Part 13
FAB. What means the tolling of this fatal chime? O, what a trembling horror strikes my heart! My stiffen'd hair stands upright on my head, As do the bristles of a porcupine.[237]
_Enter_ COREB, _a spirit_.
COR. Fabel, awake! for[238] I will bear thee hence Headlong to hell.
FAB. Ha, ha! why dost thou wake me? Coreb, is it thou?
COR. Tis I.
FAB. I know thee well; I hear the watchful dogs With hollow howling tell of thy approach: The lights burn dim, affrighted with thy presence; And this distemper'd and tempestuous night Tells me the air is troubled with some devil.
COR. Come, art thou ready?
FAB. Whither, or to what?
COR. Why, scholar, this the hour my date expires:[239] I must depart, and come to claim my due.
FAB. Ha! what is thy due?
COR. Fabel, thyself.
FAB. O, let not darkness hear thee speak that word, Lest that with force it hurry hence amain, And leave the world to look upon my woe: Yet overwhelm me with this globe of earth, And let a little sparrow with her bill Take but so much as she can bear away, That, every day thus losing of my load, I may again in time yet hope to rise.
COR. Didst thou not write thy name with thine own blood? And drew'st the formal deed 'twixt thee and me? And is it not recorded now in hell?
FAB. Why com'st thou in this stern and horrid shape: Not in familiar sort, as thou wast wont?
COR. Because the date of thy command is out, And I am master of thy skill and thee.
FAB. Coreb, thou angry and impatient spirit, I have earnest business for a private friend: Reserve me, spirit, until some farther time.
COR. I will not for the mines of all the earth.
FAB. Then let me rise, and ere I leave the world, Despatch[240] some business that I have to do; And in meantime repose thee in that chair.
COR. Fabel, I will.
[_Sits down in the necromantic chair._
FAB. O, that this soul, that cost so dear a price As the dear precious blood of her Redeemer, Inspir'd with knowledge, should by that alone, Which makes a man so mean unto the powers, Ev'n lead him down into the depth of hell; When men in their own pride strive to know more Than man should know! For this alone God cast the angels down. The infinity of arts is like a sea, Into which when man will take in hand to sail Farther than reason (which should be his pilot) Hath skill to guide him--losing once his compass, He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirlpools, As he doth lose the very sight of heaven: The more he strives to come to quiet harbour, The farther still he finds himself from land. Man, striving still to find the depth of evil-- Seeking to be a god, becomes a devil.
COR. Come, Fabel, hast thou done?
FAB. Yes, yes, come hither.
COR. Fabel, I cannot.
FAB. Cannot! what ails your hollowness?
COR. Good Fabel, help me.
FAB. Alas! where lies your grief?--Some _aqua vitæ_! The devil's very sick, I fear he'll die; For he looks very ill.
COR. Dar'st thou deride the minister of darkness? In Lucifer's great name, Coreb conjures thee To set him free.
FAB. I will not for the mines of all the earth, Unless thou give me liberty to see Seven years more, before thou seize on me.
COR. Fabel, I give it thee.
FAB. Swear, damned fiend.
COR. Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee, Till seven years from this hour be full expir'd.
FAB. Enough, come out.
COR. A vengeance take thy art! Live and convert all piety to evil: Never did man thus overreach the devil. No time on earth, like Phaetonic flames, Can have perpetual being. I'll return To my infernal mansion: but be sure, Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry; But, Coreb, thou to hell shalt Fabel carry.
FAB. Then thus between us two this variance ends; Thou to thy fellow-fiends, I to my friends. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, DORCAS _his lady_, MILLICENT _his daughter, young_ HARRY CLARE; _the men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and_ _safeguards;_[241] BLAGUE, _the merry host of the_ _George, comes in with them_.
HOST. Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham: my freehold, my tenements, goods and chattels. Madam, here's a room is[242] the very Homer and Iliads of a lodging, it hath none of the four elements in it; I built it out of the centre, and I drink ne'er the less sack. Welcome, my little waste of maidenheads: what? I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.[243]
CLARE. God-a-mercy, my good host Blague! Thou hast a good seat here.
HOST. 'Tis correspondent or so: there's not a Tartarian[244] nor a carrier shall breathe upon your geldings: they have villanous rank feet, the rogues, and they shall not sweat in my linen. Knights and lords, too, have been drunk in my house, I thank the Destinies.
H. CLARE. Prythee, good sinful innkeeper, will that corruption, thine ostler, to look well to my gelding. Ha! a pox of these rushes.[245]
HOST. You, St Denis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and cool his feet for his master's sake. By the body of Saint George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison: now, when wast thou in the forest?
H. CLARE. Away, you stale mess of white broth! Come hither, sister, let me help you.
CLARE. Mine host, is not Sir Richard Mounchensey come yet, according to our appointment, when we last dined here?
HOST. The knight's not yet apparent. Marry, here's a forerunner that summons a parley, and, faith, he'll be here top and top-gallant presently.
CLARE. 'Tis well; good mine host, go down and see breakfast be provided.
HOST. Knight, thy breath hath the force of a woman, it takes me down; I am for the baser element of the kitchen: I retire like a valiant soldier, face point-blank to the foeman, or, like a courtier, that must not show his prince his posteriors: vanish to know my canvasadoes and my interrogatories, for I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. [_Exit._
CLARE. How doth my lady? are you not weary, madam? Come hither, I must talk in private with you; My daughter Millicent must not overhear. [_Speaking low._
MIL. Ay, whispering? pray God it tend to my good! Strange fear assails my heart, usurps my blood.
[_Aside._
CLARE. You know our meeting with the knight Mounchensey Is to assure our daughter to his heir.
DOR. 'Tis without question. [_Speaking low._
CLARE. Two tedious winters have pass'd o'er, since first These couple lov'd each other, and in passion Glued first their naked hands with youthful moisture-- Just so long, on my knowledge.
DOR. And what of this?
CLARE. This morning should my daughter lose her name, And to Mounchensey's house convey our arms, Quartered within his 'scutcheon: the affiance made 'Twixt him and her this morning should be seal'd.
DOR. I know it should.
CLARE. But there are crosses,[246] wife; here's one in Waltham, Another at the Abbey, and a third At Cheston;[247] and it is ominous to pass Any of these without a pater-noster. Crosses of love still thwart this marriage, Whilst that we two (like spirits) walk in night About those stony and hard-hearted plots.
MIL. O God! what means my father? [_Aside._
CLARE. For look you, wife, the riotous old knight Hath overrun his annual revenue, In keeping jolly Christmas all the year: The nostrils of his chimneys are still stuff'd With smoke, more chargeable than cane-tobacco; His hawks devour his fattest hogs,[248] whilst Simple, His leanest cur, eats his hounds' carrion. Besides, I heard of late his younger brother, A Turkey merchant, hath sore[249] suck'd the knight, By means of some great losses on the sea; That (you conceive me), before God, all's naught, His seat is weak: thus, each thing rightly scann'd, You'll see a flight, wife, shortly of his land.
MIL. Treason to my heart's truest sovereign: How soon is love smothered in foggy gain! [_Aside._
DOR. But how shall we prevent this dangerous match?
CLARE. I have a plot, a trick; and this it is. Under this colour I'll break off the match-- I'll tell the knight, that now my mind is chang'd For marrying of my daughter; for I intend To send her unto Cheston nunnery.[250]
MIL. O me accurs'd! [_Aside._
CLARE. There to become a most religious nun.
MIL. I'll first be buried quick. [_Aside._
CLARE. To spend her beauty in most private prayers.
MIL. I'll sooner be a sinner in forsaking Mother and father. [_Aside._
CLARE. How dost like my plot?
DOR. Exceeding well: but is it your intent She shall continue there?
CLARE. Continue there? ha, ha! that were a jest: You know a virgin may continue there A twelvemonth and a day on trial. There shall my daughter sojourn some three months, And in meantime I'll compass a fair match 'Twixt youthful Jerningham, the lusty heir Of Sir Ralph Jerningham, dwelling in the forest. I think they'll both come hither with Mounchensey.
DOR. Your care argues the love your bear our child; I will subscribe to anything you'll have me.
[_Exeunt_ SIR ARTHUR _and_ DORCAS.[251]
MIL. You will subscribe to it?--good, good,[252] 'tis well; Love hath two chairs of state, heaven and hell. My dear Mounchensey, thou my death shalt rue, Ere to thy heart Millicent prove untrue. [_Exit._
_Enter_ BLAGUE.
HOST. Ostlers, you knaves and commanders, take the horses of the knights and competitors: your honourable hulks have put into harbour, they'll take in fresh water here, and I have provided clean chamber-pots. _Via!_[253] they come.
_Enter_ SIR RICHARD MOUNCHENSEY, SIR RALPH JERNINGHAM, _young_ FRANK JERNINGHAM, RAYMOND MOUNCHENSEY, PETER FABEL, _and_ BILBO.
HOST. The destinies be most neat chamberlains to these swaggering puritans, knights of the subsidy.
SIR RICH. God-a-mercy, good mine host.
SIR RALPH. Thanks, good host Blague.
HOST. Room for my case of pistols, that have Greek and Latin bullets in them: let me cling to your flanks, my nimble giberalters, and blow wind in your calves to make them swell bigger. Ha! I'll caper in mine own fee-simple. Away with punctilios and orthography! I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.
BIL. _Tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi.[254]_ Truly, mine host, Bilbo, though he be somewhat out of fashion, will be your only blade[255] still; I have a villainous sharp stomach to slice a breakfast.
HOST. Thou shalt have it without any more discontinuance, release, or attournment. What! we know our terms of hunting and the sea-card.
BIL. And do you serve the good Duke of Norfolk still?
HOST. Still and still, and still, my soldier of Saint Quintin's. Come follow me. I have Charles's-wain[256] below in a butt of sack: 'twill[257] glister like your crab-fish.
BIL. You have fine scholar-like terms: your Cooper's Dictionary[258] is your only book to study in a cellar, a man shall find very strange words in it. Come, my host, let's serve the good Duke of Norfolk.
HOST. And still, and still, and still, my boy, I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk.
_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, HARRY CLARE, _and_ MILLICENT.[259]
SIR RALPH. Good Sir Arthur Clare!
CLARE. What gentleman is that? I know him not.
SIR RICH. 'Tis Master Fabel, sir, a Cambridge scholar, My son's dear friend.
CLARE. Sir, I entreat you know me.
FAB. Command me, sir, I am affected to you For your Mounchensey's sake.
CLARE. Alas! for him, I not respect whether he sink or swim! [_Aside._ A word in private, Sir Ralph Jerningham.
RAY. Methinks your father looketh strangely on me: Say, love, why are you sad?
MIL. I am not, sweet; Passion is strong, when woe with woe doth meet.
CLARE. Shall's in to breakfast? After, we'll conclude The cause of this our coming: in and feed, And let that usher a more serious deed. [_Exit._
MIL. Whilst you desire his grief, my heart shall bleed. [_Exit._
Y. CLARE. Raymond Mounchensey, come, be frolic, friend; This is the day thou hast expected long.
RAY. Pray God, dear Harry Clare, it prove so happy!
Y. CLARE. There's nought can alter it; be merry, lad.
FAB. There's nought shall alter it; be lively, Raymond: Stand any opposition 'gainst thy hope, Art shall confront it with her largest scope.
[_Exeunt, save_ FABEL.
PETER FABEL _solus_.
FAB. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill, That for thy bounty and thy royal parts Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn, And after all these promises, my[260] Clare, Refuse to give his daughter to thy son, Only because thy revenues cannot reach To make her dowage of so rich a jointure As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham? And therefore is the false fox now in hand To strike a match betwixt her and the other; And the old grey-beards now are close together, Plotting it in the garden. Is't even so? Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts, The metaphysics, magic, and those parts Of the most secret deep philosophy? Have I so many melancholy nights Watch'd on the top of Peter-house highest tower, And come we back unto our native home, For want of skill to lose the wench thou lov'st? I'll first hang Enfield[261] in such rings of mist As never rose from any dampish fen: I'll make the brined sea to rise at Ware, And drown the marshes unto Stratford Bridge: I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks, And scatter them (like sheep) in every field. We may perhaps be cross'd; but, if we be, He shall cross the devil, that but crosses me.
_Enter_ RAYMOND _and_ YOUNG JERNINGHAM.
But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad; And here's the gallant that must have the wench.
JER. I prythee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps: Revive thy spirits. Thou, that before hast been More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock: As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry As mirth herself! If aught in me may thy content procure, It is thine own, thou mayst thyself assure.
RAY. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold As the bleak northern winds upon the face Of winter. From thee they have some power Upon my blood; yet being from thee, Had but that hollow sound come from the lips Of any living man, it might have won The credit of mine ear; from thee it cannot.
JER. If I understand thee, I am a villain: What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend?
_Enter_ YOUNG CLARE.
Come, boy, and make me this same groaning love, Troubled with stitches and the cough o' th' lungs, That wept his eyes out, when he was a child, And ever since hath shot at hoodman-blind:[262] Make her leap, caper, jerk, and laugh, and sing, And play me horse tricks. Make Cupid wanton as his mother's dove; But in this sort, boy, I would have thee love.
FAB. Why, how now, madcap? what, my lusty Frank, So near a wife, and will not tell your friend? But you will to this gear in hugger-mugger:[263] Art thou turn'd miser, rascal, in thy loves?
JER. Who, I? s'blood, what should all you see in me, that I should look like a married man, ha? Am I bald? Are my legs too little for my hose? If I feel anything in my forehead, I am a villain. Do I wear a nightcap? do I bend in the hams? what dost thou see in me, that I should be towards marriage, ha?
Y. CLARE. What, thou married? let me look upon thee; rogue, who has given this out of thee? how cam'st thou into this ill-name? what company hast thou been in, rascal?
FAB. You are the man, sir, must have Millicent, The match is making in the garden now; Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men, Your fathers, mean to launch their busy bags;[264] But in the meantime to thrust Mounchensey off. For colour of this new-intended match, Fair Millicent to Cheston must be sent, To take the approbation for a nun. Ne'er look upon me, lad: the match is done.
JER. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief With the true feeling of a zealous friend. And as for fair and beauteous Millicent, With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber[265] Her angel-like perfections: but thou know'st That Essex hath the saint that I adore: Where-e'er didst meet me, that we two were jovial, But like a wag thou hast not laugh'd at me, And with regardless jesting mock'd my love? How[266] many a sad and weary summer night My sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth, And I have taught the nightingale to wake, And from the meadows sprung the early lark An hour before she should have list to sing: I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans, That I have made the heavy slow-pac'd hours To hang like heavy clogs upon the day. But, dear Mouncheusey, had not my affection Seiz'd on the beauty of another dame, Before I'd wrong the chase, and leave the love Of one so worthy and so true a friend, I will abjure both beauty and her sight, And will in love become a counterfeit.
MOUN. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life, And from the mouth of hell, where now I sat, I feel my spirit rebound against the stars, Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, in my free soul, There time nor death can by their power control.
FAB. Frank Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy; And were he not my pupil, I would say He were as fine a metall'd gentleman, Of as free spirit and of as fine a temper, As is in England; and he is a man That very richly may deserve thy love. But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse, What may Mounchensey's honour to thyself Exact upon the measure of thy grace?
Y. CLARE. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know, He does not breathe this air, whose love I cherish, And whose soul I love more than Mounchensey's: Nor ever in my life did see the man Whom, for his wit and many virtuous parts, I think more worthy of my sister's love. But since the matter grows unto this pass, I must not seem to cross my father's will; But when thou list to visit her by night, My horse is saddled, and the stable door Stands ready for thee; use them at thy pleasure. In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy, And if thou gett'st her, lad, God give thee joy.
MOUN. Then, care away! let fate my fall pretend, Back'd with the favours of so true a friend!
FAB. Let us alone, to bustle for the set; For age and craft with wit and art have met. I'll make my spirits to dance such nightly jigs Along the way 'twixt this and Tot'nam Cross, The carriers' jades shall cast their heavy packs, And the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in: The milkmaids' cuts[267] shall turn the wenches off, And lay their dossers[268] tumbling in the dust: The frank and merry London 'prentices, That come for cream and lusty country cheer, Shall lose their way; and, scrambling in the ditches All night shall whoop and hallo, cry and call, Yet none to other find the way at all.
MOUN. Pursue the project, scholar: what we can do To help endeavour, join our lives thereto. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ BANKS, SIR JOHN, _and_ SMUG.
BANKS. Take me with you,[269] good Sir John:[270] a plague on thee, Smug, and thou touchest liquor, thou art foundered straight. What! are your brains always watermills? must they ever run round?
SMUG. Banks, your ale is as a Philistine fox; nouns! there's fire i' th' tail on't; you are a rogue to charge us with mugs i' th' rearward; a plague of this wind! O, it tickles our catastrophe![271]
SIR JOHN. Neighbour Banks of Waltham, and goodman Smug, the honest smith of Edmonton, as I dwell betwixt you both at Enfield, I know the taste of both your ale-houses; they are good both, smart both. Hem! grass and hay! we are all mortal; let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end.
BANKS. Well said, Sir John, you are of the same humour still; and doth the water run the same way still, boy?
SMUG. Vulcan was a rogue to him; Sir John, lock, lock, lock fast, Sir John; so, Sir John. I'll one' of these years, when it shall please the goddesses and the destinies, be drunk in your company; that's all now, and God send us health. Shall I swear I love you?
SIR JOHN. No oaths, no oaths, good neighbour Smug. We'll wet our lips together, and hug; Carouse in private, and elevate the heart, and the liver, and the lights--and the lights, mark you me--within us: for, hem! grass and hay! we are all mortal; let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end.
BANKS. But to our former motion about stealing some venison; whither go we?
SIR JOHN. Into the forest, neighbour Banks: into Brian's walk, the mad-keeper.
SMUG. Blood! I'll tickle your keeper.
BANKS. I' faith, thou art always drunk when we have need of thee.
SMUG. Need of me! heart! you shall have need of me always, while there is iron in an anvil.
BANKS. Master Parson, may the smith go (think you), being in this taking?
SMUG. Go! I'll go, in spite of all the bells in Waltham.
SIR JOHN. The question is good, neighbour Banks--let me see: the moon shines to-night,--there's not a narrow bridge betwixt this and the forest,--his brain may be settled ere night: he may go, he may go, neighbour Banks. Now we want none but the company of mine host Blague, of the George at Waltham: if he were here, our consort were full. Look where comes my good host, the Duke of Norfolk's man! And how? and how? Ahem! grass and hay! we are not yet mortal; let us live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end.
_Enter_ HOST.
HOST. Ha! my Castilian dialogues; and art thou in breath still, boy? Miller, doth the match hold? Smith, I see by thy eyes thou hast been reading a little Geneva print: but wend[272] we merrily to the forest, to steal some of the king's deer? I'll meet you at the time appointed. Away, I have knights and colonels at my house, and must tend the Hungarians.[273] If we be scared in the forest, we'll meet in the church-porch at Enfield: is't correspondent?
BANKS. 'Tis well; but how, if any of us should be taken?
SMUG. He shall have ransom, by my sword.
HOST. Tush, the knave keepers are my bona socias[274] and my pensioners. Nine o'clock! Be valiant, my little Gogmagogs; I'll fence with all the justices in Hertfordshire. I'll have a buck, till I die; I'll slay a doe, while I live. Hold your bow straight and steady: I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.
SMUG. O rare! who-ho-ho, boy!
SIR JOHN. Peace, neighbour Smug. You see this boor, a boor of the country, an illiterate boor, and yet the citizen of good-fellows. Come, let's provide: ahem! grass and hay! we are not yet all mortal; we'll live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end. Come, Smug.
SMUG. Good night, Waltham--who-ho-ho, boy! [_Exeunt._
_Enter the Knights and Gentlemen from breakfast again._