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Read Ebook: A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume 13 by Dodsley Robert Hazlitt William Carew Editor
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Ebook has 607 lines and 63267 words, and 13 pages
TO THE KING AND QUEEN.
The Author, royal sir, so dreads this night, As if for writing he were doom'd to th' sight; Or else, unless you do protect his fame, Y' had sav'd his play, and sentenc'd him to th' flame. For though your name or power were i' th' reprieve, Such works, he thinks, are but condemn'd to live. Which for this place, being rescu'd from the fire, Take ruin from th' advancement, and fall higher. Though none, he hopes, sit here upon his wit, As if he poems did, or plays commit; Yet he must needs fear censure that fears praise, Nor would write still, were't to succeed i' th' bays: For he is not o' th' trade, nor would excel In this kind, where 'tis lightness to do well. Yet, as the gods refin'd base things, and some Beasts foul i' th' herd grew pure i' th' hecatomb; And as the ox prepar'd and crowned bull Are offerings, though kept back, and altars full; So, mighty sir, this sacrifice being near The knife at Oxford, which y' have kindled here, He hopes 'twill from you and the Queen grow clean, And turn t' oblation, what he meant a scene.
THE AT BLACKFRIARS.
Were it his trade, the Author bid me say, Perchance he'd beg you would be good to th' play; And I, to set him up in reputation, Should hold a basin forth for approbation. But praise so gain'd, he thinks, were a relief Able to make his comedy a brief; For where your pity, must your judgment be, 'Tis not a play, but you fir'd houses see. Look not his quill, then, should petitions run; No gatherings here into a Prologue spun. Whether their sold scenes be dislik'd, or hit, Are cares for them who eat by th' stage and wit. He's one whose unbought Muse did never fear An empty second day or a thin share; But can make th' actors, though you come not twice, No losers, since we act now at the king's price, Who hath made this play public; and the same Power that makes laws redeem'd this from the flame: For th' Author builds no fame, nor doth aspire To praise from that which he condemn'd to th' fire. He's thus secure then, that he cannot win A censure sharper than his own hath been.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
THE CITY-MATCH.
+Sea.+ I promise you 'twill be a most rare plot.
+Ware.+ The city, Master Seathrift, never yet Brought forth the like: I would have them that have Fin'd twice for sheriff, mend it.
+Sea.+ Mend it! why, 'Tis past the wit o' th' court of aldermen. Next merchant-tailor, that writes chronicles, Will put us in.
+Sea.+ You told me, Master Warehouse.
+Ware.+ Not the sea, When it devour'd my ships, cost me so much As did his vanities. A voyage to the Indies Has been lost in a night: his daily suits Were worth more than the stock that set me up; For which he knew none but the silk-man's book, And studied that more than the law. He had His loves, too, and his mistresses; was enter'd Among the philosophical madams; was As great with them as their concerners; and, I hear, Kept one of them in pension.
+Sea.+ My son too Hath had his errors: I could tell the time When all the wine which I put off by wholesale He took again in quarts; and at the day Vintners have paid me with his large scores: but He is reformed too.
+Ware.+ Sir, we now are friends In a design.
+Sea.+ And hope to be in time Friends in alliance, sir.
+Ware.+ I'll be free; I think well of your son.
+Sea.+ Who? Timothy? Believe't, a virtuous boy; and for his sister, A very saint.
+Ware.+ Mistake me not, I have The like opinion of my nephew, sir; Yet he is young, and so is your son; nor Doth the church-book say they are past our fears. Our presence is their bridle now; 'tis good To know them well whom we do make our heirs.
+Sea.+ It is most true.
+Ware.+ Well; and how shall we know How they will use their fortune, or what place We have in their affection, without trial? Some wise men build their own tombs; let us try, If we were dead, whether our heirs would cry, Or wear long cloaks. This plot will do't.
+Sea.+ 'Twill make us Famous upon the Exchange for ever. I'll home, And take leave of my wife and son.
+Ware.+ And I'll Come to you at your garden-house. Within there.
+Plot.+ Yes, and I To sleep the sermon in my chain and scarlet.
+Plot.+ And then at sessions, sir, and all times else, Master Recorder to save me the trouble, And understand things for me. and for mathematics, I hate to travel by the map; methinks 'Tis riding post.
+Cyph.+ I knew 'twould come to this. Here be his comrades. died in.
+Plot.+ Very good.
+New.+ In Ovid There is not such a metamorphosis As thou art now. To be turned into a tree Or some handsome beast, is courtly to this. But for thee, Frank, O transmutation! Of satin chang'd to kersey hose I sing. 'Slid, his shoes shine too.
+Bright.+ They have the Gresham dye. Dost thou not dress thyself by 'em? I can see My face in them hither.
+Plot.+ Very pleasant, gentlemen.
+Bright.+ And faith, for how many years art thou bound?
+Plot.+ Do you take me for a 'prentice?
+New.+ Why, then, what office Dost thou bear in the parish this year? Let's feel: No batteries in thy head, to signify Th' art a constable?
+Bright.+ No furious jug broke on it In the king's name?
+New.+ No; but the news Thou shouldst turn tradesman, and this pagan dress, In which if thou shouldst die, thou wouldst be damn'd For an usurer, is comical at the Temple. We were about to bring in such a fellow For an apostate in our antimasque. Set one to keep the door, provide half-crown rooms, For I'll set bills up of thee. What shall I Give thee for the first day?
+Bright.+ Ay, or second? For thou'lt endure twice or thrice coming in.
+Plot.+ Well, my conceited Orient friends, bright offspring O' th' female silkworm and tailor male, I deny not But you look well in your unpaid-for glory; That in these colours you set out the Strand, And adorn Fleet Street; that you may laugh at me, Poor working-day o' th' city, like two festivals Escap'd out of the Almanac.
+New.+ Sirrah Bright, Didst look to hear such language beyond Ludgate?
+Bright.+ I thought all wit had ended at Fleetbridge; But wit that goes o' th' score, that may extend, If't be a courtier's wit, into Cheapside.
+Plot.+ Your mercer lives there, does he? I warrant you, He has the patience of a burnt heretic. The very faith that sold to you these silks, And thinks you'll pay for 'em, is strong enough To save the infidel part o' th' world or Antichrist.
+Bright.+ W' are most mechanically abused.
+New.+ Let's tear his jacket off.
+Bright.+ A match! take that side.
+Plot.+ Hold, hold!
+Bright.+ How frail a thing old velvet is! it parts With as much ease and willingness as two cowards.
and serge: But if he catch me in such paltry stuffs, To make me look like one that lets out money, Let him say, "Timothy was born a fool." Before he went, he made me do what he list; Now he's abroad, I'll do what I list. What Are these two? Gentlemen?
+Plot.+ You see they wear Their heraldry.
+Tim.+ But I mean, can they roar, Beat drawers, play at dice, and court their mistress? I mean forthwith to get a mistress?
+Plot.+ But How comes this, Master Timothy? you did not Rise such a gallant this morning.
+Bright.+ Your servant, sir.
+New.+ I shall be proud to know you.
+Tim.+ Sir, my knowledge Is not much worth. I'm born to a small fortune; Some hundred thousand pound, if once my father Held up his hands in marble, or kneel'd in brass. What are you? inns-of-court men?
+New.+ The catechism Were false, should we deny it.
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