University of Virginia Library

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.