Brother make, concerning Play-houses:

Bird.
For Charity what is it?

Flow.
That the Globe
Wherein (quoth he) reigns a whole world of vice,
Had been consum'd! The Phœnix burnt to Ashes.
The Fortune whipt for a blind whore: Blackfriers
He wonders how it scapd demolishing
I'th' time of reformation: lastly he wish'd
The Bull might crosse the Thames to the Bear-garden,
And there be soundly baited!

Bird.
A good prayer.

Flow.
Indeed it something pricks my Conscience,
I come to sell 'em Pins and Looking-glasses.

Bird.
I have their custome too for all their feathers:
'Tis fit that we which are sincere Professors
Should gain by Infidels.

Sce. 2.

Enter Roscius a Player.
Rosc.
Why tis well.

Flow.
Pray sir what serve they for?

Rosc.
We use them in our Play.

Bird.
Are you a Player?

Rosc.
I am Sir, what of that?

Bird.
And is it lawfull?
Good sister lets convert him, will you use
So fond a calling?

Flow.
And so impious?

Bird.
So irreligious?

Flow.
So unwarrantable?

Bird.
Only to gain by vice?

Flow.
To live by sinne?

Rosc.
My spleene is up: And live not you by sinne?
Take away vanity and you both may break.
What serves your lawfull trade of selling pins,
But to joynt gew-gawes, and to knit together
Gorgets, strips, neck-cloths, laces, ribbands, ruffs,
And many other such like toyes as these,
To make the Baby Pride a pretty Puppet?
And you sweet Featherman, whose ware though light
Oreweighs your Conscience, what serves your Trade
But to plume folly, to give Pride her wings,
To deck vain-glory? spoiling the Peacocks tayle
T'adorne an Idiots Coxcombe! O dull ignorance!
How ill 'tis understood what we doe meane
For good and honest! They abuse our Scene,
And say we live by vice: Indeed tis true
As the Physitians by diseases doe,
Only to cure them: They doe live we see
Like Cookes by pamp'ring prodigality,
Which are our fond accusers. On the stage
We set an Vsurer to tell this age
How ugly looks his soule: A prodigall
Is taught by us how farre from liberall
His folly bears him: Boldly I dare say
There has been more by us in some one Play
Laugh't into wit and vertue, then hath been
By twenty tedious Lectures drawn from sinne
And foppish humours; Hence the cause doth rise
Men are not wonn by th'eares so well as eyes.
First see what we present.

Flow.
The sight is able
To unsanctify our eyes, and make 'em Carnall.

Rosc.
Will you condemne without examination?

Bird.
No Sister, let us call up all our zeale,
And try the strength of this temptation:
Satan shall see we dare defie his Engines.

Flow.
I am content.

Rosc.
Then take your places here, I will come to you
And moralize the plot.

Flow.
That moralizing
I doe approve, it may be for instruction.

Sce. 3.

Enter a deformed fellow.
Defor.
Roscius, I heare you have a new Play to day.

Rosci.
We want not you to play Mephostopholis.
A pretty naturall vizard!

Defor.
What have you there?

Rosci.
A Looking-glasse, or two.

Defor.
What things are they?
Pray let me see them. Heaven, what sights are here!
I a've seene a Divell. Looking-glasses call you them?
There is no basilisque but a Looking-glasse.

Rosci.
Tis your own face you saw.

Defor.
My own? thou liest:
I'de not be such a Monster for the world.

Rosci.
Look in it now with me, what seest thou now?

Defor.
An Angell and a Divell.

Rosci.
Look on that
Thou callst an Angell, mark it well, and tell me,
Is it not like my face?

Defor.
As twere the same.

Rosci.
Why so is that like thine. Dost thou not see,
'Tis not the glasse but thy deformitie
That makes this ugly shape; if they be fayre
That view the Glasse such the reflections are.
This serves the body: The soule sees her face
In Comedy, and has no other Glasse.

Defor.
Nay then farewell, for I had rather see
Hell then a Looking-glasse or Comedie.

Exit Defor.
Rosci.
And yet me thinks if 'twere not for this Glasse,
Wherein the forme of man beholds his grace,
We could not find another way to see
How neere our shapes approach Divinitie.
Ladies, let they who will your glasse deride,
And say it is an Instrument of Pride:
I will commend you for it; there you see
If yee be fayre, how truly fayre yee bee:
Where finding beauteous faces, I doe know
You'l have the greater care to keepe them so.
A heavenly vision in your beauty lyes,
Which nature hath denied to your own eyes;
Were it not pitty you alone should bee
Debarr'd of that others are blest to see?
Then take your glasses, and your selves enjoy
The benefit of your selves; it is no toy,
Though ignorance at slight esteeme hath set her,
That will preserve us good or make us better.
A Country slut, (for such she was, though here
Ith City may be some as well as there:)
Kept her hands clean, (for those being alwaies seene
Had told her else how sluttish she had beene)
But had her face as nasty as the stall
Of a fishmonger, or a Vsurers Hall
Daub'd ore with dirt: One might have dar'd to say
She was a true peice of Prometheus clay,
Not yet inform'd: And then her unkemb'd haire
Drest up with cobwebs, made her hag-like stare.
One day within her paile (for Country Lasses
(Faire Ladies) have no other Looking-glasses:).
She spied her uglinesse, and faine she would
Have blusht if through so much dirt she could:
Asham'd, within that water, that I say
Which shew'd her filth, she wash'd her filth away.
So Comedies, as Poets doe intend them,
Serve first to shew our faults and then to mend them
Vpon our Stage two glasses oft there be,
The Comick Mirrour and the Tragedie:
The Comick glasse is full of merry strife,
The low reflection of a Country life.
Grave Tragedy void of such homely sports
Is the sad glasse of Cities and of Courts.
I'le shew you both, Thalia come and bring
Thy Buskin'd sister, that of Bloud doth sing.

Sce. 4.

Comedy. Tragedy. Mime. Satyre.
Comed.
Why doe you stop? goe on.

Trag.
I charge him stay.
My robe of state, Buskins, and Crown of Gold
Claime a priority.

Come.
Your Crown of Gold
Is but the wreath of wealth; 'Tis mine of Lawrell
Is vertues Diadem: This grew greene and flourish'd,
When nature pittying poore mortalitie,
Hid thine within the bowells of the earth:
Men looking up to heaven found this thats mine,
Digging to find out hell they li't on thine.

Trage.
I know you have tongue enough.

Come.
Besides my Birth-right
Gives me the first possession.

Trag.
How, your Birth-right?

Come.
Yes sister, Birth-right: and a Crown besides,
Put on before the Altar of Apollo
By his deare Priest Phenomoe, she that first
Full of her God rag'd in Heroique numbers.

Trag.
How came it then the magistrate decreed
A publique charge to furnish out my Chorus,
When you were faine t'appeare in rags and tatters,
And at your own expences?

Come.
My reward
Came after, my deserts went before yours.

Trag.
Deserts? yes! what deserts, when like a gypsie
You took a poor and beggarly Pilgrimage
From village unto village; when I then
As a fit ceremony of Religion
In my full state contended at the Tombe
Of mighty Theseus.

Come.
I before that time
Did chaunt out Hymnes in praise of great Apollo
The shepheards Deitie, whom they reverence
Vnder the name of Nomius, in remembrance
How with them once he kept Admetus sheep.
And 'cause you urge my poverty, what were you?
Till Sophocles laid guilt upon your Buskins
You had no ornaments, no robes of state,
No rich and glorious Scene; your first Benefactours
Who were they, but the reeling Preists of Bacchus;
For which a Goat gave you reward and name?

Trag.
But sister who were yours, I pray, but such
As chaunted forth religious, bawdy sonnets,
In honour of the fine chast God Priapus?

Come.
Let age alone, merit must plead our Title.

Trag.
And have you then the forehead to contend?
I stalk in Princes Courts, great Kings, and Emperours.
From their close cabinets, and Councell Tables,
Yeild me the fatall matter of my Scene.

Come.
Inferiour persons, and the lighter vanities,
(Of which this age I feare is grown too fruitfull,)
Yeild subjects various enough to move
Plentifull laughter.

Trag.
Laughter! a fit object
For Poetry to ayme at.

Come.
Yes, Laughter is my object: tis a propertie
In man essentiall to his reason.

Trag.
So;
But I move horrour; and that frights the guilty
From his deare sinnes: he that sees Oedipus
Incestuous, shall behold him blind withall.
Who views Orestes as a Parricide,
Shall see him lash'd with Furies too; Th'Ambitious
Shall feare Prometheus Vultur; Daring Gluttony
Stand frighted at the sight of Tantalus:
And every Family great in sinnes as Blood
Shake at the memory of Pelops house.
Who will relye on Fortunes giddy smile
That hath seene Priam acted on the stage!

Com.
You move with fear, I work as much with shame,
A thing more powerfull in a generous brest.
Who fees an eating Parasite abus'd;
A covetous Bawd laugh'd at; an ignorant Gull
Cheated; a glorious Souldier knockt, and baffle'd;
A crafty servant whipt; a niggard Churle
Hoarding up dicing-monies for his sonne;
A spruce fantastique Courtier, a mad roarer,
A jealous Tradesman, an over-weening Lady,
Or corrupt Lawyer rightly personated,
But (if he have a blush), will blush and shame
As well to act those follies as to owne them.

Trag.
The subject of my Scene is in the persons
Greater, as in the vices; Atheists, Tyrants,
O'redaring Favorites, Traytours, Parasites,
The Wolves and Cats of state, which in a languge
High as the men, and loud as are their crimes
I thunder forth with terrour and amazement
Vnto the gastly wondring Audience.

Satyre.
And as my Lady takes deserved place
Of thy light Mistresse, so yeild thou to me,
Fantastique Mime.

Mime.
Fond Satyre why to thee?

Sat.
As the Attendant of the nobler Dame,
And of my selfe more worthy.

Mime.
How more worthy?

Sat.
As one whose whip of steele can with a lash
Imprint the Characters of shame so deepe,
Even in the brazen forehead of proud sinne,
That not eternity shall weare it out.
When I but frown'd in my Lucilius brow,
Each conscious cheek grew red, and a cold trembling
Freez'd the chill foule; while every guilty brest
Stood fearfull of dissection, as afraid
To be anatomiz'd by that skilfull hand,
And have each artery, nerve, and veine of sinne
By it laid open to the publique skorne.
I have untruss'd the proudest, greatest tyrants
Have quak'd below my powerfull whip, halfe dead
With expectation of the smarting jerke,
Whose wound no salve can cure: each blow doth leave
A lasting scar, that with a poison eates
Into the marrow of their fames and lives;
Th'eternall ulcer to their memories!
What can your Apish-fine-gesticulations
My manlike-Munkye Mime, vie downe to this?

Mime.
When men through sinnes were grown unlike the Gods,
Apes grew to be like men; therefore I think
My Apish imitation, Brother Beadle,
Does as good service to reforme bad manners
As your proud whip, with all his ferkes, and jerkes.
The Spartans when they strove t'expresse the loathsomnesse
Of Drunkennesse to their Children, brought a slave,
Some captive, Helot, overcharg'd with wine
Recling in thus;—His eyes shot out with staring,
A fire in his nose, a burning rednesse
Blazing in either cheeke, his haire upright,
His tongue and senses faltring, and his stomack
Oreburden'd ready to discharge her load
In each mans face he met. This made'em see
And hate that sinne of swine, and not of men.
Would I expresse a complementall youth,
That thinks himselfe a spruce and expert Courtier,
Bending his supple hams, kissing his hands,
Honouring shoo-strings, scruing his writh'd face
To severall postures of affection,
Dancing an entertainment to his friend,
Who would not think it a ridiculous motion?
Yet such there be that very much please themselves
In such like Antique humours. To out own sinns
We will be Moles, even to the grossest of 'em,
But in anothers life we can spye forth
The least of faults, with eyes as sharpe as eagles,
Or the Epidaurean serpent: Now in me,
Where selfe-love casts not her Ægyptian mists,
They find this mis-becoming foppishnesse,
And afterwards apply it to themselves:
This (Satyre) is the use of Mimique Elves.

Trage.
Sister let's lay this poore contention by,
And friendly live together; if one wombe
Could hold us both, why should we think this roome
Too narrow to containe us? On this stage
Weele plead a tryall; and in one year contend
Which shall doe best, that past, she then that shall
By the most sacred and impartiall judgment
Of our Apollo, best deserve the Bayes,
Shall hold the entire possession of the place.

Come.
I were unworthy if I should
Appeale from his tribunall; Be it so:
I doubt not but his censure runs with me;
Never may any thing that's sad and tragicall
Dare to approach his Presence; let him be
So happy as to think no man is wretched,
Or that there is a thing call'd miserie.

Trag.
Such is my praier, that he may only see,
Not be the subject of a Tragedie!
Sister, a truce till then; that vice may bleed
Let us joyne whips together.

Come.
'Tis agreed.
Mime, let it be your office to prepare
The Masque which we intended:

Mime.
'Tis my care.

Exeunt.
Flow.
How did she say? a Masse? Brother fly hence,
Fly hence, Idolatry will overtake us.

Rosci.
It was a Masque she spake of, a rude Dance
Presented by the seven deadly sinnes.

Bird.
Still 'tis a Masse, sister, away, I tell you
It is a masse, a masse, a masse of vile Idolatry.

Rosci.
'Tis but a simple Dance, brought in to shew
The native fowlnesse and deformitie
Of our deare sinne, and what an ugly guest
He entertaines, admits him to his Brest!

Flow.
See Brother, if mens hearts and Consciences
Had not been sear'd, and cauterized, how could they
Affect these filthy harbingers of hell!
These Procters of Belzebub, Lucifers Hinch-boyes!

Rosci.
I pray yee stirre your selves within a while.
Exeunt.
Roscius Solus.
And here, unlesse your favourable mildnesse
With hope of mercy doe encourage us,
Our Author bids us end: he dares not venture
Neither what's past, nor that which is to come
Vpon his Country, 'tis so weake, and impotent
It cannot stand a triall; nor dares hope
The benefit of his Cleargy; But if rigour
Sit Iudge, must of necessity be condemn'd
To Vulcan or the Spunge: All he can plead
Is a desire of Pardon; for he brings you
No plot at all, but a meere Olla Podrida,
A medly of ill-plac'd, and worse pen'd humours.
His desire was in single Scenes to shew
How Comedy presents each single vice
Ridiculous, whose number as their Character
He borrowes from the man to whom he owes
All the poore skill he has, great Aristotle.
Now if you can endure to heare the rest,
Y'are welcome; if you cannot, doe but tell
Your meaning by some signe, and all farewell.
If you will stay resolve to pardon first;
Our Author will deserve it by offending.
Yet if he misse a Pardon, as in Iustice
You cannot grant it, though your mercy may,
Still he hath this left for a comfort to him,
That he picks forth a subject of his Rime
May loose perchance his credit, not his time.

Exit.