This unseen thing, this thing of nought, indeed,
Or atom, call'd my Lordship, shined in me;
And yet thou mak'st thyself as little bold
To take such kindness, as becomes the age
And truth of our indissoluble love,
As our acquaintance sprang but yesterday;
Such is thy gentle and too tender spirit.
Clar. My lord, my want of courtship makes me
I should be rude; and this my mean estate
Meets with such envy and detraction,
Such misconstructions and resolv'd misdooms
Of my poor worth, that should I be advanced
Beyond my unseen lowness but one hair,
I should be torn in pieces by the spirits
That fly in ill-lung'd tempests thro' the world,
Tearing the head of virtue from her shoulders,
If she but look out of the ground of glory;
"Twixt whom, and me, and every worldly fortune,
There fights such sour and curst antipathy,
So waspish and so petulant a star,
That all things tending to my grace and good
Are ravish'd from their object, as I were
A thing created for a wilderness,
And must not think of any place with men.
The ancient Hebrew, clad with mysteries;
The learned Greek, rich in fit epithets,
Blest in the lovely marriage of pure words;
The Chaldee wise, the Arabian physical,
The Roman eloquent, and Tuscan grave,
The braving Spanish, and the smooth-tongued
Fellows both, both twins, but so unlike
As birth to death, wedding to funeral:
For this that rears himself in buskins quaint,
Is pleasant at the first, proud in the midst,
Stately in all, and bitter death at end.
That in the pumps doth frown at first acquaintance,
Trouble the midst, but in the end concludes
Closing up all with a sweet catastrophe.
This grave and sad, distained with brinish tears:
That light and quick, with wrinkled laughter painted:
This deals with nobles, kings, and emperors,
Full of great fears, great hopes, great enterprizes;
This other trades with men of mean condition,
His projects small, small hopes, and dangers little :
This gorgeous, broider'd with rich sentences;
That fair, and purfled round with merriments.
Both vice detect, and virtue beautify,
By being death's mirror, and life's looking-glass.
THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON.
MILLISENT, the fair daughter of CLARE, was betrothed, with the consent of her parents, to RAYMOND, son of MOUNCHENSEY; but the elder MOUNCHENSEY, being since fallen in his fortunes, CLARE revokes his consent, and plots a marriage for his daughter with the rich heir of JERNINGHAM. PETER FABEL, a good magician, who had been Tutor to young RAYMOND MOUNCHENSEY at College, determines by the aid of his art to assist his pupil in obtaining fair MILLISENT.
Fab. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill,
That for thy bounty, and thy royal parts,
Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn;
It has been ascribed without much proof to Shakspeare, and
And after all these promises my 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 Envil* in such rings of mist,
As never rose from any dampish fen;
I'll make the brined 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 crossed; but if we be,
He shall cross the devil that but crosses me.
But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad;
And here the gallant that 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 cock, 30
As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry
If aught in me may thy content procure,
It is thy own, thou mayst 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
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 thee understand I am a villain :
What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend?
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 th' 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* 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 fair and beauteous Millisent,
With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber 20 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 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've 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 control.
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, As free a spirit, and as fine a temper, As any is in England; and he's 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 have 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,
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