Part 28
_Fortune._ Thou didst behold her at thy father’s death, When thou in scorn didst violate his will; Thou didst behold her, when thy stretched-out arm Catched at the highest bough, the loftiest vice, The fairest apple, but the foulest price; Thou didst behold her, when thy liquorish eye Fed on the beauty of fair Agripyne; Because th’ hadst gold, thou thought’st all women thine. When look’st thou off from her? for they whose souls Still revel in the nights of vanity, On the fair cheeks of Vice still fix their eye. Because her face doth shine, and all her bosom Bears silver moons, thou wast enamoured of her. But hadst thou upward looked, and seen these shames, Or viewed her round about, and in this glass Seen idiots’ faces, heads of devils and hell, And read this “Ha, ha, he,” this merry story, Thou wouldst have loathed her: where, by loving her, Thou bear’st this face, and wear’st this ugly head, And if she once can bring thee to this place, Loud sounds these “Ha, ha, he!” She’ll laugh apace.
_Andel._ O, re-transform me to a glorious shape, And I will learn how I may love to hate her.
_Fortune._ I cannot re-transform thee, woo this woman.
_Andel._ This woman? wretched is my state, when I, To find out wisdom, to a fool must fly.
_Fortune._ Fool, clear thine eyes, this is bright Aretë,[395] This is poor virtue, care not how the world Doth crown her head, the world laughs her to scorn, Yet “SIBI SAPIT,” Virtue knows her worth. Run after her, she’ll give thee these and these, Crowns and bay-garlands, honour’s victories: Serve her, and she will fetch thee pay from Heaven, Or give thee some bright office in the stars.
[395] Virtue. _Greek._
_Andel._ Immortal Aretë, Virtue divine: [_Kneels._ O smile on me, and I will still be thine.
_Virtue._ Smile thou on me, and I will still be thine: Though I am jealous of thy apostasy, I’ll entertain thee: here, come taste this tree, Here’s physic for thy sick deformity.
_Andel._ Tis bitter: this fruit I shall ne’er digest.
_Virtue._ Try once again, the bitterness soon dies.
_Vice._ Mine’s sweet, taste mine.
_Virtue._ But being down ’tis sour, And mine being down has a delicious taste. The path that leads to Virtue’s court is narrow, Thorny and up a hill, a bitter journey, But being gone through, you find all heavenly sweets, The entrance is all flinty, but at th’ end, To towers of pearl and crystal you ascend.
_Andel._ O delicate, O sweet Ambrosian relish, And see, my ugliness drops from my brows, Thanks, beauteous Aretë: O had I now My hat and purse again, how I would shine, And gild my soul with none but thoughts divine.
_Fortune._ That shall be tried, take fruit from both these trees, By help of them, win both thy purse and hat, I will instruct thee how, for on my wings To England shalt thou ride; thy virtuous brother Is, with that Shadow who attends on thee, In London, there I’ll set thee presently. But if thou lose our favours once again, To taste her sweets, those sweets must prove thy bane.
_Virtue._ Vice, who shall now be crowned with victory?
_Vice._ She that triumphs at last, and that must I. [_Exeunt._
[Illustration]
## SCENE II.--_London._ _The Court of_ ATHELSTANE.
_Enter_ ATHELSTANE, LINCOLN _with_ AGRIPYNE, CYPRUS, GALLOWAY, CORNWALL, CHESTER, LONGAVILLE _and_ MONTROSE.
_Athelst._ Lincoln, how set’st thou her at liberty?
_Linc._ No other prison held her but your court, There in her chamber hath she hid herself These two days, only to shake off that fear, Which her late violent rapture cast upon her.
_Cypr._ Where hath the beauteous Agripyne been?
_Agrip._ In Heaven or hell, in or without the world, I know not which, for as I oft have seen, When angry Thamesis hath curled her locks, A whirlwind come, and from her frizzled brows, Snatch up a handful of those sweaty pearls, That stood upon her forehead, which awhile, Being by the boist’rous wind hung in the air, At length hath flung them down and raised a storm,-- Even with such fury was I wherried up, And by such force held prisoner in the clouds, And thrown by such a tempest down again.
_Cornw._ Some soul is damned in hell for this black deed.
_Agrip._ I have the purse safe, and anon your grace Shall hear the wondrous history at full.
_Cypr._ Tell me, tormentor, shall fair Agripyne, Without more difference be now christened mine!
_Agrip._ My choice must be my father’s fair consent.
_Athelst._ Then shall thy choice end in this Cyprus prince. Before the sun shall six times more arise, His royal marriage will we solemnise. Proclaim this honoured match! Come, Agripyne, I am glad th’ art here, more glad the purse is mine.
[_As they are going in, enter_ ANDELOCIA _and_ SHADOW, _disguised as Irish coster-mongers_. AGRIPYNE, LONGAVILLE, _and_ MONTROSE _stay listening to them, the rest exeunt_.
_Both._ Buy any apples, feene apples of Tamasco,[396] feene Tamasco peepins: peeps feene, buy Tamasco peepins.
[396] In the English translation from the original story of Fortunatus, as published in the Dutch, Andelocia invents the name of Damascus, or Damasco, for his apples, on the spur of the moment, so as to give them an air of rarety, the name apparently not being one previously used for any special kind of apple. In an earlier English edition of the story, published about 1650, however, they are otherwise described. It says there:--“They were brought from Jerusalem, and were from the Holy Garden.”
_Agrip._ Damasco apples? good my Lord Montrose, Call yonder fellows.
_Montr._ Sirrah coster-monger.
_Shad._ Who calls: peeps of Tamasco, feene peeps: Ay, fat ’tis de sweetest apple in de world, ’tis better den de Pome water,[397] or apple John.[398]
[397] A large sweet apple, full of juice [see _Bailey’s Dictionary_].
[398] John apple, a good keeping apple, which long retains its freshness.
_Andel._ By my trat, madam, ’tis reet Tamasco peepins, look here els.
_Shad._ I dare not say, as de Irishman my countryman say, taste de goodness of de fruit: no, sayt, ’tis farie teere, mistriss, by Saint Patrick’s hand ’tis teere Tamasco apple.
_Agrip._ The fairest fruit that ever I beheld. Damasco apples, wherefore are they good?
_Longa._ What is your price of half a score of these?
_Both._ Half a score, half a score? dat is doos many, mester.[399]
[399] “That is too many, master.” Dekker’s Irish even surpasses his Dutch in unintelligibility, and it would need more space than mere footnotes can afford, to attempt any full elucidation.
_Longa._ Ay, ay, ten, half a score, that’s five and five.
_Andel._ Feeve and feeve? By my trat and as Creeze save me la, I cannot tell wat be de price of feeve and feeve, but ’tis tree crown for one peepin, dat is de preez if you take ’em.
_Shad._ Ay fat, ’tis no less for Tamasco.
_Agrip._ Three crowns for one? what wondrous virtues have they?
_Shad._ O, ’tis feene Tamasco apple, and shall make you a great teal wise, and make you no fool, and make feene memory.
_Andel._ And make dis fash be more fair and amiable, and make dis eyes look always lovely, and make all de court and country burn in desire to kiss di none sweet countenance.
_Montr._ Apples to make a lady beautiful? Madam, that’s excellent.
_Agrip._ These Irishmen, Some say, are great dissemblers, and I fear These two the badge of their own country wear.
_Andel._ By my trat, and by Saint Patrick’s hand, and as Creez save me la, ’tis no dissembler: de Irishman now and den cut di countryman’s throat, but yet in fayt he love di countryman, ’tis no dissembler: dis feene Tamasco apple can make di sweet countenance, but I can take no less but three crowns for one, I wear out my naked legs and my foots, and my tods,[400] and run hidder and didder to Tamasco for dem.
[400] Stockings probably, from the use of the term for bales of wool.
_Shad._ As Creez save me la, he speaks true: Peeps feene.
_Agrip._ I’ll try what power lies in Damasco fruit. Here are ten crowns for three. So fare you well.
_Montr._ Lord Longaville, buy some.
_Longa._ I buy? not I: Hang them, they are toys; come, madam, let us go. [_Exeunt_ AGRIPYNE, LONGAVILLE _and_ MONTROSE.
_Both._ Saint Patrick and Saint Peter, and all de holy angels look upon dat fash and make it fair.
_Re-enter_ MONTROSE _softly_.
_Shad._ Ha, ha, ha! she’s sped, I warrant.
_Andel._ Peace, Shadow, buy any peepins, buy.
_Both._ Peeps feene, feene Tamasco apples.
_Montr._ Came not Lord Longaville to buy some fruit?
_Andel._ No fat, master, here came no lords nor ladies, but di none sweet self.
_Montr._ ’Tis well, say nothing, here’s six crowns for two: You say the virtues are to make one strong.
_Both._ Yes fat, and make sweet countenance and strong too.
_Montr._ ’Tis excellent: here! farewell! if these prove, I’ll conquer men by strength, women by love. [_Exit._
_Re-enter_ LONGAVILLE.
_Andel._ Ha, ha, ha! why this is rare.
_Shad._ Peace, master, here comes another fool.
_Both._ Peepes feene, buy any peepes of Tamasco?
_Longa._ Did not the Lord Montrose return to you?
_Both._ No fat, sweet master, no lord did turn to us: peepes feene!
_Longa._ I am glad of it; here are nine crowns for three. What are the virtues besides making fair?
_Andel._ O, ’twill make thee wondrous wise.
_Shad._ And dow shall be no more a fool, but sweet face and wise.
_Longa._ ’Tis rare, farewell, I never yet durst woo. None loves me: now I’ll try what these can do. [_Exit._
_Andel._ Ha, ha, ha. So, this is admirable, Shadow, here end my torments in Saint Patrick’s Purgatory, but thine shall continue longer.
_Shad._ Did I not clap on a good false Irish face?
_Andel._ It became thee rarely.
_Shad._ Yet that’s lamentable, that a false face should become any man.
_Andel._ Thou art a gull,[401] tis all the fashion now, which fashion because we’ll keep, step thou abroad, let not the world want fools; whilst thou art commencing thy knavery there, I’ll precede Dr. Dodipoll[402] here: that done, thou, Shadow, and I will fat ourselves[403] to behold the transformation of these fools: go fly.
[401] Dekker uses “Gallant,” as an equivalent in _The Gull’s Horn-Book_, but he means something more opprobrious;--“Masher,” as we would say to-day, a fool of fashion.
[402] An allusion to the comedy _The Wisdom of Dr. Dodipoll_.
[403] _i.e._ Grow jolly, at the spectacle.
_Shad._ I fear nothing, but that whilst we strive to make others fools, we shall wear the cock’s combs ourselves. Pips fine. [_Exit_ SHADOW.
_Enter_ AMPEDO.
_Andel._ S’heart, here’s my brother whom I have abused: His presence makes me blush, it strikes me dead, To think how I am metamorphosèd. Feene peepins of Tamasco!
_Amp._ For shame cast off this mask.
_Andel._ Wilt thou buy any pips?
_Amp._ Mock me no longer With idle apparitions: many a land Have I with weary feet and a sick soul Measured to find thee; and when thou art found, My greatest grief is that thou art not lost. Yet lost thou art, thy fame, thy wealth are lost, Thy wits are lost, and thou hast in their stead, With shame and cares, and misery crowned thy head. That Shadow that pursues thee, filled mine ears With sad relation of thy wretchedness, Where is the purse, and where my wishing hat?
_Andel._ Where, and where? are you created constable? You stand so much upon interrogatories. The purse is gone, let that fret you, and the hat is gone, let that mad you: I run thus through all trades to overtake them, if you be quiet, follow me, and help, if not, fly from me, and hang yourself. Wilt thou buy any pippins? [_Exit._
_Amp._ Oh, how I grieve, to see him thus transformed? Yet from the circles of my jealous eyes He shall not start, till he have repossessed Those virtuous jewels, which found once again, More cause they ne’er shall give me to complain, Their worth shall be consumed in murdering flames, And end my grief, his riot, and our shames. [_Exit._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ACT THE FIFTH.
## SCENE I.--_London. The Court of Athelstane._
_Enter_ ATHELSTANE, _followed by_ AGRIPYNE, MONTROSE, _and_ LONGAVILLE _with horns; then_ LINCOLN _and_ CORNWALL.
Athelst. In spite of sorcery try once again, Try once more in contempt of all damned spells.
_Agrip._ Your majesty fights with no mortal power. Shame, and not conquest, hangs upon this strife. O, touch me not, you add but pain to pain, The more you cut, the more they grow again.
_Linc._ Is there no art to conjure down this scorn? I ne’er knew physic yet against the horn.
_Enter_ CYPRUS.
_Athelst._ See, Prince of Cyprus, thy fair Agripyne Hath turned her beauty to deformity.
_Cypr._ Then I defy thee, Love; vain hopes, adieu, You have mocked me long; in scorn I’ll now mock you. I came to see how the Lord Longaville Was turned into a monster, and I find An object, which both strikes me dumb and blind. To-morrow should have been our marriage morn, But now my bride is shame, thy bridegroom scorn. tell me yet, is there no art, no charms, No desperate physic for this desperate wound?
_Athelst._ All means are tried, but no means can be found.
_Cypr._ Then, England, farewell: hapless maid, thy stars, Through spiteful influence set our hearts at wars. I am enforced to leave thee, and resign My love to grief.
_Enter_ ORLEANS _and_ GALLOWAY.
_Agrip._ All grief to Agripyne.
_Cypr._ Adieu, I would say more, had I a tongue Able to help his master: mighty king, I humbly take my leave; to Cyprus I; My father’s son must all such shame defy. [_Exit._
_Orle._ So doth not Orleans; I defy all those That love not Agripyne, and him defy, That dares but love her half so well as I. O pardon me! I have in sorrow’s jail Been long tormented, long this mangled bosom Hath bled, and never durst expose her wounds, Till now, till now, when at thy beauteous feet I offer love and life. Oh, cast an eye Of mercy on me, this deformèd face Cannot affright my soul from loving thee.
_Agrip._ Talk not of love, good Orleans, but of hate.
_Orle._ What sentence will my love pronounce on me?
_Gall._ Will Orleans then be mad? O gentle friend.
_Orle._ O gentle, gentle friend, I am not mad: He’s mad, whose eyes on painted cheeks do doat, O Galloway, such read beauty’s book by rote. He’s mad, that pines for want of a gay flower, Which fades when grief doth blast, or sickness lower, Which heat doth wither, and white age’s frost Nips dead: such fairness, when ’tis found, ’tis lost. I am not mad, for loving Agripyne, My love looks on her eyes with eyes divine; I doat on the rich brightness of her mind, That sacred beauty strikes all other blind. O make me happy then, since my desires Are set a burning by love’s purest fires.
_Athelst._ So thou wilt bear her far from England’s sight, Enjoy thy wishes.
_Agrip._ Lock me in some cave, Where staring wonder’s eye shall not be guilty To my abhorrèd looks, and I will die To thee, as full of love as misery.
_Athelst._ I am amazed and mad, some speckled soul Lies pawned for this in hell, without redemption, Some fiend deludes us all.
_Cornw._ O unjust Fates, Why do you hide from us this mystery?
_Linc._ My Lord Montrose, how long have your brows worn This fashion? these two feather springs of horn?
_Montr._ An Irish kerne sold me Damasco apples Some two hours since, and like a credulous fool-- He swearing to me that they had this power To make me strong in body, rich in mind-- I did believe his words, tasted his fruit, And since have been attired in this disguise.
_Longa._ I fear that villain hath beguiled me too.
_Cornw._ Nay before God he has not cozened you, You have it soundly.
_Longa._ Me he made believe, One apple of Damasco would inspire My thoughts with wisdom, and upon my cheeks Would cast such beauty that each lady’s eye, Which looked on me, should love me presently.
_Agrip._ Desire to look more fair, makes me more fool,[404] Those apples did entice my wandering eye, To be enamoured of deformity.
[404] A play upon “fool” and “foul.”
_Athelst._ This proves that true, which oft I have heard in schools, Those that would seem most wise, do turn most fools.
_Linc._ Here’s your best hope, none needs to hide his face, For hornèd foreheads swarm in every place.
_Enter_ CHESTER, _with_ ANDELOCIA _disguised as a ~French Soldier~._
_Athelst._ Now, Chester, what physicians hast thou found?
_Chest._ Many, my liege, but none that have true skill To tame such wild diseases: yet here’s one, A doctor and a Frenchman, whom report Of Agripyne’s grief hath drawn to court.
_Athelst._ Cure her, and England’s treasury shall stand, As free for thee to use, as rain from Heaven.
_Montr._ Cure me, and to thy coffers I will send More gold from Scotland than thy life can spend.
_Longa._ Cure Longaville, and all his wealth is thine.
_Andel._ He Monsieur Long-villain,[405] gra tanck you: Gra tanck your mashesty a great teal artely by my trat: where be dis Madam Princeza dat be so mush tormenta? O Jeshu: one, two: an tree, four an five, seez horn: Ha, ha, ha, pardona moy prea wid al mine art, for by my trat, me can no point shose but laugh, Ha, ha, ha, to mark how like tree bul-beggera, dey stand. Oh, by my trat and fat, di divela be whoreson, scurvy, paltry, ill favore knave to mock de madam, and gentill-home so: Ha, ha, ha, ha.
[405] Elucidation of his jargon must be left to the discretion of the reader.
_Linc._ This doctor comes to mock your majesty.
_Andel._ No, by my trat la, but me lova musha musha merymant: come, madam, pre-artely stand still, and letta me feel you. Dis horn, O ’tis pretty horn, dis be facile, easy for pull de vey; but, madam, dis O be grand, grand horn, difficil, and very deep; ’tis perilous, a grand laroone. But, madam, prea be patient, we shall take it off vell.
_Athelst._ Thrice have we pared them off, but with fresh pain, In compass of a thought they rise again.
_Andel._ It’s true, ’tis no easy mattra, to pull horn off, ’tis easy to pull on, but hard for pull off; some horn be so good fellow, he will still inhabit in de man’s pate, but ’tis all one for tat, I shall snap away all dis. Madam, trust dis down into your little belly.
_Agrip._ Father, I am in fear to taste his physic. First let him work experiments on those.
_Andel._ I’ll sauce you for your infidelity. In no place can I spy my wishing hat. [_Aside._
_Longa._ Thou learned Frenchman, try thy skill on me, More ugly than I am, I cannot be.
_Montr._ Cure me, and Montrose wealth shall all be thine.
_Andel._ ’Tis all one for dat! Shall do presently, madam, prea mark me. Monsieur, shamp dis in your two shaps, so, now Monsieur Long-villain; dis so; now dis; fear noting, ’tis eshelent medicine! so, now cram dis into your guts, and belly; so, now snap away dis whoreson four divela; Ha, ha, is no point good? [_Pulls_ LONGAVILLE’S _horns off_.
_Athelst._ This is most strange. Was’t painful, Longaville?
_Longa._ Ease took them off, and there remains no pain.
_Agrip._ O try thy sacred physic upon me.
_Andel._ No by my trat, ’tis no possibla, ’tis no possibla, al de mattra, all de ting, all de substance, all de medicine, be among his and his belly: ’tis no possibla, till me prepare more.
_Athelst._ Prepare it then, and thou shalt have more gold From England’s coffers, than thy life can waste.
_Andel._ I must buy many costly tings, dat grow in Arabia, in Asia, and America, by my trat ’tis no possibla till anoder time, no point.
_Agrip._ There’s nothing in the world, but may for gold Be bought in England; hold your lap, I’ll rain A shower of angels.
_Andel._ Fie, fie, fie, fie, you no credit le dockature? Ha, but vel, ’tis all one for tat: ’tis no mattera for gold! vel, vel, vel, vel, vel, me have some more, prea say noting, shall be presently prepara for your horns.
(_Aside._) She has my purse, and yonder lies my hat, Work, brains, and once more make me fortunate.--
Vel, vel, vel, vel, be patient, madam, presently, presently! Be patient, me have two, tree, four and five medicines for de horn: presently, madam, stand you der, prea wid all my art, stand you all der, and say noting,--so! nor look noting dis vey. So, presently, presently, madam, snip dis horn off wid de rushes and anoder ting by and by, by and by, by and by. Prea look none dis vey, and say noting. [_Takes his hat._
_Athelst._ Let no man speak, or look, upon his life. Doctor, none here shall rob thee of thy skill.
_Andel._ So, taka dis hand: winck now prea artely with your two nyes: why so.
Would I were with my brother Ampedo! [_Exit with_ AGRIPYNE.
_Agrip._ Help, father, help, I am hurried hence perforce.
_Athelst._ Draw weapons, where’s the princess? follow him, Stay the French doctor, stay the doctor there. [CORNWALL _and others run out, and presently re-enter_.
_Cornw._ Stay him! ’s heart, who dare stay him? ’tis the devil In likeness of a Frenchman, of a doctor. Look how a rascal kite having swept up A chicken in his claws, so flies this hell-hound In th’ air with Agripyne in his arms.
_Orle._ Mount every man upon his swiftest horse. Fly several ways, he cannot bear her far.
_Gall._ These paths we’ll beat. [_Exeunt_ GALLOWAY _and_ ORLEANS.
_Linc._ And this way shall be mine. [_Exit._
_Cornw._ This way, my liege, I’ll ride. [_Exit._
_Athelst._ And this way I: No matter which way, to seek misery. [_Exit._
_Longa._ I can ride no way, to out-run my shame.
_Montr._ Yes, Longaville, let’s gallop after too; Doubtless this doctor was that Irish devil, That cozened us, the medicine which he gave us Tasted like his Damasco villany. To horse, to horse, if we can catch this fiend, Our forkèd shame shall in his heart blood end.
_Longa._ O how this mads me, that all tongues in scorn, Which way soe’er I ride, cry, ’ware the horn! [_Exeunt._
[Illustration]
## SCENE II.--_An open Space near London: a Prison and a Pair of
Stocks in the background._
_Enter_ ANDELOCIA _with_ AGRIPYNE, AMPEDO _and_ SHADOW _following_.
_Agrip._ O gentle Andelocia, pity me, Take off this infamy, or take my life.
_Andel._ Your life? you think then that I am a true doctor indeed, that tie up my living in the knots of winding sheets: your life? no, keep your life, but deliver your purse: you know the thief’s salutation,--“Stand and deliver.” So, this is mine, and these yours: I’ll teach you to live by the sweat of other men’s brows.
_Shad._ And to strive to be fairer than God made her.
_Andel._ Right, Shadow: therefore vanish, you have made me turn juggler, and cry “hey-pass,” but your horns shall not repass.[406]
[406] See _ante_, “They mean to fall to their hey-pass and re-pass.”
_Agrip._ O gentle Andelocia.
_Andel._ Andelocia is a nettle: if you touch him gently, he’ll sting you.
_Shad._ Or a rose: if you pull his sweet stalk he’ll prick you.