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 the other,
And the old grey-beards now are close together,
Plotting in the garden. Is it 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 lovest ?
We'll first hang Envil1 in such rings of mist,
As never rose from any dampish fen;
I'll make the brinish 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.
But here comes Raymond disconsolate and sad;
And here comes the gallant must have his wench.
Enter RAYMOND MOUNCHENSEY, young JERNINGHAM, and young CLARE.
Jern. I prithee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps;
Revive thy spirits; thou that before hast been
More watchful than the day-proclaiming clock,
As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry
If aught in me may thy content procure,
It is thy own, thou mayest thyself assure.
Raym. 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 on 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.
Jern. If I understand thee, I am a villain :
What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend ?1
Fab. (to Jern.) You are the man, sir, must have Millisent. The match is making in the garden now;
Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men
Your fathers mean to launch their pursy bags.
But in mean time to thrust Mounchensey off,
For colour of this new intended match,
Fair Millisent to Cheston 2 must be sent,
To take the approbation of a Nun.
Ne'er look upon me, lad; the match is done.
Jern. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief
With the true feeling of a zealous friend.
And as for thy fair beauteous Millisent,
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'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 many a sad and weary summer's 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 Mounchensey, 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.
Raym. 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, and my free soul
Nor time nor death can by their power controul.
1 [Twenty-one lines omitted.].
Fab. Frank Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy;
And were he not my pupil, I would say,
He were as fine a metal'd Gentleman,
Of as free a spirit, and as fine a temper,
As any 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?
Cla. 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 into 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 get'st her, lad, God give thee joy.
Raym. 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 hath met.
I'll make my Spirits 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 milk-maids' cuts shall turn the wenches off,
And lay their dossers 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 hollow, cry, and call,
And none to other find the way at all.
Raym. Pursue the project, scholar; what we can do
To help endeavour, join our lives thereto.1
1 This scene has much of Shakspeare's manner in the sweetness and goodnaturedness of it. It seems written to make the Reader happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, [Temple Dramatists, ed. Walker, 1897.]
The Prioress of Cheston's charge to fair Millisent.
Jesus' daughter, Mary's child,
Holy matron, woman mild,
For thee a Mass shall still be said,
Every sister drop a bead;
And those again, succeeding them,
For you shall sing a Requiem.1
To her Father. May your soul be blithe, That so truly pay your tythe;
He, that many children gave,
"Tis fit that he one child should have.
To Millisent. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell,
For I must your duty tell.
First at mornings take your book,
The glass wherein yourself must look ;
Your young thoughts so proud and jolly
Must be turn'd to motions holy;
For your busk, attires, and toys,
Have your thoughts on heavenly joys:
And for all your follies past,
You must do penance, pray, and fast.
You shall ring the sacring bell,
Keep your hours, and tell
Rise at midnight to your matins,
Read your psalter, sing your Latins;
And when your blood shall kindle pleasure,
Scourge yourself in plenteous measure.
You must read the morning mass,
You must creep unto the cross,
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair-cloth for your bed,
Bind your beads, and tell your needs,
Your holy Aves and your Creeds;
Holy maid, this must be done,
If you mean to live a Nun.2
and noble, than the conversation and compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a "Saint in Essex;" and how sweetly his friend reminds him!-I wish it could be ascertained that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece: it would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native Earth; who has gone over her soil (in his Polyolbion) with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son; who has not left a rivulet (so narrow that it may be stept over) without honourable mention; and has animated Hills and Streams with life and passion above the dreams of old mythology.
2[See also "Serious Fragments," page 575.]
GREEN'S TU QUOQUE; OR, THE CITY GALLANT.
COMEDY [PUBLISHED 1614].
[FLOURISHED 1600]1
Men more niggardly of their love than women.
Thrice happy days they were, and too soon gone,
When as the heart was coupled with the tongue;
And no deceitful flattery, or guile,
Hung on the lover's tear-commixed smile.
Could women learn but that imperiousness,
By which men use to stint our happiness
(When they have purchas'd us for to be theirs
By customary sighs and forced tears),
To give us bits of kindness, lest we faint,
But no abundance; that we ever want,
And still are begging: which too well they know
Endears affection, and doth make it grow.
Had we those sleights, how happy were we then
That we might glory over love-sick men !
But arts we know not, nor have any skill
To feign a sour look to a pleasing will;
Nor couch a secret love in show of hate :
But, if we like, must be compassionate.2
How ruthless men are to adversity!
My acquaintance scarce will know me; when we meet
They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone;
And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them.
That which gilded over his imperfections,
Is wasted and consumed, even like ice,
Which by the vehemence of heat dissolves,
And glides to many rivers; so his wealth,
That felt a prodigal hand, hot in expense,
Melted within his gripe, and from his coffers
Ran like a violent stream to other men's.
[This play is not divided, see Dodsley, ed. Hazlitt, vol. xi., pp. 199, 272, 287.] "This is so like Shakspeare, that one seems almost to remember it as a speech of Desdemona's, upon perceiving an alteration in the behaviour of the Moor.
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