University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

—Temple Bar.
The Houses on each side adorned with cloths of silk or velvet, gold or silver, hanging from the upper windows.—A crowd of Citizens, men and women, assembled.
Officer.

Stand back, sirs! Stand back there, I say!—Why
press ye forward?—Back there! back! Keep order till her
highness pass.

First Citizen.

Will it be long, sir, ere she come?

Officer.

To answer that, I must know the measure of your
patience. Stretches it to some five minutes hence, I dare
warrant you she will be here quickly; for 'tis a good half-hour

beyond the time she appointed to set out from
Westminster.

Second Citizen.

Is't to Norwich, sir, her highness makes her
progress this time?

[Shouts without.
Officer.

To Norwich 'tis, sir.—Peace! her highness comes.
Each keep his place, nor press upon the other; so one and all
will see the sight. Here comes the lord mayor, with the
aldermen and council, to greet her highness. More room!—
Stand back!—Stand back!

Enter the Lord Mayor, &c. Enter Procession through the Gates; Soldiers, Gentlemen Pensioners, Band of Gentlemen, Band of Knights, Band of Barons, Trumpeters and Heralds. The Queen, accompanied by ladies, closed up with Guards.— The Lord Mayor, &c., advance and kneel to the Queen.
Mayor.
May't please your majesty, with duteous knees,—
That for our loving and right loyal hearts
Most truly vouch, as would our tongues for both—
Our happy privileges, of the which
Your gracious sceptre the high guardian is,
Thus lowly at your highness' feet we lay;
And with fair greeting, pray to welcome you
To your good city, here, of London.

Queen.
Freely
Do we accept your greeting, citizens
Of London; of our loyal cities, chief;
The princess fair of commerce, that defies
The world to show her peer; whose merchantmen
Throng the broad seas with gallant fleets, the which
To float, the treasuries of kings might brag!
The privileges, which at our feet you lay,
We pray you to resume; and truly guard
For her behoof, who, in her subjects' weal,
Is proud to boast she still locks up her own.

Mayor.
Our duties ever on your highness wait!

Queen.
Proceed.

Albert
[without].
The queen!—The queen!—Where!—
Where's the queen?

Officer.
Stand back!

Queen.
Make way!—Who calls upon the queen?

Officer.
So please your majesty, a beggar-man!
Stand back!

Albert.
The queen!—The queen!

Officer.
Stand back, I say!

Queen.
Hold, sirrah! Dare not stop my subjects' way
That come in suffering to me! Did I—when
My birth-right crown'd me, and I pass'd along,
My way beset with subjects, that more thick
Begirt me with their blessings, than their eyes—
My chariot frequent stay, that I might take
Their gifts of nosegays from poor women's hands,
And shall I now pass on, nor stop to hear
A poor man's prayer! Approach, whate'er thou art!

[The Officer makes way for Albert, who enters.
Albert.
[Presenting a scroll.]
Lead—Lead me to her highness' feet!
[Kneels.
Justice, great queen!—Justice and mercy!

Queen.
How!
Mercy appeals against justice; justice stops
The mouth of mercy!—Ask'st thou, then,
For both?

Albert.
For mercy I'd implore, great queen, for one,
Whose high offence hath long contrition half
Atoned for,—half, the loss of sight—his just
And heavy penalty for swerving duty!
Justice I'd ask on one, whose daring wrong,
In open day, has robb'd me of my child—
A virgin, gracious queen, of beauty rare,
Although her father's eyes ne'er vouch'd for it!

Queen.
But went she of her will?

Albert.
No!—No!—by force
Just now!—i' th'public street!—in open day!
Torn from her parents, whither know they not—
A mother that in him, who should protect
Her child and her, finds but a heavy charge!
A father, with the limbs, and heart of one,
Still without eyes, is lopp'd of heart and limbs—
Unfit to succour those that cleave to him!
O royal maiden, take a maiden's part,
And, for her wrong, o'erlook the wrong, might stand
Betwixt thy justice and her injury!

Queen.
Thy tears, old man, serve more than flashing eyes
To kindle up our wrath! Know'st thou the name
Of the offender?

Albert.
No.

Queen.
Nor rank?

Albert.
Nor rank—
Unless a ring—which, in a scuffle, that
Befel with one, who tried to take her part,
Came from the finger of the ravisher—
Serve as a clue to find him.

Queen.
Show it us!
This ring is not a stranger to us! Ha!
Waits in our train Lord Thomas Willoughby?

Wood.
No, gracious mistress.

Queen.
Read this document;
[Gives Albert's scroll.
Advise him straight of its contents; and add
Our will, that on receipt, with prompt despatch,
He lead the beggar's daughter to our feet—
His wedded bride! What to thyself relates,
We'll read at leisure; what to thy child, at once
We'll give our care to. Instruct us by what name
Thou, now, art known, or title?

Albert.
The Blind Beggar
Of Bethnal Green.

Queen.
Thy daughter's name?

Albert.
'Tis Bess.

Queen.
Our own!—Of beauty rare, thou say'st?

Albert.
Most rare!

Queen.
And good?

Albert.
Most good!

Queen.
[To Attendant.]
Look to this sightless man!
Our pleasure 'tis he waits upon us. On!
The glory it shall be of Bess's reign,
Her lowest subject, if his cause is right,
Hath, 'gainst her highest, odds; for beggar e'en,
He, still, shall have his queen to side with him!

[They go out.
Enter Young Small and Peter newly attired.
Young S.
There!—Said I not we should be late and lose
The setting out, wherein we might have mix'd
Unnoticed with the royal cavalcade;
And all through fault of thee, that took'st such time
To apparel thee—no doubt with wonderment
At such surpassing gear!—Let's breathe awhile.—
Peter, you'll ruin me! Is that a way
A serving-man should bear himself?—Consider—
Thy master, Peter, is a gentleman.

Peter.
To keep in mind on't strive I all I can!

Young S.
I say thou dost not, else would it appear.

Peter.
It shall appear.

Young S.
See that it do so, then—
Especially when thou walk'st out with me.
Then carry thus thy head, stand with an air!
Walk with a gait, as thou wast somebody;
And when thou speak'st, thou must speak up, like one
That values not who hears;—but not to me!
To me, good Peter, do thou none of these!
Speak small to me; wear thus thy head to me;
Stand thou not with an air when I am by;
Nor, when my eye's upon thee, move with gait
Of somebody! Thou'rt ever nobody
In presence of thy master!—minding still
To bear thee like a gentle serving-man.

Peter.
I'll mind.

Young S.
And do so!—And remember too
When I am seated, and thou wait'st on me,
Thou layest not thy hand upon my chair.
But stand at distance from't—nor yet in line,
But good a foot behind the rearmost leg;
Not in advance of that a barley-corn!
And balance not thy body on one leg,
With knee of t'other negligently bent,
As if it said “I care not!” 'Tis not meet.
But stand on both, as every joint of thee
Acknowledged me thy master—not astride,
But heel to heel!—And keep thy finger from
Thy button-hole!—but not to cram it in
Thy poke! Nor yet on hip to rest it!—'Twere
As thou wouldst say, “I think myself a lord!”
Thou wouldst not fold thine arms! Field-marshal, Peter,
Could do no more—do nothing with thine arms,
But let them hang! There! Seem'st thou now indeed
A serving-man.

Peter.
Will that content you?

Young S.
Yes.
But mark! Thou hast play'd with me at quoits and loggats,
No more of that!

Peter.
I'll mind.

Young S.
And when I have order'd me a tankard out,
And given it thee to hold, thou more than once
Hast quaff'd it off to my good luck.—Be sure
No more of that!

Peter.
I'll try and mind. But, sir—
Since so I must accost thee—what avail
The gait and air of gentle serving-man,
Without the pocket, should belong to one?
Look there!

Young S.
What's that?

Peter.
A melancholy rap!
A black-faced copper sixpence! Add to which
A button without shank, and you sum up
The pocket of your gentle serving-man!
I ne'er can do without allowances!

Young S.
Allowances!—What wages got you from
My father, Peter?

Peter.
'Twere a cunning clerk
Could count them,—Purse was never made, would wear
With hoarding them. To coin them took it not
Gold, silver, no nor copper! I served him for
My bed and board, that board and bed were none,
But shifts for them; a jerkin in the year
And doublet—old apparel new made up;
Hose, when the feet had walk'd away from them;
Shoes, whose last mending had the cobbler brought
To his last wits; and hat that gaped to see
Its crown was gone; with what good luck besides
Might send me.

Young S.
And thou want'st allowances!
Do I not promise thee a pound a year?
Jerkin and doublet, to provide thee with,
The thirtieth penny on the counter rang
The knell of half a crown! Hose got I thee,
With feet unto them, newly vamp'd and darn'd!
And from the cordiner, himself, direct,
Wast thou not shod? Nor was thy head forgot.
With thy well-furnish'd trunk to make it match.
Did I not treat it to a crown-whole hat,
Nor yet at outlay stopp'd, so ruinous,
But in the hat a comely feather stuck,
At charge of twice a groat? No more of this!
Believe when thou'rt well off.—There's twopence for thee,
To show thee that thou serv'st a gentleman!
Dream'st thou sometimes?

Peter.
I do.

Young S.
What's the best dream
A man can dream?

Peter.
They say 'tis hanging.

Young S.
So!
Didst thou not dream of hanging yesternight?

Peter.
I did.

Young S.
Thy dream's come out! Thy fortune's made,
But knew'st thou it—Come on! Content thee, and
Thou shalt have pence! Mind how thou bear'st thyself!
Well done! But keep to that! So.—Follow me.

[They go out.