University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene 1.

A tavern in London. Enter John and James Forrester.
JOHN FORRESTER.
From Antwerp you shall certainly hear from me;
And then as soon as I reach Ghent, and of my
Speeding on the voyage—how strange things
Seem to untravelled eyes—how Flanders ladies
And Flanders lace may look to an Englishman,
And all important matters, I will write of.

JAMES.
Especially forget not to apprize me
As soon as my uncle dies—for die he must,
I take it; and, good John, when you come back,
And are the Honourable Sir John Forrester,
With sundry thousand pounds a-year, I beg
You'll not forget your poorer younger brother.

JOHN.
Which way shall I remember thee? with alms
From my new fortunes?

JAMES.
Faith, it may be so;
I shall be out at elbows presently,
An the dice use me not more courteously.

JOHN.
Dice seldom mend a tattered doublet, James.
Thou'rt but a careless fellow, and I fear
That I shall find thee, when I do come back,
The poorer for my absence.

JAMES.
I do fear it;
Good brother John, I fear it infinitely.
Thy wisdom was a kind of floating buoy
That held me up i' the midst of my unthrift;
I fear when thou art gone, that I shall go
To the very bottom. Thou'rt a lucky fellow!

JOHN.
Nay, now most men had said that, of the twain,
Thou wert the luckier: eldest of our house,
I yet have thence derived no good advantage,
Save the honour of being head of a family
More old than rich; whilst thou, the curly darling
Of our old grandam Wentworth, didst inherit
Her fortune and a younger brother's privilege
To spend it like a madman, merrily:
And yet I'm lucky, sayest thou.

JAMES.
Very lucky;
You never play.

JOHN.
You might be lucky, too,
Upon those terms.

JAMES.
You never wish to play;
That's where you're lucky.

JOHN.
No, nor ever wish
To cut a man's throat, or to steal his purse;
Perhaps I'm lucky, too, in that.

JAMES.
Most certainly,
For if you played, you might do one or both;
I'm sure I've often thought I should do both.

JOHN.
Dear brother, what you thus speak jestingly
Sounds very sadly in my ears; have patience,
If now, about to leave you quite alone,
For the first time since our poor father died,
I use a little the elder brother's right,
And leave thee, with these few hundred pounds I've saved
Upon my last year's income, some few words
Of counsel; dearest James, pray give me heed.

JAMES.
I would I could but mind as well as heed,
And do as well as listen—yet the money—

JOHN.
I do not want it, brother, and you may;
You know I never play, and my outgoings
Are measured always by my incomings;
'Tis yours, and yours alone.

JAMES.
Thanks, generous friend,
I'll try and spend, not lose it.

JOHN.
Prithee do.
Put not thy gentry into such ill company
As dicers, drinkers, tavern-haunting folk;
Kites that seem doves, but hover round their prey
With beaks and talons whetted sharp for blood.
Cram not thine honour and thine happiness
Into that hollow cup, whence, with the dice,
They shall come tumbling in what fashion fortune
May please to order. Oh! be still above
The power of chance, at least in thine own mind,
Dear James, nor put thy manliness and worth
At stake upon a hazard table. The money
Is nought, but that thou canst not win or lose
That, without losing at the self same time
An infinite treasure—thine own good esteem;
It is a deep stake, brother; do not risk it.

JAMES.
I will not say to thee that till thou come
I'll not touch dice, I fear to be forsworn;
But I will strive to be more moderate
In venturing; and if I can, I will not
Play while thou'rt gone.

JOHN.
That's well, good fellow! well?

[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
The captain is on board, sir, and the wind
Streaks with grey rippling lines the river's bosom;
Your clothes are in the ship, all things are ready.

JOHN.
I come immediately.
[Exit Servant.
Brother, another word;
Here is a letter to my friend Judge Winthrop;
He'll see for thee into those scrolls and parchments
That we were looking over yesterday.
You'll find him, brother, a true Englishman;
I cannot give a man a better name.

JAMES.
I will set out to-morrow, brother.

JOHN.
Good—
While thou art there, perhaps it were as well
To think of another matter, James; the Judge
Has a fair sister, a most charming lady,
Whom thou couldst easier love than I describe.
When you look at her, think of what I say;
A lovely, loving wife were a better monitor
Than I can be; sweet lips, and gentle eyes,
And woman's fond persuasion, should do more
To sunder thee from those ill-favoured mistresses,
The dice, than all my talking; and besides,
'Twixt man and man there is a boundary
Not passable even by the closest kindred.
But, an thou once wert married, thou shouldst find
Each hour admonish thee not to betray
Thine own and others' happiness to play.
Come, let us go. I shall be late on board;
Come with me to the stairs.

JAMES.
Would 'twere to Flanders!

[Exeunt the two Forresters.

Scene 2.

Another chamber in the tavern. A table at which Alford, Illworth, Wilton, Mowbray, and others are sitting at dice.
ALFORD.
It's my throw.

ILLWORTH.
He will have the same, I'll wager.

MOWBRAY.
Impossible! he's had it three times running;
Poor Wilton here can't speak.

WILTON.
Come, sir, will you throw.

ALFORD.
There 'tis again.

OMNES.
Again!

ILLWORTH.
I told you so;
I'd bet upon him, sir, for a thousand pounds;
He is the luckiest man in London.

WILTON.
And I
The most unlucky dog in all the world!
Some wine there, ho! some wine!

MOWBRAY
(aside).
Be careful, Wilton,
You mar your sole chance, if you lose your wits.

WILTON
(aloud).
Sir, when one's money's lost, one's wit's lost too;
It's gone already, sir. Bring me some wine!

[Servant brings in wine; all the gentlemen drink, except Alford, Illworth, and Mowbray.
ALFORD.
You should not drink, sir, when you play; you see
I do not.

ILLWORTH.
No, my lord, nor I.

MOWBRAY.
Nor I.
Now Wilton, throw, and good success befriend you!

WILTON.
Thanks, friend! (throws)
that's well!

ALFORD
(throws).
Yes, sir, and that is better.
Your stake is lost; what, will you play again?

WILTON
(rises).
Damnation seize the dice! I'm ruined, ruined.
Land mortgaged—money lost—my lord, my lord!

[Alford converses with other gentlemen; Mowbray walks up and down with Wilton, in great agitation.
MOWBRAY.
For God's sake, sir, be patient! 'tis not possible.

WILTON.
I say 'tis true; I saw it, and I know it.

MOWBRAY.
What, man! a lord play such a beggar's trick?

WILTON.
It was a beggar's trick; I'm sure he did it though!

ALFORD.
You seem disturbed, sir; I'm afraid your losses
Something outwent your expectations;
I shall be proud to give you your revenge.
Shall we play again?

WILTON.
Oh! by no means, my lord,
Your lordship's luck is more than I can cope with,
(Aside)
—Backed by your lordship's dexterous sleight of hand.

ALFORD.
I'm sorry, sir, my luck has been so great;
Indeed I'm mostly lucky; I could wish
I were not—I too often rob my friends.
Good evening, gentlemen, I see you're going;
Good Master Wilton, a good even to you.

WILTON
(aside).
The curses of a ruined man light on you!

[Exeunt Wilton, Mowbray, and the rest: manent Alford and Illworth.
ALFORD.
There's a fool who puts his finger in the candle,
And cries because 'tis burnt.

ILLWORTH.
I see, my lord,
You've not forgotten how to handle dice.

ALFORD.
No, Illworth:—and yet all's but nothing either;
Thou seest the goodly show I make in town here,
My carriages, my horses, and my servants.

ILLWORTH.
A comet's tail, a perfect blaze of splendour!

ALFORD.
All borrowed light, sir, for all that: I tell thee,
I'm the poorest man in Christendom; and save
When every now and then a money bag
Without a head, like this fellow, comes to be squeezed,
I've but a sorry time with the petitions
Of a scurvy set of villains they call creditors.
And whither art thou bound?

ILLWORTH.
My lord, to Florence.

ALFORD.
To Florence, ha! what the game's up in England?
Or hast thou run a step beyond thy compass?

ILLWORTH.
Fortune and credit are with me so wrecked,
That I must fly from England, which henceforth
Has nought but chains and prison bars for me.

ALFORD.
That's a pity! but you'll thrive in Florence, Illworth.
I'll give you letters to some friends of mine there;
Men of good purses, whom you'll find worth knowing.
You must not fail to find out old Matteo,
The man who makes the curious dice you wot of;
Somewhere in St. Peter's Street, near the Arno side.
I'll find the very name of the place for thee,
And give thee, too, an errand to him for me.
But that I've other quarry in pursuit,
I'd see fair Florence once again with thee.

ILLWORTH.
Your lordship means to stay in London?

ALFORD.
No.
I'm bound to Surrey; I shall visit there
A certain judge, who hath a pretty wife,
Upon some special business.

ILLWORTH.
Of his own,
Or yours, my lord? Do you know the lady?

ALFORD.
Yes,
After a fashion, I admired her once;
'Twas thought she was an heiress, when I did so.
She lost her fortune, and, I thought, her looks;
She's married now—and has grown fair again.

ILLWORTH.
Poor lady! I should say, poor gentleman!
Does your lordship purpose to remain there long?

ALFORD.
Umph! I can't tell, sir, till I see the lady.
I may have Cæsar's fortune, or I may
Sit ten years down before a female Troy:
I fear not much the latter chance, however.

ILLWORTH.
No; your experience has not taught you fear.
The conqueror of our proudest city beauties
Could scarce be foiled by a simple country mistress.

ALFORD.
She is not country bred; dost think I'm whining
After some rosy Amaryllida?
This lady would have shone a dazzling star
In the brightest court in Europe; she is perfect!
So fair, so stately, so majestical,
I never saw her peer!

ILLWORTH.
Why, my good lord,
You're sure in love.

ALFORD.
Perhaps I am, a little,
But not enough to puzzle me, good Illworth.
Farewell! good speed to Florence! and don't forget
The hand thus, and they never fall amiss.

[Exeunt.

Scene 3.

A room in Judge Winthrop's house. Anne is discovered sitting at work: enter to her Mary with her lap full of flowers.
ANNE.
Oh! I am glad you're come! the morning wears,
'Tis near on noon—we shall dine presently.
Why, where hast thou been? thy dress is all disordered,
And thy hair tangled, and all wet with dew:
Where hast thou been?

MARY.
All through the park and garden.
Oh, never mind my hair! Oh, Anne, the spring
Is come again: the hollow dingle path
Is soft with the swelling moss, all starry green;
And by the old oak roots, the freckled primroses
Are starting up: the golden crocus points,
Like to a goodly rank of fairy spears,
Are peering up behind the close box borders;
And the snowdrops rang their silver bells at me
As I ran past. Here are some violets—
A handful that I gathered as I came
Along the hawthorn hedge: delicious creatures!

ANNE.
How you kiss them, child! Why, one would think they were
Your lover.

MARY.
I should like so sweet an one.
Venus' fair Adonis, nor the youth
Who died beside the brook wherein he gazed,
Were not made into flowers one half so sweet.
You know, Anne, you are married, and can tell
Better than I can guess what manner of love
One bears one's husband: for mine own good part,
I cannot fancy that I e'er shall like
Any man alive so well as I like my brother,
Or any life so much as this I lead—
In the sunny walks, among the flower-plots,
Where I am free to run, sing, laugh, and play,
With my good friends the birds and butterflies.
But you don't like the country.

ANNE.
Yes I do;
I like it better than I did at first;
I see more things here than I did at first;
I look more at them, too;—a rosy sunset,
Or a bright morning, now begins to be
As good as a city pageant to me; and I grow
To like the converse of all silent things—
Of trees and flowers, and wandering waters sweet,
Of lights and shadows, Nature's visitors,
Which come and make society in solitude,
To cheer us.

MARY.
Yes, you're growing more to like it;
Yet methinks you'd rather be in London,
Leading your city life.

ANNE.
I was bred up to it.

MARY.
And I to this: and each loves best her own;
Yet in some sort, I can feel how it is with you—
You are so beautiful, dear Anne; 'tis natural,
Most natural, that you should love to be
Where you can draw all eyes to wait on you
You talk well, too, and those who do so love
Fit audience to applaud.

ANNE.
No, not to applaud,
But to respond.

MARY.
Alas! I cannot do so,
I have no wit; yet Heaven knows I love you.
I am not worthy to be your companion.

ANNE.
Fie! speak not thus; you make me blush, dear Mary.
You are a fit companion for an angel.

MARY.
But then, my brother is your husband, Anne,
And he can understand and prize you fully;
And he loves you dearly, and admires you well,
And thinks you excellent above all women.
Does not his company make up for all
You left i' the merry town?

ANNE.
Is your brother merry?

MARY.
No, in himself he's grave enough, I grant you;
But then, why don't you make him laugh?

ANNE.
I can't.

MARY.
Oh yes, you could! I do, whene'er I see him.

ANNE.
Yes, and I often wonder how you dare.

MARY.
How I dare! why, one would think, to hear you,
You were afraid of your good husband, Anne.

ANNE.
Well, so I am—I am afraid of him.

MARY.
Afraid of him! the gentlest soul alive!
Afraid of him!

ANNE.
Aye, aye, 'tis easy, dear,
For you to speak thus, who have known him always,
And grown up on his knee: you're like some child
Bred in a mountain land, and running boldly
Where others fear to stand. Come, sit down here,
And while you twist your flower-wreath I'll tell you
After what fashion I was married, and then
You'll see I have some cause for what I say.

MARY.
A story, oh a story! Kiss, me, good girl
Well now—and so?

ANNE.
You know, my mother died
When I was but a little toddling thing;
My father loved me with that passionate love
That mostly grows where the heart has but one channel
In which to pour itself. He was very wealthy,
And nobly born, and proud, and I was nursed
In the bosom of all stateliness and splendour.

MARY.
That's why you look so proud and queenly, love:
Don't laugh, your pride becomes you infinitely.

ANNE.
Indeed! I did not know that I was proud.
As I grew a woman I was daily taught
That I was fair, and should be great and powerful;
And at the court, and in the city revels,
Whene'er I went abroad, a smiling crowd
Came round me, full of ready courtesy
And flattering worship, and my heart was full
With the bright sunshine of prosperity,
And took delight in all things.

MARY.
Had you many suitors?

ANNE.
Yes, Mary, many; though I was very young,
Scarce sixteen.

MARY.
Did you fancy none of them?

ANNE.
Yes—no—I scarcely know.

MARY.
You will not tell.

ANNE.
I would tell you if I could tell myself.
My father was ambitious for me, and hoped,
I know, to see me favour one of them,
For marrying him I should have been a countess.

MARY.
Oh! would you like to have been a countess, Anne?

ANNE.
Yes, I suppose I should.

MARY.
Why didn't you marry him?

ANNE.
He never asked me: he was one of those
Who, under the sharp flail of my misfortunes,
Prov'd light and flew away.

MARY.
What sorry chaff!
How very strange!

ANNE.
No, love, that is not strange;
'Tis you who are strange, and true, and lovely.

MARY.
Go on—and so—

ANNE.
Suddenly a claim was made
By some far distant kinsman of our house,
Who had been long in foreign lands, to a share—
A large share of my father's best estates.

MARY.
Was the claim rightful?

ANNE.
Many thought it so,
And we were on the brink of being spoiled,
When your brother—

MARY.
Yes, my brother took your cause
And won it for you; I have heard that story.
So then you married him?

ANNE.
'Twas strange enough,
That he, so grave, so silent, and so thoughtful,
Should e'er have fallen to loving such an one;
But so it was; and my father growing sick,
Full gratefully resigned me to the hands
Of this good guardian. My poor father died,
And then this strange relation became heir
To all th'estates which I had thought were mine;
He became heir, too, to the friends and lovers
That waited, as I found, on them, not me.
Suddenly I was left alone in the world,
And still your brother loved me, and at last,
He was so kind to me, I married him.

MARY.
Well, are you sorry for it?

ANNE.
What a question?
I do but wish that he were oftener with us.
He's always busy; I scarce feel I know
Aught of him, save that he is very good to me.

MARY.
He's good to every thing! Are you happy, then?

ANNE.
Yes, happy; yes, quite happy, certainly.

[Clock strikes.
MARY.
Hark! it is noon, and here's my brother come.

[Enter Winthrop.
WINTHROP.
Good morrow, dear! good morrow, my sweet wife!
How has the morning sped, my mistresses?
Why, Mary, thou art glowing like a rose;
Thou hast been out: wert thou along with her, sweet?

ANNE.
No, I can't walk, you know; it wearies me.
And Mary skims the sward like a young greyhound,
And laughs at me because I am so slow.

WINTHROP.
Ne'er heed her, wench; we'll teach thee e'er we've done,
To walk six miles ere breaking of thy fast.
What hast thou done with the time? wrought at the loom?
Let's see—why Mary, why, should she go forth?
See, here's a garden growing 'neath her fingers,
More perfect than the real flowers they mimic.

MARY.
No doubt, for nothing natural is perfect.

WINTHROP.
My little Socrates! here's a carnation
Might almost cheat my nose at Christmas-tide,
Whilst in an hour, these buds that thou hast gathered
Shall be trod underground, withered and pale.

MARY.
Yet you love best these children of the mould
For that very cause, that they shall fade and die.
Secure possession of mere mortal good
Would prove no blessing could it last for ever.
In its frail tenure lies its richest worth.
We love that most, we mostly fear to lose,
And the precious things of life are those that perish.
Is it not so?

WINTHROP.
How wise thou art this morning!

MARY.
But is it not so?

WINTHROP.
It seems as tho' it were!
Wife, you make roses better than the spring;
I would my work were of such pleasant sort!

ANNE.
Have you had much hard work to do this morning?
Are you weary?

WINTHROP.
Till I saw you, dear, I was.

MARY.
Come, let me kiss the cobwebs from thy brain.
Look here, Anne, how this daffodil becomes him,
Stuck in his doublet. Here, I'll put another
In your hat for you—why, now you're beautiful!

WINTHROP.
Out, madcap! Wife, we must tame this saucy girl.
Shall we shut her up, or seek a husband for her?

MARY.
Oh, shut me up! pray shut me up, dear brother!
I'll take the prison very patiently,
So you leave out the jailer.

WINTHROP.
Very well;
We shall see anon; I expect from town to-morrow
Two of our first gallants—Master James Forrester
And the Lord Alford. When you see these gentlemen,
Perhaps you'll change your mind.

ANNE.
Lord Alford, said you?

WINTHROP.
Aye, do you know him?

ANNE.
I did know him once,
A little—and very long ago. He has broken
More hearts, they say, than any man in England.

MARY.
Thank Heaven, so fine a gentleman can scarce
Think my heart worth the breaking!

WINTHROP.
To speak truth,
Report talks loudly of him in such praises
As I would rather he deserved than I.
But that I know you, wenches, to be such
As honest Englishwomen should be, I
Might not so well have liked his Lordship's visit.
He comes on business tho', and while he's here,
You'll entertain him as becomes yourselves,
And my dear wife and sister.

MARY.
Sure their worships
Will soon be gone; they'll find us but dull company.

[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Your dinner waits, sir.

WINTHROP.
Come, wife, do you hear;
Leave planting of your flowers—the dinner waits.

MARY.
And what's the other—Master Forrester?

WINTHROP.
I do not know him; you shall find that out,
And with a woman's eye, sharp as her needle,
Spy all his qualities in half an hour.

MARY.
Will you take my word for him, then?

WINTHROP.
Assuredly.

MARY.
Very good! A pretty book you give me here;
But I shall spell it through, or I'm mistaken.
For, court or country, still a man's a man.

WINTHROP.
That's very true; and to one wise as thou art
I' the curious study of mankind—

MARY.
Flout on.
All their ill gifts I know in knowing thee;
And whatsoe'er in other men appears,
That's not in thee, may be set down for good.
Thou art a judge, yet, by my word, thy judgment
Touching this gentleman shall wait on mine.

WINTHROP.
Content, my small Minerva! Come, wife, come.

[Exeunt.