Max. I thank ye, fathers;
A Synnet, with Trumpets: A Banquet prepared, with music.
Enter, in state, MAXIMUS, EUDOXIA, Gentlemen and Soldiers; then the three Senators, FULVIUS, LUCIUS, and SEMPRONIUS; Lictors bearing rods and axes before them.
Semp. Hail to thy imperial honour, sacred Cæsar! And from the old Rome take these wishes; You holy gods, that hitherto have held, As justice holds her balance, equal poised, This glory of our nation, this full Roman, And made him fit for what he is, confirm him! Look on this son, oh, Jupiter, our helper, And, Romulus, thou father of our honour, Preserve him like thyself, just, valiant, noble, A lover and encreaser of his people! Let him begin with Numa, stand with Cato, The first five years of Nero be his wishes, Give him the age and fortune of Emilius, And his whole reign, renew a great Augustus!
[4 Boy descends from the clouds, habited like one of the Graces, and sings.
Honour, that is ever living, Honour, that is ever giving,
Honour, that sees all, and knows Both the ebbs of man and flows; Honour, that rewards the best, Sends thee thy rich labour's rest: Thou hast studied still to please her, Therefore now she calls thee Casar. Chorus. Hail, hail, Cæsar, hail, and stand, And thy name out-live the land! Noble fathers, to his brows,
Bind this wreath with thousand vows!
[The Boy gives a wreath, which the Senators place on the head of MAXIMUS.
All. Stand to eternity!
And, as I rule, may it still grow or wither! Now, to the banquet; ye are all my guests; This day be liberal, friends; to wine we give it, And smiling pleasures. Sit, my queen of beauty. Fathers, your places. These are fair wars, soldiers, And thus I give the first charge to ye all. [Drinks, You are my second, sweet. To every cup,
I add unto the senate a new honour, And to the sons of Mars a donative.
God Lyæus, ever young, Ever honour'd, ever sung;
Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine, Let a river run with wine.
God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear!
Boy. Bellona's seed, the glory of old Rome, Envy of conquer'd nations, nobly come, And, to the fulness of your warlike noise, Let your feet move; make up this hour of joys. Come, come, I say; range your fair troop at large, And your high measure turn into a charge.
[A martial dance by the Soldiers, during which MAXIMUS falls back upon his couch.
Semp. The emperor's grown heavy with his wine. Afr. The senate stays, sir, for your thanks. Semp. Great Cæsar!
Eud. [Aside.] I have my wish!
Afr. Will't please your grace speak to him? Eud. Yes; but he will not hear, lords. Semp. Stir him, Lucius;
The senate must have thanks.
Luc. Your grace! sir! Cæsar!
Eud. Did I not tell you he was well? He's dead!
Semp. Dead?-Treason! guard the court! let no man pass! Soldiers, your Cæsar's murdered.
Nor arm the court; ye have his killer with ye, And the just cause, if ye can stay the hearing: I was his death! That wreath that made him Cæsar,
Sold. Cut her in thousand pieces! [They draw. Eud. Wise men would know the reason first.
Is that I wish for, Romans, and your swords The heavenliest way of death: Yet, soldiers,
(That was your empress once, and honour'd by ye) But so much time to tell ye why I kill'd him, And weigh my reasons well, if man be in you; Then, if ye dare, do cruelly condemn me.
Afr. Hear her, ye noble Romans! 'Tis a woman; A subject not for swords, but pity. Heaven,
If she be guilty of malicious murder,
Has given us laws to make example of her; If only of revenge, and blood hid from us, Let us consider first, then execute.
Semp. Speak, bloody woman!
Eud. Yes: This Maximus,
That was your Cæsar, lords, and noble soldiers,
(And if I wrong the dead, Heaven perish me, Or speak, to win your favours, but the truth!) Was to his country, to his friends, and Cæsar, A most malicious traitor.
Semp. Take heed, wonan.
Eud. I speak not for compassion. Brave Aëcius (Whose blest soul, if I lie, shall afflict me), The man that all the world loved, you adored, That was the master-piece of arms, and bounty, (Mine own grief shall come last) this friend of his, This soldier, this your right arm, noble Romans, By a base letter to the emperor,
Stuff'd full of fears, and poor suggestions, And by himself unto himself directed,
Was cut off basely, basely, cruelly!
Oh, loss! Oh, innocent! Can ye now kill me? And the poor stale, my noble lord, that knew not More of this villain, than his forced fears, Like one foreseen to satisfy, died for it:
There was a murder too, Rome would have blush'd at!
Was this worth being Cæsar? or my patience? Nay, his wife,
(By Heaven, he told it me in wine, and joy, And swore it deeply!) he himself prepared
To be abused. How? Let me grieve, not tell ye, And weep the sins that did it: And his end Was only me, and Cæsar: But me he lied in. These are my reasons, Romans, and my soul Tells me sufficient; and my deed is justice! Now, as I have done well or ill, look on me. Afr. What less could nature do? had we done,
Had we known this before? righteous;
And such a piece of justice Heaven must smile on !
Bend all your swords on me, if this displease ye, For I must kneel, and on this virtuous hand Seal my new joy and thanks.-Thou hast done truly.
Semp. Up with your arms; ye strike a saint else, Romans.
May'st thou live ever spoken our protector: Let's in, Rome yet has many noble heirs. And pray before we choose; then plant a Cæsar Above the reach of envy, blood, and murder ! Afr. Take up the body, nobly, to his urn, And may our sins and his together burn.
[Exeunt with the body. A dead march.
WE would fain please ye, and as fain be pleased; 'Tis but a little liking, both are eased; We have your money, and you have our ware, And, to our understanding, good and fair: For your own wisdom's sake, be not so mad To acknowledge ye have bought things dear and bad: Let not a brack i' th' stuff, or here and there The fading gloss, a general loss appear! We know ye take up worse commodities, And dearer pay, yet think your bargains wise;
We know, in meat and wine ye fling away More time and wealth, which is but dearer pay, And with the reckoning all the pleasure lost. We bid ye not unto repenting cost: The price is easy, and so light the play, That ye may new-digest it every day. Then, noble friends, as ye would choose a miss, Only to please the eye a while, and kiss, 'Till a good wife be got; so let this play Hold ye a while until a better may.
My poor state in my absence, how my servants, I dare, and must believe (else I should wrong ye) The best and worthiest.
Alice. As my woman's wit, sir, Which is but weak and crazy.
Val. But, good Alice,
Tell me how fares the gentle Cellidè, The life of my affection, since my travel, My long and lazy travel? Is her love still Upon the growing hand? does it not stop And wither at my years? has she not view'd And entertain'd some younger smooth behaviour, Some youth but in his blossom, as herself is? There lie my fears.
Alice. They need not; for, believe me, So well you have managed her, and won her mind, Even from her hours of childhood to this ripeness (And, in your absence, that by me enforced still), So well distill'd your gentleness into her, Observed her, fed her fancy, lived still in her, And, though Love be a boy, and ever youthful, And young and beauteous objects ever aim'd at, Yet here you have gone beyond Love, better'd Nature,
Made him appear in years, in grey years fiery, His bow at full bent ever. Fear not, brother; For though your body has been far off from her, Yet every hour your heart, which is your goodness, I have forced into her, won a place prepared too,
And willingly, to give it ever harbour;
Believe she is so much your's, and won by miracle, (Which is by age) so deep a stamp set on her
By your observances, she cannot alter. Were the child living now you lost at sea Among the Genoa gallies, what a happiness! What a main blessing!
Val. Oh, no more, good sister;
Touch no more that string, 'tis too harsh and
Val. A gentleman, I do assure myself, And of a worthy breeding, though he hide it. I found him at Valentia, poor and needy, Only his mind the master of a treasure:
I sought his friendship, won him by much violence, His honesty and modesty still fearing
To thrust a charge upon me. How I love him, He shall now know, where want and he hereafter Shall be no more companions. Use him nobly; It is my will, good sister; all I have
I make him free companion in, and partner, But only-
Alice. I observe you; hold your right there:
Love and high rule allow no rivals, brother. He shall have fair regard, and all observance. Enter HYLAS.
Hylas. You are welcome, noble sir. Val. What, Monsieur Hylas !
I'm glad to see your merry body well yet. Hylas. I'faith you're welcome home!
Val. None, but new men expected, such as you To breed new admirations. 'Tis my sister; [are, 'Pray you know her, sir.
Ilulas. With all my heart. Your leave, lady? Alice. You have it, sir. [They salute. Hylas. A shrewd smart touch! which does prognosticate [Aside.
A body keen and active: Somewhat old, But that's all one; age brings experience And knowledge to dispatch.-I must be better, And nearer in my service, with your leave sir, To this fair lady.
Val. What, the old 'Squire of Dames still? Hylas. Still the admirer of their goodness. With all my heart now, [Aside.
I love a woman of her years, a pacer, That, lay the bridle on her neck, will travel- Forty, and somewhat fulsome, is a fine dish; These young colts are too skittish.
But where's my blessed Cellide? Her slackness In visitation
Mary. Think not so, dear uncle ;
I left her on her knees, thanking the gods With tears and prayers.
Val. You have given me too much comfort. Mary. She will not be long from you. Hylas. Your fair cousin?
Val. It is so, and a bait you cannot balk, sir, If your old rule reign in you. You may know her. Hylas. A happy stock you have.-Right worthy The poorest of your servants vows his duty [lady, And obliged faith.
Mary. Oh, 'tis a kiss you would, sir; Take it, and tie your tongue up.
I do perceive now, a blind ass, a blockhead; For this is handsomeness, this that that draws us, Body and bones. Oh, what a mounted forehead, What eyes and lips, what every thing about her! How like a swan she swims her pace, and bears Her silver breasts! This is the woman, she, And only she, that I will so much honour As to think worthy of my love; all older idols I heartily abhor, and give to gunpowder, And all complexions besides hers, to gypsies.
Enter FRANCISCO at one door, and CELLIDE at another. Val. Oh, my dear life, my better heart! all Distresses in my travel, all misfortunes, [dangers, Had they been endless like the hours upon me, In this kiss had been buried in oblivion. How happy have you made me, truly happy!
Cel. My joy has so much over-master'd me, That, in my tears for your return- Val. Oh, dearest !-
My noble friend too? What a blessedness Have I about me now! how full my wishes Are come again! A thousand hearty welcomes I once more lay upon you! All I have, The fair and liberal use of all my servants To be at your command, and all the uses Of all within my power,-
Fran. (You're too munificent;
Nor am I able to conceive those thanks, sir- Val. You wrong my tender love now)-even my service;
Nothing excepted; nothing stuck between us And our entire affections, but this woman; This I beseech ye, friend-
Dull, old, and tedious: You are once more welcome As your own thoughts can make ye, and the same And so we'll in to ratify it. [ever:
Hylas. Hark ye, Valentine: Is Wild-Oats yet come over? Val. Yes, with me, sir.
Mary. How does he bear himself?
Val. A great deal better.
Why do you blush? The gentleman will do well. Mary. I should be glad on't, sir.
Val. How does his father?
Hylas. As mad a worm as e'er he was.
Val. I look'd for't;
Shall we enjoy your company?
Hylas. I'll wait on ye: Only a thought or two.
A dainty wench, a right one! A devil take it, What do I ail? to have fifteen now in liking! Enough, a man would think, to stay my stomach: But what's fifteen, or fifteen score, to my thoughts? And wherefore are mine eyes made, and have lights, But to increase my objects? This last wench Sticks plaguy close unto me; a hundred pound I were as close to her! If I loved now, As many foolish men do, I should run mad. [Erit
Laun. May it please your worship
Seb. Only to see my son; my son, good LaunYour master and my son! Body o' me, sir, [celot; No money, no more money, Monsieur Launcelot, Not a denier, sweet signior! Bring the person, The person of my boy, my boy Tom, Monsieur Thomas,
Or get you gone again! Du gata whee, sir! Bassa mi cu, good Launcelot! valetote! My boy, or nothing!
Laun. Then, to answer punctually,- Seb. I say to th' purpose.
Laun. Then I say to th' purpose; Because your worship's vulgar understanding
May meet me at the nearest: Your son, my master, Or Monsieur Thomas (for so his travel styles him), Through many foreign plots that virtue meets with, And dangers (I beseech you give attention) Is at the last arrived,
To ask your (as the Frenchman calls it sweetly) Benediction de jour en jour.
Seb. Sirrah, don't conjure me with your French Laun. Che ditt'a vous, monsieur ? [furies. Seb. Che doga vou, rascal!
Leave me your rotten language, and tell me plainly, And quickly, sirrah, lest I crack your French crown, What your good master means. I have maintain'd You and your monsieur, as I take it, Launcelot, These two years at your ditty vous, your jours! Jour me no more; for not another penny Shall pass my purse.
Laun. Your worship is erroneous; For, as I told you, your son Tom, or Thomas, My master and your son, is now arrived To ask you (as our language bears it nearest) Your quotidian blessing; and here he is in person.
Tho. Else certain I had perish'd with my rudeEre I had won myself to that discretion
I hope you shall hereafter find.
Seb. Humh, humh!
Discretion? is it come to that? the boy's spoil'd. Tho. Sirrah, you rogue, look for't! for I will make thee
Ten times more miserable than thou thought'st thyself
Before thou travell'dst: Thou hast told my father (I know it, and I find it) all my rogueries, By mere way of prevention, to undo me.
Laun. Sir, as I speak eight languages, I only Told him you came to ask his benediction, De jour en jour!
Tho. But that I must be civil,
I would beat thee like a dog.-Sir, howsoever The time I have misspent, may make you doubtful, Nay, harden your belief 'gainst my conversion- Seb. A pox o' travel, I say!
Tho. Yet, dear father,
Your own experience in my after-courses
Seb. Pr'ythee no more; 'tis scurvy! There's thy sister.
Undone, without redemption! he eats with picks; Utterly spoil'd, his spirit baffled in him! How have I sinn'd, that this affliction Should light so heavy on me? I have no more sons, And this no more mine own; no spark of nature Allows him mine now; he's grown tame. My grand curse
Hang o'er his head that thus transform'd thee: Travel!
I'll send my horse to travel next!-We, Monsieur! Now will my most canonical dear neighbours Say, I have found my son, and rejoice with me, Because he has mew'd his mad tricks off. I know
But I am sure this Monsieur, this fine gentleman, Will never be in my books like mad Thomas. I must go seek an heir; for my inheritance Must not turn secretary. My name and quality Have kept my land three hundred years in madness: An it slip now, may it sink! [Exit. Tho. Excellent sister,
I am glad to see thee well.—But where's my father? Dor. Gone discontent, it seems.
Tho. He did ill in it,
As he does all; for I was uttering
A handsome speech or two, I have been studying E'er since I came from Paris. How glad to see
Dor. I am gladder to see you (with more love too, I dare maintain it) than my father's sorry To see (as he supposes) your conversion; And I am sure he's vexed; nay, more, I know it; He has pray'd against it mainly: But it appears, sir, You had rather blind him with that poor opinion Than in yourself correct it. Dearest brother, Since there is in our uniform resemblance No more to make us two but our bare sexes, And since one happy birth produced us hither, Let one more happy mind
For o' my faith she will not see you, brother. Tho. Not see me? I'll-
Dor. Now you play your true self; How would my father love this! I'll assure you She will not see you; she has heard (and loudly) The gambols that you play'd since your departure. In every town you came, your several mischiefs, Your rouses and your wenches; all your quarrels, And the no-causes of 'em; these, I take it, Although she love you well, to modest ears, To one that waited for your reformation, To which end travel was propounded by her uncle, Must needs, and reason for it, be examined, And by her modesty and fear'd too light too, To file with her affections: You have lost her, For any thing I see, exiled yourself.
Tho. No more of that, sweet Doll; I will be Dor. But how long? [civil.
« PreviousContinue » |