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ACT IV.

SCENE I. Valentia. The Court.

[Sound Music.]

[Enter the King of Valentia, Anselmo, Roderigo,

Lord Borachius, with others.]

KING OF VALENTIA.

Enough of Music, it but adds to torment;

Delights to vexed spirits are as Dates

Set to a sickly man, which rather cloy than comfort:

Let me entreat you to entreat no more.

RODERIGO.

Let your strings sleep; have done there.

[Let the music cease.]

KING OF VALENTIA.

Mirth to a soul disturb’d are embers turn’d,

Which sudden gleam with molestation,

But sooner loose their sight fort;

Tis Gold bestowed upon a Rioter,

Which not relieves, but murders him: Tis a Drug

Given to the healthful, Which infects, not cures.

How can a Father that hath lost his Son,

A Prince both wise, virtuous, and valiant,

Take pleasure in the idle acts of Time?

No, no; till Mucedorus I shall see again,

All joy is comfortless, all pleasure pain.

ANSELMO.

Your son my lord is well.

KING OF VALENTIA.

I pre-thee, speak that thrice.

ANSELMO.

The Prince, you Son, is safe.

KING OF VALENTIA.

O where, Anselmo? surfeit me with that.

ANSELMO.

In Aragon, my Liege;

And at his parture, Bound my secrecy,

By his affectious love, not to disclose it:

But care of him, and pity of your age,

Makes my tongue blab what my breast vow’d

concealment.

KING OF VALENTIA.

Thou not deceivest me?

I ever thought thee What I find thee now,

An upright, loyal man. But what desire,

Or young-fed humour Nurst within the brain,

Drew him so privately to Aragon?

ANSELMO.

A forcing Adamant:

Love, mixt with fear and doubtful jealousy,

Whether report guilded a worthless trunk,

Or Amadine deserved her high extolment.

KING OF VALENTIA.

See our provision be in readiness;

Collect us followers of the comeliest hue

For our chief guardians, we will thither wend:

The crystal eye of Heaven shall not thrice wink,

Nor the green Flood six times his shoulders turn,

Till we salute the Aragonian King.

Music speak loudly now, the season’s apt,

For former dolours are in pleasure wrapt.

[Exeunt omnes.]

SCENE II. The Forest.

[Enter Mucedorus to disguise himself.]

MUCEDORUS.

Now, Mucedorus, whither wilt thou go?

Home to thy father, to thy native soil,

Or try some long abode within these woods?

Well, I will hence depart and hie me home.—

What, hie me home, said? that may not be;

In Amadine rests my felicity.

Then, Mucedorus, do as thou didst decree:

Attire thee hermit like within these groves,

Walk often to the beach and view the well,

Makes settles there and seat thy self thereon,

And when thou feelest thy self to be a thirst,

Then drink a hearty draught to Amadine.

No doubt she thinks on thee,

And will one day come pledge thee at this well.

Come, habit, thou art fit for me:

[He disguiseth himself.]

No shepherd now, a hermit I must be.

Me thinks this fits me very well;

Now must I learn to bear a walking staff,

And exercise some gravity withall.

[Enter the Clown.]

MOUSE. Here’s throw the wods, and throw the wods, to look out a shepherd & a stray king’s daughter: but soft, who have we here? what art thou?

MUCEDORUS.

I am a hermit.

MOUSE. An emmet? I never saw such a big emmet in all my life before.

MUCEDORUS. I tell you, sir, I am an hermit, one that leads a solitary life within these woods.

MOUSE. O, I know thee now, thou art he that eats up all the hips and haws; we could not have one piece of fat bacon for thee all this year.

MUCEDORUS. Thou dost mistake me; but I pray thee, tell me what dost thou seek in these woods?

MOUSE. What do I seek? for a stray King’s daughter run away with a shepherd.

MUCEDORUS.

A stray King’s daughter run away with a shepherd.

Wherefore? canst thou tell?

MOUSE. Yes, that I can; tis this: my master and Amadine, walking one day abroad, nearer to these woods than they were used—about what I can not tell—but toward them comes running a great bear. Now my master, he played the man and run away, & Amadine crying after him: now, sir, comes me a shepherd & strikes off the bear’s head. Now whether the bear were dead before or no I cannot tell, for bring twenty bears before me and bind their hands & feet and I’ll kill them all:—now ever since Amadine hath been in love with the shepherd, and for good will she’s even run away with the shepherd.

MUCEDORUS.

What manner of man was a? canst describe him unto me?

MOUSE. Scribe him? aye, I warrant you, that I can: a was a little, low, broad, tall, narrow, big, well favoured fellow, a jerkin of white cloth, and buttons of the same cloth.

MUCEDORUS. Thou describest him well, but if I chance to see any such, pray you, where shall I find you, or what’s your name?

MOUSE.

My name is called master mouse.

MUCEDORUS. Oh, master mouse, I pray you what office might you bear in the court?

MOUSE.

Marry, sir, I am a rusher of the stable.

MUCEDORUS.

O, usher of the table.

MOUSE. Nay, I say rusher and I’ll prove mine office good; for look, sir, when any comes from under the sea or so, and a dog chance to blow his nose backward, then with a whip I give him the good time of the day, and straw rushes presently: therefore, I am a rusher, a high office, I promise ye.

MUCEDORUS.

But where shall I find you in the Court?

MOUSE. Why, where it is best being, either in the kitchen a eating or in the buttery drinking: but if you come, I will provide for thee a piece of beef & brewis knockle deep in fat; pray you, take pains, remember master mouse.

[Exit.]

MUCEDORUS.

Aye, sir, I warrant I will not forget you. Ah, Amadine,

What should become of thee?

Whither shouldst thou go so long unknown?

With watch and ward each passage is beset,

So that she cannot long escape unknown.

Doubtless she hath lost her self within these woods

And wandring to and fro she seeks the well,

Which yet she cannot find; therefore will I seek her out.

[Exit.]

SCENE III. The same.

[Enter Bremo and Amadine.]

BREMO.

Amadine, how like you Bremo & his woods?

AMADINE.

As like the woods of Bremo’s cruelty:

Though I were dumb and could not answer him,

The beasts themselves would with relenting tears

Bewail thy savage and unhumane deeds.

BREMO.

My love, why dost thou murmur to thy self?

Speak louder, for thy Bremo hears thee not.

AMADINE.

My Bremo? no, the shepherd is my love.

BREMO.

Have I not saved thee from sudden death,

Giving thee leave to live that thou mightst love?

And dost thou whet me on to cruelty?

Come kiss me, sweet, for all my favours past.

AMADINE.

I may not, Bremo, and therefore pardon me.

BREMO.

See how she flings away from me; I will follow

And give a rend to her. Deny my love!

Ah, worm of beauty, I will chastice thee;

Come, come, prepare thy head upon the block.

AMADINE.

Oh, spare me, Bremo, love should limit life,

Not to be made a murderer of him self.

If thou wilt glut thy loving heart with blood,

Encounter with the lion or the bear,

And like a wolf pray not upon a lamb.

BREMO.

Why then dost thou repine at me?

If thou wilt love me thou shalt be my queen:

I will crown thee with a chaplet made of Ivy,

And make the rose and lily wait on thee:

I’ll rend the burley branches from the oak,

To shadow thee from burning sun.

The trees shall spread themselves where thou dost go,

And as they spread, I’ll trace along with thee.

AMADINE.

[Aside.] You may, for who but you?

BREMO.

Thou shalt be fed with quails and partridges,

With black birds, larks, thrushes and nightingales.

Thy drink shall be goat’s milk and crystal water,

Distilled from the fountains & the clearest springs.

And all the dainties that the woods afford.

I’ll freely give thee to obtain thy love.

AMADINE.

[Aside.] You may, for who but you?

BREMO.

The day I’ll spend to recreate my love

With all the pleasures that I can devise,

And in the night I’ll be thy bedfellow,

And lovingly embrace thee in mine arms.

AMADINE.

[Aside.] One may, so may not you.

BREMO.

The satyrs & the woodnymphs shall attend on thee

And lull thee a sleep with music’s sound,

And in the morning when thou dost awake,

The lark shall sing good morn to my queen,

And whilst he sings, I’ll kiss my Amadine.

AMADINE.

[Aside.] You may, for who but you?

BREMO.

When thou art up, the wood lanes shall be strawed

With violets, cowslips, and sweet marigolds

For thee to trample and to trace upon,

And I will teach thee how to kill the deer,

To chase the hart and how to rouse the roe,

If thou wilt live to love and honour me.

AMADINE.

[Aside.] You may, for who but you?

[Enter Mucedorus.]

BREMO.

Welcome, sir,

An hour ago I looked for such a guest.

Be merry, wench, we’ll have a frolic feast:

Here’s flesh enough to suffice us both.

Stay, sirra, wilt thou fight or dost thou yeel to die?

MUCEDORUS.

I want a weapon; how can I fight?

BREMO.

Thou wants a weapon? why then thou yeelst to die.

MUCEDORUS.

I say not so I do not yield to die.

BREMO.

Thou shalt not choose. I long to see thee dead.

AMADINE.

Yet spare him, Bremo, spare him.

BREMO.

Away, I say, I will not spare him.

MUCEDORUS.

Yet give me leave to speak.

BREMO.

Thou shalt not speak.

AMADINE.

Yet give him leave to speak for my sake.

BREMO.

Speak on, but be not over long.

MUCEDORUS.

In time of yore, when men like brutish beasts

Did lead their lives in loathsome cells and woods

And wholly gave themselves to witless will,

A rude unruly rout, then man to man

Became a present prey, then might prevailed,

The weakest went to walls:

Right was unknown, for wrong was all in all.

As men thus lived in this great outrage,

Behold one Orpheus came, as poets tell,

And them from rudeness unto reason brought,

Who led by reason soon forsook the woods.

Instead of caves they built them castles strong;

Cities and towns were founded by them then:

Glad were they, they found such ease,

And in the end they grew to perfect amity;

Weighing their former wickedness,

They termed the time wherein they lived then

A golden age, a goodly golden age.

Now, Bremo, for so I hear thee called,

if men which lived tofore as thou dost now,

Wily in wood, addicted all to spoil,

Returned were by worthy Orpheus’ means,

Let me like Orpheus cause thee to return

From murder, bloodshed and like cruelty.

What, should we fight before we have a cause?

No, let’s live and love together faithfully.

I’ll fight for thee.

BREMO.

Fight for me or die: or fight or else thou diest.

AMADINE.

Hold, Bremo, hold!

BREMO.

Away, I say, thou troublest me.

AMADINE.

You promised me to make me your queen.

BREMO.

I did, I mean no less.

AMADINE.

You promised that I should have my will.

BREMO.

I did, I mean no less.

AMADINE.

Then save this hermit’s life, for he may save us both.

BREMO. At thy request I’ll spare him, but never any after him. Say, hermit, what canst thou do?

MUCEDORUS.

I’ll wait on thee, sometime upon the queen. Such

Service shalt thou shortly have as Bremo never had.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. The Court.

[Enter Segasto, the Clown, and ROMBELO.]

SEGASTO.

Come, sirs; what, shall I never have you find out

Amadine and the shepherd?

MOUSE. And I have been through the woods, and through the woods, and could see nothing but an emet.

ROMBELO.

Why, I see thousand emets; thou meanest a little one?

MOUSE.

Nay, that emet that I saw was bigger than thou art.

ROMBELO.

Bigger than I? what a fool have you to your man:

I pray you, master, turn him away.

SEGASTO.

But dost thou hear? was he not a man?

MOUSE. I think he was, for he said he did lead a saltseller life about the woods.

SEGASTO.

Thou wouldest say a solitary life about the woods.

MOUSE.

I think it was so, indeed.

ROMBELO.

I thought what a fool thou art.

MOUSE. Thou art a wise man! why, he did nothing but sleep since he went.

SEGASTO.

But tell me, Mouse, how did he go?

MOUSE. In a white gown and a white hat on his head, and a staff in his hand.

SEGASTO. I thought so: it was a hermit that walked a solitary life in the woods. Well, get you to dinner, and after never leave seeking till you bring some news of them, or I’ll hang you both.

[Exit.]

MOUSE.

How now, Rombelo? what shall we do now?

ROMBELO.

Faith, I’ll home to dinner, and afterward to sleep.

MOUSE.

Why, then, thou wilt be hanged.

ROMBELO.

Faith, I care not, for i know I shall never find them:

well, I’ll once more abroad, & if I cannot find them,

I’ll never come home again.

MOUSE. I tell thee what, Rombelo, thou shalt go in at one end of the wood and I at the other, and we will meet both together at the midst.

ROMBELO.

Content! let’s away to dinner.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V.

SCENE I. The Forest.

[Enter Mucedorus solus.]

MUCEDORUS.

Unknown to any here within these woods

With bloody Bremo do I led my life.

The monster, he doth murther all he meets,

He spareth none and none doth him escape.

Who would continue, who but only I,

In such a cruel cutthroat’s company?

Yet Amadine is there; how can I choose?

Ah, silly soul, how often times she sits

And sighs, and calls: ‘come, shepherd, come,

Sweet Mucedorus, come and set me free;

When Mucedorus present stands her by:

But here she comes.

[Enter Amadine.]

What news, fair Lady, as you walk these woods.

AMADINE.

Ah, hermit, none but bad & such as thou knowest.

MUCEDORUS.

How do you like your Bremo and his woods?

AMADINE.

Not my Bremo nor Bremo his woods.

MUCEDORUS.

And why not yours? me thinks he loves you well.

AMADINE.

I like him not, his love to me is nothing worth.

MUCEDORUS.

Lady, in this me thinks you offer wrong,

To hate the man that ever loves you best.

AMADINE.

Ah hermit, I take no pleasure in his love;

Neither yet doth Bremo like me best.

MUCEDORUS.

Pardon my boldness, fair lady: sith we both

May safely talk now out of Bremo’s sight,

Unfold to me, if so you please, the full discourse

How, when, and why you came into these woods,

And fell into this bloody butcher’s hands.

AMADINE.

Hermit, I will;

Of late a worthy shepherd I did love.

MUCEDORUS.

A shepherd, lady? sure a man unfit

To match with you.

AMADINE.

Hermit, this is true, and when we had—

MUCEDORUS.

Stay there, the wild man comes.

Refer the rest until another time.

[Enter Bremo.]

BREMO.

What secret tale is this? what whispering have we here?

Villain, I charge thee tell thy tale again.

MUCEDORUS.

If needs I must, lo, here it is again:

When as we both had lost the sight of thee,

It grieved us both, but specially thy queen,

Who in thy absence ever fears the worst,

Least some mischance befall your royal grace.

‘Shall my sweet Bremo wander through the woods?

Toil to and fro for to redress my want,

Hazard his life; and all to cherish me?

I like not this,’ quoth she,

And thereupon craved to know of me

If I could teach her handle weapons well.

My answer was I had small skill therein,

But glad, most mighty king, to learn of thee.

And this was all.

BREMO.

Wast so? none can dislike of this.

I’ll teach

You both to fight: but first, my queen, begin.

Here, take this weapon; see how thou canst use it.

AMADINE.

This is too big, I cannot wield it in my arm.

BREMO.

Ist so? we’ll have a knotty crabtree staff

For thee.—But, sirra, tell me, what saist thou?

MUCEDORUS.

With all my heart I willing am to learn.

BREMO.

Then take my staff & see how canst wield it.

MUCEDORUS.

First teach me how to hold it in my hand.

BREMO.

Thou holdest it well.

Look how he doth; thou maist the sooner learn.

MUCEDORUS.

Next tell me how and when tis best to strike.

BREMO.

Tis best to strike when time doth serve,

Tis best to loose no time.

MUCEDORUS.

[Aside.] Then now or never is my time to strike.

BREMO.

And when thou strikest, be sure thou hit the head.

MUCEDORUS.

The head?

BREMO.

The very head.

MUCEDORUS.

Then have at thine! [He strikes him down head.]

So, lie there and die,

A death no doubt according to desert,

or else a worse as thou deservest a worse.

AMADINE.

It glads my heart this tyrant’s death to see.

MUCEDORUS.

Now, lady, it remains in you

To end the tale you lately had begun,

Being interrupted by this wicked wight.

You said you loved a shepherd.

AMADINE.

Aye, so I do, and none but only him,

And will do still as long as life shall last.

MUCEDORUS.

But tell me, lady; sith I set you free,

What course of life do you intend to take?

AMADINE.

I will disguised wander through the world,

Till I have found him out.

MUCEDORUS.

How if you find your shepherd in these woods?

AMADINE.

Ah, none so happy then as Amadine.

[He discloseth himself.]

MUCEDORUS.

In tract of time a man may alter much;

Say, Lady, do you know your shepherd well?

AMADINE.

My Mucedorus! hath he set me free?

MUCEDORUS.

Mucedorus he hath set thee free.

AMADINE.

And lived so long unknown to Amadine!

MUCEDORUS.

Aye that’s a question where of you may not be resolved.

You know that I am banisht from the court;

I know likewise each passage is best,

So that we cannot long escape unknown:

Therefore my will is this, that we return

Right through the thickets to the wild man’s cave,

And there a while live on his provision,

Until the search and narrow watch be past.

This is my counsel, and I think it best.

AMADINE.

I think the very same.

MUCEDORUS.

Come, let’s begone.

[Enter the Clown who searches and falls over the wild man and so carry him away.]

MOUSE. Nay, soft, sir; are you here? a bots on you! I was like to be hanged for not finding you. We would borrow a certain stray king’s daughter of you: a wench, a wench, sir, we would have.

MUCEDORUS.

A wench of me! I’ll make thee eat my sword.

MOUSE. Oh Lord! nay, and you are so lusty, I’ll call a cooling card for you. Ho, master, master, come away quickly.

[Enter Segasto.]

SEGASTO.

What’s the matter?

MOUSE.

Look, master, Amadine & the shepherd: oh, brave!

SEGASTO.

What, minion, have I found you out?

MOUSE.

Nay, that’s a lie, I found her out myself.

SEGASTO.

Thou gadding huswife,

What cause hadst thou to gad abroad,

When as thou knowest our wedding day so nigh?

AMADINE.

Not so, Segasto, no such thing in hand;

Shew your assurance, then I’ll answer you.

SEGASTO.

Thy father’s promise my assurance is.

AMADINE.

But what he promist he hath not performed.

SEGASTO.

It rests in thee for to perform the same.

AMADINE.

Not I.

SEGASTO.

And why?

AMADINE.

So is my will, and therefore even so.

MOUSE.

Master, with a nonie, nonie, no!

SEGASTO.

Aye, wicked villain, art thou here?

MUCEDORUS.

What needs these words? we weigh them not.

SEGASTO. We weigh them not, proud shepherd! I scorn thy company.

MOUSE.

We’ll not have a corner of thy company.

MUCEDORUS.

I scorn not thee, nor yet the least of thine.

MOUSE. That’s a lie, a would have killed me with his pugsnando.

SEGASTO.

This stoutness, Amadine, contents me not.

AMADINE.

Then seek an other that may you better please.

MUCEDORUS.

Well, Amadine, it only rests in thee

Without delay to make thy choice of three:

There stands Segasto, here a shepherd stands,

There stands the third; now make thy choice.

MOUSE.

A Lord at the least I am.

AMADINE.

My choice is made, for I will none but thee.

SEGASTO.

A worthy mate, no doubt, for such a wife.

MUCEDORUS.

And, Amadine, why wilt thou none but me?

I cannot keep thee as thy father did;

I have no lands for to maintain thy state.

Moreover, if thou mean to be my wife,

Commonly this must be thy use:

To bed at midnight, up at four,

Drudge all day and trudge from place to place,

Whereby our daily vittel for to win;

And last of all, which is the worst of all,

No princess then but plain a shepherd’s wife.

MOUSE.

Then, god ge you go morrow, goody shepherd!

AMADINE.

It shall not need; if Amadine do live,

Thou shalt be crowned king of Arragon.

MOUSE. Oh, master, laugh! when he’s King, then I’ll be a queen.

MUCEDORUS.

Then know that which ne’er tofore was known:

I am no shepherd, no Arragonian I,

But born of Royal blood—my father’s of

Valentia King, my mother queen—who for

Thy secret sake took this hard task in hand.

AMADINE.

Ah how i joy my fortune is so good.

SEGASTO.

Well now i see, Segasto shall not speed;

But, Mucedorus, I as much do joy,

To see thee here within our Court of Arragon,

As if a kingdom had befain me. This time

I with my heart surrender it to thee.

[He giveth her unto him.]

And loose what right to Amadine I have.

MOUSE.

What a barn’s door, and born where my father

Was cunstable! a bots on thee, how dost thee?

MUCEDORUS.

Thanks, Segasto; but yet you leveled at the crown.

MOUSE.

Master, bear this and bear all.

SEGASTO.

Why so, sir?

MOUSE.

He says you take a goose by the crown.

SEGASTO.

Go to, sir: away, post you to the king,

Whose heart is fraught with careful doubts,

Glad him up and tell him these good news,

And we will follow as fast as we may.

MOUSE.

I go, master; I run, master.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. Open Place near the Court of the King of Arragon.

[Enter the King and Collen.]

KING.

Break, heart, and end my paled woes,

My Amadine, the comfort of my life,

How can I joy except she were in sight?

Her absence breeds sorrow to my soul

And with a thunder breaks my heart in twain.

COLLEN.

Forbear those passions, gentle King,

And you shall see twill turn unto the best,

And bring your soul to quiet and to joy.

KING.

Such joy as death, I do assure me that,

And naught but death, unless of her I hear,

And that with speed; I cannot sigh thus long—

But what a tumult do I hear within?

[The cry within, ‘joy and happiness!’]

COLLEN.

I hear a noise of overpassing joy

Within the court; my Lord, be of good comfort—

And here comes one in haste.

[Enter the Clown running.]

MOUSE.

A King! a King! a King!

COLLEN.

Why, how now, sirra? what’s the matter?

MOUSE.

O, tis news for a king, ‘tis worth money.

KING. Why, sirra, thou shalt have silver and gold if it be good.

MOUSE.

O, tis good, tis good. Amadine—

KING.

Oh, what of her? tell me, & I will make thee a knight.

MOUSE.

How a spright? no, by lady, I will not be a spright.

Masters, get ye away; if I be a spright, I shall be so lean

I shall make you all afraid.

COLLEN.

Thou sot, the King means to make thee a gentleman.

MOUSE.

Why, I shall want parrell.

KING.

Thou shalt want for nothing.

MOUSE.

Then stand away, trick up thy self: here they come.

[Enter Segasto, Mucedorus, and Amadine.]

AMADINE.

My gratious father, pardon thy disloyal daughter.

KING.

What do mine eyes behold? my daughter Amadine?

Rise up, dear daughter & let these, my embracing arms,

Show some token of thy father’s joy,

Which ever since thy departure hath languished in sorrow.

AMADINE.

Dear father, never were your sorrows

Greater than my griefs,

Never you so desolate as I comfortless;

Yet, nevertheless, acknowledging my self

To be the cause of both, on bended knees

I humbly crave your pardon.

KING.

I’ll pardon thee, dear daughter: but as for him—

AMADINE.

Ah, father, what of him?

KING.

As sure as I am a king, and wear the crown,

I will revenge on that accursed wretch.

MUCEDORUS.

Yet, worthy prince, work not thy will in wrath;

Show favour.

KING.

Aye, such favour as thou deservest.

MUCEDORUS.

I do deserve the daughter of a king.

KING.

Oh, impudent! a shepherd and so insolent!

MUCEDORUS.

No shepherd I, but a worthy prince.

KING.

In fair conceit, not princely born.

MUCEDORUS.

Yes, princely born: my father is a king,

My mother Queen, and of Valentia both.

KING.

What, Mucedorus! welcome to our court.

What cause hadst thou to come to me disguised?

MUCEDORUS.

No cause to fear; I caused no offence

But this:

Desiring thy daughter’s virtues for to see

Disguised my self from out my father’s court.

Unknown to any, in secret I did rest,

And passed many troubles near to death;

So hath your daughter my partaker been,

As you shall know hereafter more at large,

Desiring you, you will give her to me,

Even as mine own and sovereign of my life;

Then shall I think my travels are well spent.

KING.

With all my heart, but this—

Segasto claims my promise made to fore,

That he should have her as his only wife,

Before my counsel when we came from war.

Segasto, may I crave thee let it pass,

And give Amadine as wife to Mucedorus?

SEGASTO.

With all my heart, were it far a greater thing,

And what I may to furnish up there rites

With pleasing sports and pastimes you shall see.

KING.

Thanks, good Segasto, I will think of this.

MUCEDORUS.

Thanks, good my Lord, & while I live

Account of me in what I can or may.

AMADINE.

And, good Segasto, these great courtesies

Shall not be forgot.

MOUSE. Why, hark you, master: bones, what have you done? What, given away the wench you made me take such pains for? you are wise indeed! mas, and I had known of that I would have had her my self! faither, master, now we may go to breakfast with a woodcoke pie.

SEGASTO.

Go, sir, you were best leave this knavery.

KING.

Come on, my Lords, let’s now to court,

Where we may finish up the joyfullest day

That ever hapt to a distressed King.

Were but thy Father, the Valencia Lord,

Present in view of this combining knot.

[A shout within. Enter a Messenger.]

What shout was that?

MESSENGER.

My Lord, the great Valencia King,

Newly arrived, entreats your presence.

MUCEDORUS.

My Father?

KING OF ARRAGON.

Prepared welcomes give him entertainment:

A happier Planet never reigned than that,

Which governs at this hour.

[Sound. Enter the King of Valencia, Anselmo, Rodrigo, Borachius, with others; the King runs and embraces his Son.]

KING OF VALENCIA.

Rise, honour of my age, food to my rest:

Condemn not mighty King of Aragon

My rude behaviour, so compelled by Nature,

That manners stood unknowledged.

KING OF ARRAGON.

What we have to recite would tedious prove

By declaration; therefore, in, and feast:

To morrow the performance shall explain,

What Words conceal; till then, Drums speak,

Bells ring,

Give plausive welcomes to our brother King.

[Sound Drums and Trumpets. Exeunt omnes.]

EPILOGUE.

[Enter Comedy and Envy.]

COMEDY.

How now, Envy? what, blushest thou all ready?

Peep forth, hide not thy head with shame,

But with a courage praise a woman’s deeds.

Thy threats were vain, thou couldst do me no hurt.

Although thou seemdst to cross me with despite,

I overwhelmed, and turned upside down thy block

And made thy self to stumble at the same.

ENVY.

Though stumbled, yet not overthrown.

Thou canst not draw my heart to mildness;

Yet must I needs confess thou hast done well,

And played thy part with mirth and pleasant glee:

Say all this, yet canst thou not conquer me;

Although this time thou hast got—yet not the conquest

neither—

A double revenge another time I’ll have.

COMEDY.

Envy, spit thy gall;

Plot, work, contrive; create new fallacies,

Teem from thy Womb each minute a black Traitor,

Whose blood and thoughts have twins conception:

Study to act deeds yet unchronicled,

Cast native Monsters in the molds of Men,

Case vicious Devils under sancted Rochets,

Unhasp the Wicket where all perjureds roost,

And swarm this Ball with treasons: do thy worst;

Thou canst not hellhound cross my star to night,

Nor blind that glory, where I wish delight.

ENVY.

I can, I will.

COMEDY.

Nefarious Hag, begin,

And let us tug, till one the mastery win.

ENVY.

Comedy, thou art a shallow Goose;

I’ll overthrow thee in thine own intent,

And make thy fall my Comic merriment.

COMEDY.

Thy policy wants gravity; thou art

Too weak. Speak, Fiend, as how?

ENVY.

Why, thus:

From my foul Study will I hoist a Wretch,

A lean and hungry Meager Cannibal,

Whose jaws swell to his eyes with chawing Malice:

And him I’ll make a Poet.

COMEDY.

What’s that to th’ purpose?

ENVY.

This scrambling Raven, with his needy Beard,

Will I whet on to write a Comedy,

Wherein shall be compos’d dark sentences,

Pleasing to factious brains:

And every other where place me a Jest,

Whose high abuse shall more torment than blows:

Then I my self (quicker than Lightning)

Will fly me to a puissant magistrate,

And weighting with a Trencher at his back,

In midst of jollity, rehearse those gauls,

(With some additions)

So lately vented in your Theater.

He, upon this, cannot but make complaint,

To your great danger, or at least restraint.

COMEDY.

Ha, ha, ha! I laugh to hear thy folly;

This is a trap for Boys, not Men, nor such,

Especially desertful in their doings,

Whose stay’d discretion rules their purposes.

I and my faction do eschew those vices.

But see, O see! the weary Sun for rest

Hath lain his golden compass to the West,

Where he perpetual bide and ever shine,

As David’s offspring, in his happy Clime.

Stoop, Envy, stoop, bow to the Earth with me,

Let’s beg our Pardons on our bended knee.

[They kneel.]

ENVY.

My Power has lost her Might; Envy’s date’s expired.

Yon splendant Majesty hath felled my sting,

And I amazed am.

[Fall down and quake.]

COMEDY.

Glorious and wise Arch-Caesar on this earth,

At whose appearance, Envy’s stroken dumb,

And all bad things cease operation:

Vouchsafe to pardon our unwilling error,

So late presented to your Gracious view,

And we’ll endeavour with excess of pain,

To please your senses in a choicer strain.

Thus we commit you to the arms of Night,

Whose spangled carcass would, for your delight,

Strive to excell the Day; be blessed, then:

Who other wishes, let him never speak.

ENVY.

Amen.

To Fame and Honour we commend your rest;

Live still more happy, every hour more blest.

THE END