(DRAMATIS PERSONAE.)

Sir Arthur Clare. Sir Richard Mounchensey. Sir Ralph Jerningham. Henry Clare. Raymond Mounchensey. Frank Jerningham. Sir John [a Priest]. Banks [the Miller of Waltham]. Smug [the Smith of Edmonton]. Bilbo. [Blague the] Host. Brian. [Raph, Brian’s man.] [Friar Hildersham.] [Benedick.] [Chamberlaine.] [Coreb, a Spirit.] Fabel [the Merry Devil]. Lady Clare. Millisent. Abbess. Sexton. Nuns and Attendants.

The Prologue.

Your silence and attention, worthy friends, That your free spirits may with more pleasing sense Relish the life of this our active scene: To which intent, to calm this murmuring breath, We ring this round with our invoking spells; If that your listning ears be yet prepard To entertain the subject of our play, Lend us your patience. Tis Peter Fabell, a renowned Scholler, Whose fame hath still been hitherto forgot By all the writers of this latter age. In Middle-sex his birth and his abode, Not full seven mile from this great famous City, That, for his fame in sleights and magicke won, Was calde the merry Friend of Emonton. If any here make doubt of such a name, In Edmonton yet fresh unto this day, Fixt in the wall of that old antient Church, His monument remayneth to be seen; His memory yet in the mouths of men, That whilst he lived he could deceive the Devill. Imagine now that whilst he is retirde From Cambridge back unto his native home, Suppose the silent, sable visagde night Casts her black curtain over all the World; And whilst he sleeps within his silent bed,

Toiled with the studies of the passed day, The very time and hour wherein that spirit That many years attended his command, And often times twixt Cambridge and that town Had in a minute borne him through the air, By composition twixt the fiend and him, Comes now to claim the Scholler for his due.

[Draw the Curtains.]

Behold him here, laid on his restless couch, His fatal chime prepared at his head, His chamber guarded with these sable slights, And by him stands that Necromanticke chair, In which he makes his direfull invocations, And binds the fiends that shall obey his will. Sit with a pleased eye, until you know The Commicke end of our sad Tragique show.

[Exit.]

INDUCTION.

[The Chime goes, in which time Fabell is oft seen to stare about him, and hold up his hands.]

FABELL. What means the tolling of this fatal chime? O, what a trembling horror strikes my heart! My stiffned hair stands upright on my head, As do the bristles of a porcupine.

[Enter Coreb, a Spirit.]

COREB. Fabell, awake, or I will bear thee hence Headlong to hell.

FABELL. Ha, ha, Why dost thou wake me? Coreb, is it thou?

COREB. Tis I.

FABELL. 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 distemperd and tempestuous night Tells me the air is troubled with some Devill.

COREB. Come, art thou ready?

FABELL. Whither? or to what?

COREB. Why, Scholler, this the hour my date expires; I must depart, and come to claim my due.

FABELL. Hah, what is thy due?

COREB. Fabell, thy self.

FABELL. 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.

COREB. Didst thou not write thy name in thine own blood, And drewst the formall deed twixt thee and me, And is it not recorded now in hell?

FABELL. Why comst thou in this stern and horrid shape, Not in familiar sort, as thou wast wont?

COREB. Because the date of thy command is out, And I am master of thy skill and thee.

FABELL. Coreb, thou angry and impatient spirit, I have earnest business for a private friend; Reserve me, spirit, until some further time.

COREB. I will not for the mines of all the earth.

FABELL. Then let me rise, and ere I leave the world, Dispatch some business that I have to do; And in mean time repose thee in that chair.

COREB. Fabell, I will.

[Sit down.]

FABELL. O, that this soul, that cost so great a price As the dear precious blood of her redeemer, Inspired with knowledge, should by that alone Which makes a man so mean unto the powers, Even lead him down into the depth of hell, When men in their own pride strive to know more Then 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 Further then reason, which should be his pilot, Hath skill to guide him, losing once his compass, He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirl-pools As he doth lose the very sight of heaven: The more he strives to come to quiet harbor, The further still he finds himself from land. Man, striving still to find the depth of evil, Seeking to be a God, becomes a Devil.

COREB. Come, Fabell, hast thou done?

FABELL. Yes, yes; come hither.

COREB. Fabell, I cannot.

FABELL. Cannot?—What ails your hollownes?

COREB. Good Fabell, help me.

FABELL. Alas, where lies your grief? Some Aqua-vitae! The Devil’s very sick, I fear he’ll die, For he looks very ill.

COREB. Darst thou deride the minister of darkness? In Lucifer’s dread name Coreb conjures thee To set him free.

FABELL. 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.

COREB. Fabell, I give it thee.

FABELL. Swear, damned fiend.

COREB. Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee, Till seven years from this hour be full expired.

FABELL. Enough, come out.

COREB. A vengeance take thy art! Live and convert all piety to evil: Never did man thus over-reach the Devil. No time on earth like Phaetontique flames Can have perpetual being. I’ll return To my infernall mansion; but be sure, Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry, But, Coreb, thou to hell shalt Fabell carry.

[Exit.]

FABELL. Then thus betwixt us two this variance ends, Thou to thy fellow Fiends, I to my friends.

[Exit.]

ACT I.

SCENE I. The George Inn, Waltham.

[Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Dorcas, his Lady, Milliscent, his daughter, young Harry Clare; the men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and safeguards. Blague, the merry host of the George, comes in with them.]

HOST. Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham, my free-hold, my tenements, goods and chattels. Madam, here’s a room is the very Homer and Iliad of a lodging, it hath none of the four elements in it; I built it out of the Center, and I drink ne’er the less sack. Welcome, my little waste of maiden-heads! What? I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

CLARE. God a mercy, my good host Blague: Thou hast a good seat here.

HOST. Tis correspondent or so: there’s not a Tartarian nor a Carrier shall breath upon your geldings; they have villainous 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.

HARRY. Pre’ thee, good sinful Innkeeper, will that corruption, thine Ostler, look well to my gelding. Hay, a pox a these rushes!

HOST. You Saint Dennis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and cool his feet for his masters sake. By the body of S. George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison: now, when wast thou in the forest?

HARRY. 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 parle, and saith, 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 foe-man, or, like a Courtier, that must not shew the Prince his posteriors; vanish to know my canuasadoes, 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 Milliscent must not over-hear.

MILLISCENT. Aye, whispring; pray God it tend my good! Strange fear assails my heart, usurps my blood.

CLARE. You know our meeting with the knight Mounchensey Is to assure our daughter to his heir.

DORCAS. Tis, without question.

CLARE. Two tedious winters have past 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.

DORCAS. And what of this?

CLARE. This morning should my daughter lose her name, And to Mounchenseys house convey our arms, Quartered within his scutcheon; th’ affiance, made Twist him and her, this morning should be sealed.

DORCAS. I know it should.

CLARE. But there are crosses, wife; here’s one in Waltham, Another at the Abbey, and the third At Cheston; and tis 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.

MILLISCENT. O God, what means my father?

CLARE. For look you, wife, the riotous old knight Hath o’rerun his annual revenue In keeping jolly Christmas all the year: The nostrils of his chimney are still stuft With smoke, more chargeable then Cane-tobacco; His hawks devour his fattest dogs, whilst simple, His leanest curs eat him hounds carrion. Besides, I heard of late, his younger brother, A Turkey merchant, hath sure suck’de the knight By means of some great losses on the sea, That, you conceive me, before God all is naught, His seat is weak: thus, each thing rightly scanned, You’ll se a flight, wife, shortly of his land.

MILLISCENT. Treason to my hearts truest sovereign: How soon is love smothered in foggy gain!

DORCAS. But how shall we prevent this dangerous match?

CLARE. I have a plot, a trick, and this is it- Under this colour I’ll break off the match: I’ll tell the knight that now my mind is changd For marrying of my daughter, for I intend To send her unto Cheston Nunry.

MILLISCENT. O me accurst!

CLARE. There to become a most religious Nun.

MILLISCENT. I’ll first be buried quick.

CLARE. To spend her beauty in most private prayers.

MILLISCENT. I’ll sooner be a sinner in forsaking Mother and father.

CLARE. How dost like my plot?

DORCAS. 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 twelve month and a day only on trial. There shall my daughter sojourn some three months, And in mean time I’ll compass a fair match Twixt youthful Jerningham, the lusty heir Of Sir Raph Jerningham, dwelling in the forest- I think they’ll both come hither with Mounchensey.

DORCAS. Your care argues the love you bear our child; I will subscribe to any thing you’ll have me.

[Exeunt.]

MILLISCENT. You will subscribe it! good, good, tis well; Love hath two chairs of state, heaven and hell. My dear Mounchensey, thou my death shalt rue, Ere to my heart Milliscent prove untrue.

[Exit.]

SCENE II. The same.

[Enter Blague.]

HOST. Ostlers, you knaves and commanders, take the horses of the knights and competitors: your honourable hulks have put into harborough, they’ll take in fresh water here, and I have provided clean chamber-pots. Via, they come!

[Enter Sir Richard Mounchesney, Sir Raph Jerningham, young Frank Jerningham, Raymond Mounchesney, Peter Fabell, and Bilbo.]

HOST. The destinies be most neat Chamberlains to these swaggering puritans, knights of the subsidy.

SIR MOUNCHESNEY. God a mercy, good mine host.

SIR JERNINGHAM. Thanks, good host Blague.

HOST. Room for my case of pistolles, 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 puntillioes and Orthography! I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Bilbo, Titere tu, patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi.

BILBO. Truly, mine host, Bilbo, though he be somewhat out of fashion, will be your only blade still. I have a villanous sharp stomach to slice a breakfast.

HOST. Thou shalt have it without any more discontinuance, releases, or atturnement. What! we know our terms of hunting and the sea-card.

BILBO. And do you serve the good duke of Norfolk still?

HOST. Still, and still, and still, my souldier of S. Quintins: come, follow me; I have Charles waine below in a but of sack, t’will glister like your Crab-fish.

BILBO. You have fine Scholler-like terms; your Coopers Dixionary is your only book to study in a celler, 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.

[Exeunt Host and Bilbo.]

[Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Harry Clare, and Milliscent.]

JERNINGHAM. Good Sir Arthur Clare!

CLARE. What Gentleman is that? I know him not.

MOUNCHESNEY. Tis Master Fabell, Sir, a Cambridge scholler, My son’s dear friend.

CLARE. Sir, I intreat you know me.

FABELL. 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: A word in private, Sir Raph Jerningham.

RAYMOND. Me thinks your father looketh strangely on me: Say, love, why are you sad?

MILLISCENT. 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.

MILLISCENT. Whilst you desire his grief, my heart shall bleed.

YOUNG JERNINGHAM. Raymond Mounchesney, come, be frolick, friend, This is the day thou hast expected long.

RAYMOND. Pray God, dear Jerningham, it prove so happy.

JERNINGHAM. There’s nought can alter it. Be merry, lad!

FABELL. There’s nought shall alter it. Be lively, Raymond! Stand any opposition gainst thy hope, Art shall confront it with her largest scope.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. The same.

[Peter Fabell, solus.]

FABELL. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill, That for thy bounty and thy royall parts Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn, And after all these promises by 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 th’ other; And the old gray-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 liberall Arts, The Metaphysickes, Magicke, 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? We’ll first hang Envill in such rings of mist As never rose from any dampish fen: I’ll make the brind 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 crost, but, if we be, He shall cross the devil, that but crosses me.

[Enter Raymond and young Jerningham and young Clare.]

But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad, And here’s the gallant that must have the wench.

JERNINGHAM. I pri’thee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps: Revive thy spirits, thou that before hast been More watchful then the day-proclaiming cock, As sportive as a Kid, as frank and merry As mirth herself. If ought in me may thy content procure, It is thine own, thou mayst thy self assure.

RAYMOND. Ha, Jerningham, if any but thy self 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.

JERNINGHAM. If I understand thee, I am a villain: What, dost thou speak in parables to thy friends?

CLARE. Come, boy, and make me this same groning love, Troubled with stitches and the cough a’th lungs, That wept his eyes out when he was a child, And ever since hath shot at hudman-blind, Make him 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.

FABELL. Why, how now, mad-cap? What, my lusty Franke, So near a wife, and will not tell a friend? But you will to this geere in hugger-mugger; Art thou turned miser, Rascall, in thy loves?

JERNINGHAM. Who, I? z’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 any thing in my forehead, I am a villain: do I wear a night-cap? Do I bend in the hams? What dost thou see in me, that I should be towards marriage, ha?

CLARE. What, thou married? let me look upon thee, Rogue; who has given out this of thee? how camst thou into this ill name? What company hast thou been in, Rascall?

FABELL. You are the man, sir, must have Millescent: The match is making in the garden now; Her jointure is agreed on, and th’ old men, Your fathers, mean to lanch their busy bags; But in mean time to thrust Mountchensey off, For colour of this new intended match, Fair Millescent to Cheston must be sent, To take the approbation for a Nun. Ne’er look upon me, lad, the match is done.

JERNINGHAM. Raymond Mountchensey, now I touch thy grief With the true feeling of a zealous friend. And as for fair and beauteous Millescent, With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber Her angel like perfections; but thou know’st That Essex hath the Saint that I adore. Where ere did we meet thee and wanton springs, That like a wag thou hast not laught at me, And with regardless jesting mockt my love? How many a sad and weary summer night My sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth, And I have taught the Niting-gale to wake, And from the meadows spring 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 passed hours To hang like heavy clogs upon the day. But, dear Mountchensey, had not my affection Seased on the beauty of another dame, Before I would wrong the chase, and overgive 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.

MOUNTCHENSEY. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life, And from the mouth of hell, where now I sate, I feel my spirit rebound against the stars: Thou hast conquerd me, dear friend, in my free soul; Their time nor death can by their power controul.

FABELL. Franke Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy; And were he not my pupil, I would say He were as fine a mettled 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 thy self Exact upon the measure of thy grace?

CLARE. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know, He does not breath 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 vertuous 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 horses sadled, and the stable door Stands ready for thee; use them at thy pleasure. In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy, And if thou getst her, lad, God give thee joy!

MOUNTCHENSEY. Then, care, away! let fates my fall pretend, Backt with the favours of so true a friend!