University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

A bedchamber.
Enter Lady Tearsheet and Poetaster.
Lady Tearsheet.
To-morrow's sun shall usher in the day,
The great, th'important day, big with the fate
Of Poetaster. Words cannot express
How much I dread th'assembly of your brethren.
In every lane and street the bugbears swarm;
In gait and black array most like they seem
To the forerunners of a funeral.
O my beloved, pacify those men,
And sooth their bosoms with your syren tongue.

Poetaster.
I am not Orpheus, Lady;—though I were,
I would not prostitute the power of song,
To soften stones, or humanize the brutes.
O General Assembly! ne'er will I
Submit to thee, thou many-body'd monster.
Did Hercules, when he attack'd the Hydra,
Accost its various heads? Did Jove address
Th'enormous giant with a hundred hands?
“Oft have I (when a simple school-boy) read
“Of wondrous deeds by one bold arm atchiev'd;
“I know no chief that will defy myself.”
And did I lack support, “I've kinsmen near,
“Brothers, that shrink not from each others side,
“And fond companions fill my warlike files.”

Lady Tearsheet.
Rebuke, though e'er so sharp, would not cut deep;
Suspension would afford thee time to write;
All day you would compose your pretty plays,
And all night wanton in thy Tearsheet's arms.
But, O my love, beseech these cruel men,
“By him that dy'd upon the cursed tree,
“And by the blessed cross, and King of kings,”
Not to deprive you of your benefice.
By those fanatics if thou shouldst be turn'd
“Out to the mercy of the winter's wind,
“My beautiful! my brave! what wilt thou do?”

Poetaster.
“I'll hear no more; this melody would make
“Your poet drop his pen, or write burlesques,
Poems and ballads on his own composures.
Straitway I hie me to hold dialogues
With select friends about to-morrow's combat.
No carking care would I bring to thy bed,
And therefore shall this night with Atheos sleep.
“Lady, farewell; I leave thee not alone,
“Yonder comes one will make my absence light.

[Exit.
Enter Moralis.
“What dost thou muse on, meditating maid?”

Lady Tearsheet.
O! sweet Moralis, I am sore beset.
You are not ignorant, how close of late
Has been my union with your gen'rous friend.
“Alas! some months ago I found myself
“As women wish to be who love their lords.”

Moralis.
And why for this should Lady Tearsheet grieve?
“You for a living lover bear your pains,
“And he will bless you when a man is born.”

Lady Tearsheet.
His brethren (if I so may call them) threaten
To seize his stipend, and he marketh not
“Which way the current of their temper sets;
“And therefore he must be condemn'd to walk,
“Like a guilt-troubled ghost, his painful rounds,
“And starving wander through a scorning world.”

Moralis.
Nine clergymen him follow'd to the box.
One of the nine was I. Methought, by heav'n,
When I survey'd him in the midst of us,
We were a fairer spectacle to see,
Than the nine muses, with their president
Apollo, though they are divinities,
And we but mortal men. Retire, fair Lady,
And banish anxious bodings from your thoughts,
“The play of Douglas will protect itself.”