Part 5
_L. Cheiny._ Is it so near night as it seems, Or will this black-faced evening have a shower? --What, Master Arden? you are well met, I have longed this fortnight’s day to speak with you: You are a stranger, man, in the Isle of Sheppy. 100
_Arden._ Your honour’s always! bound to do you service.
_L. Cheiny._ Come you from London, and ne’er a man with you?
_Arden._ My man’s coming after, but here’s My honest friend that came along with me.
_L. Cheiny._ My Lord Protector’s man I take you to be.
_Franklin._ Ay, my good lord, and highly bound to you.
_L. Cheiny._ You and your friend come home and sup with me.
_Arden._ I beseech your honour pardon me; I have made a promise to a gentleman, My honest friend, to meet him at my house; 110 The occasion is great, or else would I wait on you.
_L. Cheiny._ Will you come to-morrow and dine with me, And bring your honest friend along with you? I have divers matters to talk with you about.
_Arden._ To-morrow we’ll wait upon your honour.
_L. Cheiny._ One of you stay my horse at the top of the hill. --What! Black Will? for whose purse wait you? Thou wilt be hanged in Kent, when all is done.
_Will._ Not hanged, God save your honour; I am your bedesman, bound to pray for you. 120
_L. Cheiny._ I think thou ne’er said’st prayer in all thy life.-- One of you give him a crown:-- And, sirrah, leave this kind of life; If thou beest tainted for a penny-matter, And come in question, surely thou wilt truss. --Come, Master Arden, let us be going; Your way and mine lies four miles together.
[_Exeunt. Manet Black Will and Shakebag._
_Will._ The devil break all your necks at four miles’ end! Zounds, I could kill myself for very anger! His lordship chops me in, 130 Even when my dag was levelled at his heart. I would his crown were molten down his throat.
_Shakebag._ Arden, thou hast wondrous holy luck. Did ever man escape as thou hast done? Well, I’ll discharge my pistol at the sky, For by this bullet Arden might not die.
_Here enters Greene._
_Greene._ What, is he down? is he dispatched?
_Shakebag._ Ay, in health towards Feversham, to shame us all.
_Greene._ The devil he is! why, sirs, how escaped he?
_Shakebag._ When we were ready to shoot, 140 Comes my Lord Cheiny to prevent his death.
_Greene._ The Lord of Heaven hath preserved him.
_Will._ Preserved a fig! The Lord Cheiny hath preserved him, And bids him to a feast to his house at Shorlow. But by the way once more I’ll meet with him, And, if all the Cheinies in the world say no, I’ll have a bullet in his breast to-morrow. Therefore come, Greene, and let us to Feversham.
_Greene._ Ay, and excuse ourselves to Mistress Arden: O, how she’ll chafe when she hears of this! 150
_Shakebag._ Why, I’ll warrant you she’ll think we dare not do it.
_Will._ Why, then let us go, and tell her all the matter, And plat the news to cut him off to-morrow.
[_Exeunt._
III. vi. 144. _Shorlow_ should be Shurland in Sheppey.
ACT IV
SCENE I
_Arden’s House at Feversham._
_Here enters Arden and his wife, Franklin, and Michael_
_Arden._ See how the hours, the gardant of heaven’s gate, Have by their toil removed the darksome clouds, That Sol may well discern the trampled path Wherein he wont to guide his golden car; The season fits; come, Franklin, let’s away.
_Alice._ I thought you did pretend some special hunt, That made you thus cut short the time of rest.
_Arden._ It was no chase that made me rise so early, But, as I told thee yesternight, to go To the Isle of Sheppy, there to dine with my Lord Cheiny; 10 For so his honour late commanded me.
_Alice._ Ay, such kind husbands seldom want excuses; Home is a wild cat to a wandering wit. The time hath been,--would God it were not past,-- That honour’s title nor a lord’s command Could once have drawn you from these arms of mine. But my deserts or your desires decay, Or both; yet if true love may seem desert, I merit still to have thy company.
_Franklin._ Why, I pray you, sir, let her go along with us; 20 I am sure his honour will welcome her And us the more for bringing her along.
_Arden._ Content; sirrah, saddle your mistress’ nag.
_Alice._ No, begged favour merits little thanks; If I should go, our house would run away, Or else be stolen; therefore I’ll stay behind.
_Arden._ Nay, see how mistaking you are! I pray thee, go.
_Alice._ No, no, not now.
_Arden._ Then let me leave thee satisfied in this, That time nor place nor persons alter me, 30 But that I hold thee dearer than my life.
_Alice._ That will be seen by your quick return.
_Arden._ And that shall be ere night, and if I live. Farewell, sweet Alice, we mind to sup with thee.
[_Exit Alice._
_Franklin._ Come, Michael, are our horses ready?
_Michael._ Ay, your horse are ready, but I am not ready, for I have lost my purse, with six and thirty shillings in it, with taking up of my master’s nag.
_Franklin._ Why, I pray you, let us go before, Whilst he stays behind to seek his purse. 40
_Arden._ Go to, sirrah, see you follow us to the Isle of Sheppy To my Lord Cheiny’s, where we mean to dine.
[_Exeunt Arden and Franklin. Manet Michael._
_Michael._ So, fair weather after you, for before you lies Black Will and Shakebag in the broom close, too close for you: they’ll be your ferrymen to long home.
_Here enters the Painter._
But who is this? the painter, my corrival, that would needs win Mistress Susan.
_Clarke._ How now, Michael? how doth my mistress and all at home?
_Michael._ Who? Susan Mosbie? she is your mistress, too? 50
_Clarke._ Ay, how doth she and all the rest?
_Michael._ All’s well but Susan; she is sick.
_Clarke._ Sick? Of what disease?
_Michael._ Of a great fever.
_Clarke._ A fear of what?
_Michael._ A great fever.
Clarke. A fever? God forbid!
_Michael._ Yes, faith, and of a lordaine, too, as big as yourself.
_Clarke._ O, Michael, the spleen prickles you. Go to, you carry an eye over Mistress Susan. 60
_Michael._ I’ faith, to keep her from the painter.
_Clarke._ Why more from a painter than from a serving creature like yourself?
Michael. Because you painters make but a painting table of a pretty wench, and spoil her beauty with blotting.
_Clarke._ What mean you by that?
_Michael._ Why, that you painters paint lambs in the lining of wenches’ petticoats, and we serving-men put horns to them to make them become sheep. 70
_Clarke._ Such another word will cost you a cuff or a knock.
_Michael._ What, with a dagger made of a pencil? Faith, ’tis too weak, and therefore thou too weak to win Susan.
_Clarke._ Would Susan’s love lay upon this stroke.
[_Then he breaks Michael’s head._
_Here enters Mosbie, Greene, and Alice._
_Alice._ I’ll lay my life, this is for Susan’s love. Stayed you behind your master to this end? Have you no other time to brable in But now when serious matters are in hand?-- Say, Clarke, hast thou done the thing thou promised? 80
_Clarke._ Ay, here it is; the very touch is death.
_Alice._ Then this, I hope, if all the rest do fail, Will catch Master Arden, And make him wise in death that lived a fool. Why should he thrust his sickle in our corn, Or what hath he to do with thee, my love, Or govern me that am to rule myself? Forsooth, for credit sake, I must leave thee! Nay, he must leave to live that we may love, May live, may love; for what is life but love? 90 And love shall last as long as life remains, And life shall end before my love depart.
_Mosbie._ Why, what is love without true constancy? Like to a pillar built of many stones, Yet neither with good mortar well compact Nor with cement to fasten it in the joints, But that it shakes with every blast of wind, And, being touched, straight falls unto the earth, And buries all his haughty pride in dust. No, let our love be rocks of adamant, 100 Which time nor place nor tempest can asunder.
_Greene._ Mosbie, leave protestations now, And let us bethink us what we have to do. Black Will and Shakebag I have placed i’ the broom, Close watching Arden’s coming; let’s to them And see what they have done. [_Exeunt._
IV. i. 1. _gardant_: A, B read _gardeant_, modern editors _guardians_.
IV. i. 3. _path_: so Warnke for _pace_ of A, B, C; but _pace_ in the sense of ‘path’ is not impossible.
IV. i. 17. _desires_: so Warnke for _deserves_, A, B, C.
IV. i. 44. ‘A certain broom-close betwixt Feversham and the Ferry.’--Holinshed.
IV. i. 45. Cf. _Ecclesiastes_, vii. 5.
IV. i. 96. _nor with cement_: Delius _for nor semell_, A, B.
SCENE II
_The Kentish Coast opposite the Isle of Sheppy._
_Here enters Arden and Franklin._
_Arden._ Oh, ferryman, where art thou?
_Here enters the Ferryman._
_Ferryman._ Here, here, go before to the boat, and I will follow you.
_Arden._ We have great haste; I pray thee, come away.
_Ferryman._ Fie, what a mist is here!
_Arden._ This mist, my friend, is mystical, Like to a good companion’s smoky brain, That was half drowned with new ale overnight.
_Ferryman._ ’Twere pity but his skull were opened to make more chimney room. 10
_Franklin._ Friend, what’s thy opinion of this mist?
_Ferryman._ I think ’tis like to a curst wife in a little house, that never leaves her husband till she have driven him out at doors with a wet pair of eyes; then looks he as if his house were a-fire, or some of his friends dead.
_Arden._ Speaks thou this of thine own experience?
_Ferryman._ Perhaps, ay; perhaps, no: For my wife is as other women are, that is to say, governed by the moon. 20
_Franklin._ By the moon? how, I pray thee?
_Ferryman._ Nay, thereby lies a bargain, and you shall not have it fresh and fasting.
_Arden._ Yes, I pray thee, good ferryman.
_Ferryman._ Then for this once; let it be midsummer moon, but yet my wife has another moon.
_Franklin._ Another moon?
_Ferryman._ Ay, and it hath influences and eclipses.
_Arden._ Why, then, by this reckoning you sometimes play the man in the moon? 30
_Ferryman._ Ay, but you had not best to meddle with that moon, lest I scratch you by the face with my bramble-bush.
_Arden._ I am almost stifled with this fog; come, let’s away.
_Franklin._ And, sirrah, as we go, let us have some more of your bold yeomanry.
_Ferryman._ Nay, by my troth, sir, but flat knavery.
[_Exeunt._
IV. ii. 5. This mist is not in Holinshed. It is our poet’s invention.
IV. ii. 30. Cf. _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, V. i. 237, etc.
SCENE III
_Another place on the coast._
_Here enters Will at one door, and Shakebag at another._
_Shakebag._ Oh, Will, where art thou?
_Will._ Here, Shakebag, almost in hell’s mouth, where I cannot see my way for smoke.
_Shakebag._ I pray thee speak still that we may meet by the sound, for I shall fall into some ditch or other, unless my feet see better than my eyes.
_Will._ Didst thou ever see better weather to run away with another man’s wife, or play with a wench at pot-finger? 9
_Shakebag._ No; this were a fine world for chandlers, if this weather would last; for then a man should never dine nor sup without candle-light. But, sirrah Will, what horses are those that passed?
_Will._ Why, didst thou hear any?
_Shakebag._ Ay, that I did.
_Will._ My life for thine, ’twas Arden, and his companion, and then all our labour’s lost.
_Shakebag._ Nay, say not so, for if it be they, they may haply lose their way as we have done, and then we may chance meet with them. 20
_Will._ Come, let us go on like a couple of blind pilgrims.
[_Then Shakebag falls into a ditch._
_Shakebag._ Help, Will, help, I am almost drowned.
_Here enters the Ferryman._
_Ferryman._ Who’s that that calls for help?
_Will._ ’Twas none here, ’twas thou thyself.
_Ferryman._ I came to help him that called for help. Why, how now? who is this that’s in the ditch? You are well enough served to go without a guide such weather as this.
_Will._ Sirrah, what companies hath passed your ferry this morning? 30
_Ferryman._ None but a couple of gentlemen, that went to dine at my Lord Cheiny’s.
_Will._ Shakebag, did not I tell thee as much?
Ferryman. Why, sir, will you have any letters carried to them?
_Will._ No, sir; get you gone.
_Ferryman._ Did you ever see such a mist as this?
_Will._ No, nor such a fool as will rather be hought than get his way.
_Ferryman._ Why, sir, this is no Hough-Monday; you are deceived.--What’s his name, I pray you, sir? 41
_Shakebag._ His name is Black Will.
_Ferryman._ I hope to see him one day hanged upon a hill. [_Exit Ferryman._
_Shakebag._ See how the sun hath cleared the foggy mist, Now we have missed the mark of our intent.
_Here enters Greene, Mosbie, and Alice._
_Mosbie._ Black Will and Shakebag, what make you here? What, is the deed done? is Arden dead?
_Will._ What could a blinded man perform in arms? Saw you not how till now the sky was dark, 50 That neither horse nor man could be discerned? Yet did we hear their horses as they passed.
_Greene._ Have they escaped you, then, and passed the ferry?
_Shakebag_. Ay, for a while; but here we two will stay, And at their coming back meet with them once more. Zounds, I was ne’er so toiled in all my life In following so slight a task as this.
_Mosbie._ How cam’st thou so berayed?
_Will._ With making false footing in the dark; He needs would follow them without a guide. 60
_Alice._ Here’s to pay for a fire and good cheer: Get you to Feversham to the Flower-de-luce, And rest yourselves until some other time.
_Greene._ Let me alone; it most concerns my state.
_Will._ Ay, Mistress Arden, this will serve the turn, In case we fall into a second fog.
[_Exeunt Greene, Will, and Shakebag._
_Mosbie._ These knaves will never do it, let us give it over.
_Alice._ First tell me how you like my new device: Soon, when my husband is returning back, You and I both marching arm in arm, 70 Like loving friends, we’ll meet him on the way, And boldly beard and brave him to his teeth. When words grow hot and blows begin to rise, I’ll call those cutters forth your tenement, Who, in a manner to take up the fray, Shall wound my husband Hornsby to the death.
_Mosbie._ A fine device! why, this deserves a kiss.
[_Exeunt._
IV. iii. 40. Hock Monday followed the second Sunday after Easter. See Brand’s _Popular Antiquities_.
IV. iii. 68. Our poet blackens Mosbie for the same reason that he whitewashes Arden, _e.g._: ‘Master Arden both then and at other times had been greatly provoked by Mosbie to fight with him, but he would not.’ ‘Mosby at the first would not agree to that cowardly murdering of him.’--Holinshed.
SCENE IV
_The open country._
_Here enters Dick Reede and a Sailor._
_Sailor._ Faith, Dick Reede, it is to little end: His conscience is too liberal, and he too niggardly To part from any thing may do thee good.
_Reede._ He is coming from Shorlow as I understand; Here I’ll intercept him, for at his house He never will vouchsafe to speak with me. If prayers and fair entreaties will not serve, Or make no battery in his flinty breast,
_Here enters Franklin, Arden, and Michael._
I’ll curse the carle, and see what that will do. See where he comes to further my intent!-- 10 Master Arden, I am now bound to the sea; My coming to you was about the plat Of ground which wrongfully you detain from me. Although the rent of it be very small, Yet it will help my wife and children, Which here I leave in Feversham, God knows, Needy and bare: for Christ’s sake, let them have it!
_Arden._ Franklin, hearest thou this fellow speak? That which he craves I dearly bought of him, Although the rent of it was ever mine.-- 20 Sirrah, you that ask these questions, If with thy clamorous impeaching tongue Thou rail on me, as I have heard thou dost, I’ll lay thee up so close a twelve-month’s day, As thou shalt neither see the sun nor moon. Look to it, for, as surely as I live, I’ll banish pity if thou use me thus.
_Reede._ What, wilt thou do me wrong and threat me too, Nay, then, I’ll tempt thee, Arden, do thy worst. God, I beseech thee, show some miracle 30 On thee or thine, in plaguing thee for this. That plot of ground which thou detains from me, I speak it in an agony of spirit, Be ruinous and fatal unto thee! Either there be butchered by thy dearest friends, Or else be brought for men to wonder at, Or thou or thine miscarry in that place, Or there run mad and end thy cursèd days!
_Franklin._ Fie, bitter knave, bridle thine envious tongue; For curses are like arrows shot upright, 40 Which falling down light on the shooter’s head.
_Reede._ Light where they will! Were I upon the sea, As oft I have in many a bitter storm, And saw a dreadful southern flaw at hand, The pilot quaking at the doubtful storm, And all the sailors praying on their knees, Even in that fearful time would I fall down, And ask of God, whate’er betide of me, Vengeance on Arden or some misevent To show the world what wrong the carle hath done. This charge I’ll leave with my distressful wife, 51 My children shall be taught such prayers as these; And thus I go, but leave my curse with thee.
[_Exeunt Reede and Sailor._
_Arden._ It is the railingest knave in Christendom, And oftentimes the villain will be mad; It greatly matters not what he says, But I assure you I ne’er did him wrong.
_Franklin._ I think so, Master Arden.
_Arden._ Now that our horses are gone home before, My wife may haply meet me on the way. 60 For God knows she is grown passing kind of late, And greatly changed from The old humour of her wonted frowardness, And seeks by fair means to redeem old faults.
_Franklin._ Happy the change that alters for the best! But see in any case you make no speech Of the cheer we had at my Lord Cheiny’s, Although most bounteous and liberal, For that will make her think herself more wronged, In that we did not carry her along; 70 For sure she grieved that she was left behind.
_Arden._ Come, Franklin, let us strain to mend our pace, And take her unawares playing the cook;
_Here enters Alice and Mosbie._
For I believe she’ll strive to mend our cheer.
_Franklin._ Why, there’s no better creatures in the world, Than women are when they are in good humours.
_Arden._ Who is that? Mosbie? what, so familiar? Injurious strumpet, and thou ribald knave, Untwine those arms.
_Alice._ Ay, with a sugared kiss let them untwine. 80
_Arden._ Ah, Mosbie! perjured beast! bear this and all!
_Mosbie._ And yet no horned beast; the horns are thine.
_Franklin._ O monstrous! Nay, then it is time to draw.
_Alice._ Help, help! they murder my husband.
_Here enters Will and Shakebag._
_Shakebag._ Zounds, who injures Master Mosbie? Help, Will! I am hurt.
_Mosbie._ I may thank you, Mistress Arden, for this wound.
[_Exeunt Mosbie, Will, and Shakebag._
_Alice._ Ah, Arden, what folly blinded thee? Ah, jealous harebrained man, what hast thou done! When we, to welcome thee with intended sport, Came lovingly to meet thee on thy way, 90 Thou drew’st thy sword, enraged with jealousy, And hurt thy friend whose thoughts were free from harm: All for a worthless kiss and joining arms, Both done but merrily to try thy patience. And me unhappy that devised the jest, Which, though begun in sport, yet ends in blood!
_Franklin._ Marry, God defend me from such a jest!
_Alice._ Could’st thou not see us friendly smile on thee, When we joined arms, and when I kissed his cheek? Hast thou not lately found me over-kind? 100 Did’st thou not hear me cry ‘they murder thee’? Called I not help to set my husband free? No, ears and all were witched; ah me accursed To link in liking with a frantic man! Henceforth I’ll be thy slave, no more thy wife, For with that name I never shall content thee. If I be merry, thou straightways thinks me light; If sad, thou sayest the sullens trouble me; If well attired, thou thinks I will be gadding; If homely, I seem sluttish in thine eye: 110 Thus am I still, and shall be while I die. Poor wench abused by thy misgovernment!
_Arden._ But is it for truth that neither thou nor he Intendedst malice in your misdemeanour?
_Alice._ The heavens can witness of our harmless thoughts
_Arden._ Then pardon me, sweet Alice, and forgive this fault! Forget but this and never see the like. Impose me penance, and I will perform it, For in thy discontent I find a death,-- A death tormenting more than death itself. 120
_Alice._ Nay, had’st thou loved me as thou dost pretend, Thou wouldst have marked the speeches of thy friend, Who going wounded from the place, he said His skin was pierced only through my device; And if sad sorrow taint thee for this fault, Thou would’st have followed him, and seen him dressed, And cried him mercy whom thou hast misdone: Ne’er shall my heart be eased till this be done.
_Arden._ Content thee, sweet Alice, thou shalt have thy will, Whate’er it be. For that I injured thee, 130 And wronged my friend, shame scourgeth my offence; Come thou thyself, and go along with me, And be a mediator ’twixt us two.
_Franklin._ Why, Master Arden! know you what you do? Will you follow him that hath dishonoured you?
_Alice._ Why, canst thou prove I have been disloyal?
_Franklin._ Why, Mosbie taunted your husband with the horn.
_Alice._ Ay, after he had reviled him By the injurious name of perjured beast: He knew no wrong could spite a jealous man 140 More than the hateful naming of the horn.
_Franklin._ Suppose ’tis true; yet is it dangerous To follow him whom he hath lately hurt.
_Alice._ A fault confessed is more than half amends; But men of such ill spirit as yourself Work crosses and debates ’twixt man and wife.
_Arden._ I pray thee, gentle Franklin, hold thy peace: I know my wife counsels me for the best. I’ll seek out Mosbie where his wound is dressed, And salve this hapless quarrel if I may. 150
[_Exeunt Arden and Alice._
_Franklin._ He whom the devil drives must go perforce. Poor gentleman, how soon he is bewitched! And yet, because his wife is the instrument, His friends must not be lavish in their speech.
[_Exit Franklin._
IV. iv. 88. _harebrain_, A, B, C.
IV. iv. 89. _welcome thee with intended_; so Warnke for _welcome thy intended_, A, B, C.
ACT V
SCENE I
_A Street in Feversham._