No More Learning

[_Enter a pageant of Darius, Alexander, etc. , being
phantoms. Exeunt_.

FAUSTUS: See, see, my gracious lord!

EMPEROR: Oh, wondrous sight!
Two spreading horns, most strangely fastened
Upon the head of young Benvolio!

BENVOLIO: Zounds, doctor, this is your villainy.

FAUSTUS: Oh, say not so, sir; the doctor has no skill
To bring before the royal emperor
The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander.
If Faustus do it, you are straight resolved
In bold Actaeon's shape to turn a stag.
And therefore, my lord, so please your majesty,
I'll raise a kennel of hounds shall hunt him so--
Ho, Belimoth, Argison, Asteroth!

BENVOLIO: Hold, hold! Good my lord, entreat for me!
'Sblood, I am never able to endure these torments.

EMPEROR: Let me entreat you to remove his horns;
He hath done penance now sufficiently.

FAUSTUS: Being that to delight your majesty with
mirth is all that I desire, I am content to remove
his horns (Mephistophilis _removes them_), and
hereafter, sir, look you speak well of scholars.


SCENE III. --_A wood_. BENVOLIO, MARTINO _and_ FREDERICK.

MARTINO: Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway thy thoughts
From this attempt against the conjurer.

BENVOLIO: Away! You love me not, to urge me thus.
Shall I let slip so great an injury,
When every servile groom jests at my wrongs,
And in their rustic gambols proudly say,
"Benvolio's head was graced with horns to-day? "
If you will aid me in this enterprise,
Then draw your weapons and be resolute.
If not, depart; here will Benvolio die,
But Faustus' death shall quit my infamy.

FREDERICK: Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may,
And kill that doctor, if he comes this way.
Close, close! The conjurer is at hand,
And all alone comes walking in his gown.
Be ready, then, and strike the peasant down.

BENVOLIO: Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home!
For horns he gave, I'll have his head anon!

[_Enter_ FAUSTUS.

No words; this blow ends all.
Hell take his soul! His body thus must fall.

[BENVOLIO _stabs_ FAUSTUS, _who falls_; BENVOLIO _cuts
off his head_.

FREDERICK: Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown
Made the grim monarchs of infernal spirits
Tremble and quake at his commanding charms?

MARTINO: Was this that damned head, whose art conspired
Benvolio's shame before the emperor?

BENVOLIO: Aye, that's the head, and there the body lies.
Justly rewarded for his villainies. [Faustus _rises_.
Zounds, the devil's alive again!

FREDERICK: Give him his head, for God's sake!

FAUSTUS: Nay, keep it; Faustus will have heads and hands,
Aye, all your hearts, to recompense this deed.
Then, wherefore do I dally my revenge?
Asteroth! Belimoth! Mephistophilis!

[_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHILIS, _and other_ DEVILS.

Go, horse these traitors on your fiery backs,
And mount aloft with them as high as Heaven;
Thence pitch them headlong to the lowest hell.
Yet stay, the world shall see their misery,
And hell shall after plague their treachery.
Go, Belimoth, and take this caitiff hence,
And hurl him in some lake of mud and dirt;
Take thou this other, drag him through the woods,
Amongst the pricking thorns and sharpest briars;
Whilst with my gentle Mephistophilis
This traitor flies unto some steepy rock
That rolling down may break the villain's bones.
Fly hence! Dispatch my charge immediately!

FREDERICK: He must needs go, that the devil drives.

[_Exeunt_ DEVILS _with their victims_.


FOOTNOTES:

[X]: Christopher Marlowe was born at Canterbury in February,
1564, the year of Shakespeare's birth. From the King's School he went
to Cambridge, at Corpus, and took his degree in 1583. For the next ten
years, he lived in London; a tavern brawl ended his career on June 1,
1593. During those ten years, when Greene and Nashe and Peele were
beginning to shape the nascent drama, and Shakespeare was serving his
apprenticeship, most of the young authors were living wild enough
lives, and none, according to tradition, wilder than Kit Marlowe;
who, nevertheless, was doing mightier work, work more pregnant with
promise than any of them, and infinitely greater in achievement; for
Shakespeare's tragedies were still to come. That "Tamburlaine the
Great," the first play of a lad of twenty-three, should have been crude
and bombastic is not surprising; that "The Tragical History of Dr.
Faustus" should have been produced by an author aged probably less than
twenty-five is amazing. The story is traditional; two hundred years
after Marlowe, Goethe gave it its most familiar setting (see Vol. XVI,
p. 362). But although some part of Marlowe's play is grotesque, there
is no epithet which can fitly characterise its greatest scenes except
"tremendous. " What may not that tavern brawl have cost the world!


ACT III

SCENE I. --FAUSTUS' _study. Enter_ WAGNER.

WAGNER: I think my master means to die shortly.
He has made his will, and given me his wealth, his
house, his goods, and store of golden plate, besides two
thousand ducats ready coined. I wonder what he means?
If death were nigh, he would not frolic thus. He's now
at supper with the scholars, where there's such cheer as
Wagner in his life ne'er saw the like. Here he comes;
belike the feast is ended.

[_Exit. Enter_ FAUSTUS; MEPHISTOPHILIS _follows_.

FAUSTUS: Accursed Faustus! Wretch, what hast thou done?
I do repent, and yet I do despair.
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast;
What shall I do to shun the snares of death?

MEPHISTOPHILIS: Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord!
Revolt, or I'll in piecemeal tear thy flesh!

FAUSTUS: I do repent I e'er offended him!
Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord
To pardon my unjust presumption;
And with my blood again I will confirm
The former vow I made to Lucifer.

MEPHISTOPHILIS: Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeigned heart,
Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift.

FAUSTUS: One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee:
Bring that fair Helen, whose admired worth
Made Greece with ten years' war afflict poor Troy;
Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow,
And keep my oath I made to Lucifer.

MEPHISTOPHILIS: This, or what else my Faustus may desire,
Shall be performed in twinkling of an eye.

[_Enter_ HELEN, _passing over the stage between two cupids_.

FAUSTUS: Was this the face that launched a thousand ships
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!

[_Kisses her_.

Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again!
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars:
Brighter art thou than naming Jupiter,
When he appeared to hapless Semele:
More lovely than the monarch of the sky,
In wanton Arethusa's azured arms!
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.


SCENE II. --_The same_. FAUSTUS. _Enter_ SCHOLARS.

FIRST SCHOLAR: Worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are changed!

FAUSTUS: Oh, gentlemen!

SECOND SCHOLAR: What ails Faustus?

FAUSTUS: Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived
with thee, then I had lived still; but now must die
eternally! Look, sirs; comes he not? Comes he not?

FIRST SCHOLAR: O my dear Faustus, what imports this fear?

THIRD SCHOLAR: 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; fear nothing.

FAUSTUS: A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both
body and soul.

SECOND SCHOLAR: Yet, Faustus, look up to Heaven, and
remember mercy is infinite.

FAUSTUS: But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned;
the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but
not Faustus. He must remain in hell for ever; hell, Oh,
hell for ever. Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus,
being in hell for ever?

SECOND SCHOLAR: Yet, Faustus, call on God.

FAUSTUS: On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! On God,
whom Faustus hath blasphemed! O my God, I would weep!
But the Devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood,
instead of tears! Yea, life, and soul! Oh, he stays
my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they
hold 'em, they hold 'em!

SCHOLARS: Who, Faustus?

FAUSTUS: Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen,
I gave them my soul for my cunning!

SECOND SCHOLAR: Oh, what may we do to save Faustus?

FAUSTUS: Talk not of me, but save yourselves and depart.

THIRD SCHOLAR: God will strengthen me; I will stay
with Faustus.

FIRST SCHOLAR: Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let
us into the next room and pray for him.

FAUSTUS: Aye, pray for me, pray for me; and what
noise soever you hear, come not unto me, for nothing
can rescue me.

SECOND SCHOLAR: Pray thou, and we will pray that
God may have mercy on thee.

FAUSTUS: Gentlemen, farewell. If I live till morning,
I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.

SCHOLARS: Faustus, farewell!

[_Exeunt_ SCHOLARS. _The clock strikes eleven_.

FAUSTUS: Oh, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair nature's eyes, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
_O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi_!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The Devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.
Oh, I'll leap up to heaven: who pulls me down?
See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ;
Yet will I call on Him. Oh, spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'Tis gone.
And see, a threatening arm, an angry brow!
Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of Heaven!
No?
Then will I headlong run into the earth;
Gape, earth! Oh, no, it will not harbour me.
Yon stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud,
That when you vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths,
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven.

[_The clock strikes the half hour_.

Oh, half the hour is past; 'twill all be past anon.
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pains;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved!
No end is limited to damned souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul,
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Oh, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast! All beasts are happy,
For when they die
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;
But mine must live still, and be plagued in hell.
Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.

[_The clock strikes twelve_.

It strikes! It strikes! Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
O soul, be changed into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!

[_Thunder. Enter_ DEVILS.

Oh, mercy, Heaven! Look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile!
Ugly hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books. O Mephistophilis!

[_Exeunt_ DEVILS _with_ FAUSTUS. _Enter_ CHORUS.

CHORUS: Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned Apollo's laurel-bough,
That sometime grew within this learned man.
Faustus is gone. Regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise,
Only to wonder at unlawful things,
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practice more than heavenly power permits.




MARTIAL[Y]




Epigrams, Epitaphs and Poems




_I. --Satiric Pieces and Epigrams_


He unto whom thou art so partial,
O reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it--
Post-obits rarely reach a poet. --_Byron_.


MARTIAL ON HIS WORK

Some things are good, some fair, but more you'll say
Are bad herein--all books are made that way!


FOOTNOTES:

[Y] Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis) was born at Bilbilis,
in Spain, about 40 A. D. He went to Rome when twenty-four, and by
attaching himself to the influential family of his fellow Spaniards,
Seneca and Lucan, won his first introduction to Roman society. The
earliest of his books which we possess celebrates the games associated
with the dedication of the Flavian amphitheatre, the Colosseum,
by Titus, in 80 A. D. Most of his other books belong to the reign
of Domitian, to whom he cringed with fulsome adulation. After a
residence in Rome during thirty-four years, he returned to Spain. He
died probably soon after 102 A. D. Martial's importance to literature
rests chiefly on two facts. He made a permanent impress upon the
epigram by his gift of concise and vigorous utterance, culminating
in a characteristically sharp sting; and he left in his verses, even
where they are coarsest, an extraordinarily graphic index to the
pleasure-loving and often corrupt society of his day. Martial had no
deep seriousness of outlook upon life; yet he had better things in
him than flippancy.
He wearied of his long career of attendance upon
patrons who requited him but shabbily; and with considerable taste
for rural scenery, he longed for a more open-air existence than was
attainable in Rome. Where he best exhibited genuine feeling was in his
laments for the dead and his affection for friends. With the exception
of the introductory piece from Byron, the verse translations here are
by Professor Wight Duff.


ON FREEDOM OF LANGUAGE

Strict censure may this harmless sport endure:
My page is wanton, but my life is pure.


THE AIM OF THE EPIGRAMS

My satire knoweth how to keep due bounds:
Sparing the sinner, 'tis the sin it rounds.


ON A SPENDTHRIFT

Castor on buying doth a fortune spend:
Castor will take to selling in the end!


TO A RECITER WHO BAWLED

Why wrap your throat with wool before you read?
_Our_ ears stand rather of the wool in need!


TO AN APOLOGETIC RECITER

Before you start your recitation,
You say your throat is sore:
Dear sir, we hear your explanation,
We don't want any more!


ANSWER TO A POETASTER

Pompilianus asks why I omit
To send him all the poetry that is mine;
The reason is that in return for it,
Pompilianus, thou might'st send me _thine_.


ON A PLAGIARIST

Paul buys up poems, and to your surprise,
Paul then recites them as his own:
And Paul is right; for what a person buys
Is his, as can by law be shown!


A LOVER OF OLD-FASHIONED POETRY

Vacerra likes no bards but those of old--
Only the poets dead are poets true!
Really, Vacerra--may I make so bold? --
It's not worth dying to be liked by _you_.


A GOOD RIDDANCE

Linus, you mock my distant farm,
And ask what good it is to me?
Well, it has got at least one charm--
When there, from Linus I am free!


HOW A WET SEASON HELPS THE ADULTERATION OF WINE

Not everywhere the vintage yield has failed,
Dear Ovid; copious rain has much availed.
Coranus has a hundred gallons good
For sale--_well watered_, be it understood.


THE SYSTEMATIC DINER-OUT

Philo declares he never dines at home,
And that is no exaggeration:
He has no place to dine in Rome,
If he can't hook an invitation.


THE LEGACY-HUNTER CONSIDERS A MARRIAGE _de Convenance_

Paula would like to marry me;
But I have no desire to get her.
Paula is old; if only she
Were nearer dead, I'd like it better!


WIDOWER AND WIDOW

Fabius buries all his wives:
Chrestilla ends her husbands' lives.
The torch which from the marriage-bed
They brandish soon attends the dead.
O Venus, link this conquering pair!
Their match will meet with issue fair,
Whereby for such a dangerous _two_
A single funeral will do!


THE IMPORTUNATE BEGGAR

'Tis best to grant me, Cinna, what I crave;
And next best, Cinna, is refusal straight.
Givers I like: refusal I can brave;
But you don't give--you only hesitate!


TO A FRIEND OVER-CAUTIOUS IN LENDING

A loan without security
You say you have not got for me;
But if I pledge my bit of land,
You have the money close at hand.
Thus, though you cannot trust your friend,
To cabbages and trees you lend.
Now _you_ have to be tried in court--
Get from my bit of land support!
Exiled, you'd like a comrade true--
Well, take my land abroad with you!


AN OLD DANDY

You wish, Laetinus, to be thought a youth,
And so you dye your hair.
You're suddenly a crow, forsooth:
Of late a swan you were!
You can't cheat all: there is a Lady dread
Who knows your hair is grey:
Proserpina will pounce upon your head,
And tear the mask away.


PATIENT AND DOCTOR

When I was ill you came to me,
Doctor, and with great urgency
A hundred students brought with you
A most instructive case to view.
The hundred fingered me with hands
Chilled by the blasts from northern lands;
Fever at outset had I none;
I have it, sir, now you have done!


APING ONE'S BETTERS

Torquatus owns a mansion sumptuous
Exactly four miles out of Rome:
Four miles out also Otacilius
Purchased a little country home.
Torquatus built with marble finely veined
His Turkish baths--a princely suite:
Then Otacilius at once obtained
Some kind of kettle to give heat!
Torquatus next laid out upon his ground
A noble laurel-tree plantation:
The other sowed a hundred chestnuts round--
To please a future generation.
And when Torquatus held the Consulate,
The other was a village mayor,
By local honours made as much elate
As if all Rome were in his care!
The fable saith that once upon a day
The frog that aped the ox did burst:
I fancy ere this rival gets his way,
He will explode with envy first!




_II. --Epitaphs_


ON A DEAD SLAVE-BOY

Dear Alcimus, Death robbed thy lord of thee
When young, and lightly now Labian soil
Veils thee in turf: take for thy tomb to be
No tottering mass of Parian stone which toil
Vainly erects to moulder o'er the dead.
Rather let pliant box thy grave entwine;
Let the vine-tendril grateful shadow shed
O'er the green grass bedewed with tears of mine.
Sweet youth, accept the tokens of my grief:
Here doth my tribute last as long as time.
When Lachesis my final thread shall weave,
I crave such plants above my bones may climb.


ON A LITTLE GIRL, EROTION

Mother Flaccilla, Fronto sire that's gone,
This darling pet of mine, Erotion,
I pray ye greet, that nor the Land of Shade
Nor Hell-hound's maw shall fright my little maid.
Full six chill winters would the child have seen
Had her life only six days longer been.
Sweet child, with our lost friends to guard thee, play,
And lisp my name in thine own prattling way.
Soft be the turf that shrouds her! Tenderly
Rest on her, earth, for she trod light on thee.




_III. --Poems on Friendship and Life_


A WORTHY FRIEND

If there be one to rank with those few friends
Whom antique faith and age-long fame attends;
If, steeped in Latin or Athenian lore,
There be a good man truthful at the core;
If one who guards the right and loves the fair,
Who could not utter an unworthy prayer;
If one whose prop is magnanimity,
I swear, my Decianus, thou art he.


A RETROSPECT

Good comrades, Julius, have we been,
And four-and-thirty harvests seen:
We have had sweetness mixed with sour;
Yet oftener came the happy hour.
If for each day a pebble stood,
And either black or white were hued,
Then, ranged in masses separate,
The brighter ones would dominate.
If thou wouldst shun some heartaches sore,
And ward off gloom that gnaws thy core,
Grapple none closely to thy heart:
If less thy joy, then less thy smart.


GIFTS TO FRIENDS ARE NOT LOST

A cunning thief may rob your money-chest,
And cruel fire lay low an ancient home;
Debtors may keep both loan and interest;
Good seed may fruitless rot in barren loam.
A guileful mistress may your agent cheat,
And waves engulf your laden argosies;
But boons to friends can fortune's slings defeat:
The wealth you give away will never cease.


ON MAKING THE BEST OF LIFE

Julius, in friendship's scroll surpassed by none,
If life-long faith and ancient ties may count,
Nigh sixty consulates by thee have gone:
The days thou hast to live make small amount.
Defer not joys them mayst not win from fate
Judge only what is past to be thine own.
Cares with a linked chain of sorrows wait.
Mirth tarries not; but soon on wing is flown.
With both hands hold it--clasped in full embrace,
Still from thy breast it oft will glide away!
To say, "I mean to live," is folly's place:
To-morrow's life comes late; live, then, to-day.


A DAY IN ROME

(First Century A. D. )

The first two hours Rome spends on morning calls,
And with the third the busy lawyer bawls.
Into the fifth the town plies varied tasks;
The sixth, siesta; next hour closing asks.
The eighth sees bath and oil and exercise;
The ninth brings guest on dining-couch who lies.
The tenth is claimed for Martial's poetry,
When you, my friend, contrive high luxury
To please great Caesar, and fine nectar warms
The mighty hand that knows a wine-cup's charms.
Eve is the time for jest: with step so bold
My muse dare not at morn great Jove behold.


BOREDOM, VERSUS ENJOYMENT

If you and I, dear Martial, might
Enjoy our days in Care's despite,
And could control each leisure hour,
Both free to cull life's real flower,
Then should we never know the halls
Of patrons or law's wearying calls,
Or troublous court or family pride;
But we should chat or read or ride,
Play games or stroll in porch or shade,
Visit the hot baths or "The Maid. "

Such haunts should know us constantly,
Such should engage our energy.
Now neither lives his life, but he
Marks precious days that pass and flee.
These days are lost, but their amount
Is surely set to our account.
Knowledge the clue to life can give;
Then wherefore hesitate to live?


THE HAPPY LIFE

The things that make a life of ease,
Dear Martial, are such things as these:
Wealth furnished not by work but birth,
A grateful farm, a blazing hearth,
No lawsuit, seldom formal dress;
But leisure, stalwart healthiness,
A tactful candour, equal friends,
Glad guests at board which naught pretends,
No drunken nights, but sorrow free,
A bed of joy yet chastity;
Sleep that makes darkness fly apace,
So well content with destined place,
Unenvious so as not to fear
Your final day, nor wish it near.


AT THE SEASIDE

Sweet strand of genial Formiae,
Apollinaris loves to flee
From troublous thought in serious Rome,
And finds thee better than a home.
Here Thetis' face is ruffled by
A gentle wind; the waters lie
Not in dead calm, but o'er the main
A peaceful liveliness doth reign,
Bearing gay yachts before a breeze
Cool as the air that floats with ease
From purple fan of damozel
Who would the summer heat dispel.
The angler need not far away
Seek in deep water for his prey--
Your line from bed or sofa throw,
And watch the captured fish below!
How seldom, Rome, dost thou permit
Us by such joys to benefit?
How many days can one long year
Credit with wealth of Formian cheer?
We, round whom city worries swarm,
Envy our lacqueys on a farm.
Luck to you, happy slaves, affords
The joys designed to please your lords!


THE POET'S FINAL RETREAT IN SPAIN

Mayhap, my Juvenal, your feet
Stray down some noisy Roman street,
While after many years of Rome
I have regained my Spanish home.
Bilbilis, rich in steel and gold,
Makes me a rustic as of old.
With easy-going toil at will
Estates of uncouth name I till.
Outrageous lengths of sleep I take,
And oft refuse at nine to wake.
I pay myself nor more nor less
For thirty years of wakefulness!
No fine clothes here--but battered dress,
The first that comes, snatched from a press!
I rise to find a hearth ablaze
With oak the nearest wood purveys.
This is a life of jollity:
So shall I die contentedly.




PHILIP MASSINGER[Z]




A New Way to Pay Old Debts


_Persons in the Play_

LOVELL, _an English lord_
SIR GILES OVERREACH, _a cruel extortioner_
WELLBORN, _a prodigal, nephew to Sir Giles_
ALLWORTH, _a young gentleman, page to_ Lord Lovell,
_stepson to_ Lady Allworth
MARRALL, _a creature of_ Sir Giles Overreach
WILLDO, _a parson_
LADY ALLWORTH, _a rich widow_
MARGARET, _Sir Giles's daughter_

_The scene is laid in an English county_


ACT I

SCENE I. --_A room in_ OVERREACH'S _house. Enter_ OVERREACH _and_
MARRALL.

OVERREACH: This varlet, Wellborn, lives too long to upbraid me
With my close cheat put on him. Will not cold
Nor hunger kill him?

MARRALL: I've used all means; and the last night I caused
His host, the tapster, to turn him out of doors;
And since I've charged all of your friends and tenants
To refuse him even a crust of mouldy bread.

OVERREACH: Persuade him that 'tis better steal than beg:
Then, if I prove he have but robbed a hen roost,
Not all the world shall save him from the gallows.

MARRALL: I'll do my best, sir.

OVERREACH: I'm now on my main work, with the Lord Lovell;
The gallant-minded, popular Lord Lovell.
He's come into the country; and my aims
Are to invite him to my house.

MARRALL: I see.
This points at my young mistress.

OVERREACH: She must part with
That humble title, and write honourable--
Yes, Marrall, my right honourable daughter,
If all I have, or e'er shall get, will do it.

[_Exit_ OVERREACH. _Enter_ WELLBORN.

MARRALL: Before, like you, I had outlived my fortunes,
A withe had served my turn to hang myself.
Is there no purse to be cut? House to be broken?
Or market-woman with eggs that you may murder,
And so dispatch the business?

WELLBORN: Here's variety,
I must confess; but I'll accept of none
Of all your gentle offers, I assure you.
Despite the rhetoric that the fiend has taught you,
I am as far as thou art from despair.
Nay, I have confidence, which is more than hope,
To live, and suddenly, better than ever.
Come, dine with me, and with a gallant lady.

MARRALL: With the lady of the lake or queen of fairies?
For I know it must be an enchanted dinner.

WELLBORN: With the Lady Allworth, knave.

MARRALL: Nay, now there's hope
Thy brain is cracked.

WELLBORN: Mark thee with what respect
I am entertained.

MARRALL: With choice, no doubt, of dog-whips!

WELLBORN: 'Tis not far off; go with me; trust thine
eyes.

MARRALL: I will endure thy company.

WELLBORN: Come along, then.

[_Exeunt. _


SCENE II. --_The country_. MARRALL _assures_ OVERREACH _that the plot
on_ WELLBORN _succeeds. The rich_ LADY ALLWORTH _has
feasted him and is fallen in love with him; he lives to
be a greater prey than ever to_ OVERREACH. _Angered at
the information_, OVERREACH, _who has himself attempted
in vain to see her, knocks his creature down, mollifying
him afterwards with gold_.


ACT II

SCENE I. --_A chamber in_ LADY ALLWORTH'S _house_. LOVELL _and_
ALLWORTH _discovered. Having heard of the mutual attachment
of_ MARGARET _and_ ALLWORTH, LORD LOVELL _has assured the
latter that he will help bring it to a successful issue,
and that neither the beauty nor the wealth of_ SIR GILES'S
_daughter shall tempt him to betray_ ALLWORTH'S _confidence.
Enter_ MARRALL, _and with him_ SIR GILES, _who from what
he has seen of their behaviour at a dinner given by him in_
LORD LOVELL'S _honour believes that_ LOVELL _wishes to marry_
MARGARET _and that_ LADY ALLWORTH _is enamoured of_ WELLBORN.
_To further this latter match and to prosecute new designs
against_ WELLBORN _he has lent him a thousand pounds_.

OVERREACH: A good day to my lord.

LOVELL: You are an early riser, Sir Giles.

OVERREACH: And reason, to attend your lordship.
Go to my nephew, Marrall.
See all his debts discharged, and help his worship
To fit on his rich suit.

[_Exit_ MARRALL

LOVELL: I have writ this morning
A few lines to my mistress, your fair daughter.

OVERREACH: 'Twill fire her, for she's wholly yours already.
Sweet Master Allworth, take my ring; 'twill carry
To her presence, I dare warrant you; and there plead
For my good lord, if you shall find occasion.
That done, pray ride to Nottingham; get a licence
Still by this token. I'll have it dispatched,
And suddenly, my lord, that I may say
My honourable, nay, right honourable daughter.

LOVELL: Haste your return.

ALLWORTH: I will not fail, my lord.

[_Exit. _

OVERREACH: I came not to make offer with my daughter
A certain portion; that were poor and trivial:
In one word, I pronounce all that is mine,
In lands, or leases, ready coin, or goods,
With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have
One motive to induce you to believe
I live too long, since every year I'll add
Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too.

LOVELL: You are a right kind father.

OVERREACH: You'll have reason
To think me such. How do you like this seat?
Would it not serve to entertain your friends?

LOVELL: A well-built pile; and she that's mistress of it,
Worthy the large revenue.

OVERREACH: She, the mistress?
It may be so for a time; but let my lord
Say only he but like it, and would have it,
I say ere long 'tis his.

LOVELL: Impossible.

OVERREACH: You do conclude too fast. 'Tis not alone
The Lady Allworth's lands; for these, once Wellborn's
(As, by her dotage on him, I know they will be),
Shall soon be mine. But point out any man's
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient
And useful for your lordship, and once more
I say aloud, they are yours.

LOVELL: I dare not own
What's by unjust and cruel means extorted:
My fame and credit are too dear to me.

OVERREACH: Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men's opinions as now.
All my ambition is to have my daughter
Right honourable; which my lord can make her:
And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young Lord Lovell, borne by her unto you,
I write _nil ultra_ to my proudest hopes.
I'll ruin the country to supply your waste:
The scourge of prodigals, want, shall never find you.

LOVELL: Are you not moved with the imprecations
And curses of whole families, made wretched
By these practices?

OVERREACH: Yes, as rocks are,
When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter
Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm,
Makes me insensible of remorse, or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.

LOVELL: I admire
The toughness of your nature.

OVERREACH: 'Tis for you,
My lord, and for my daughter I am marble.
My haste commands me hence: in one word, therefore,
Is it a match, my lord?

LOVELL: I hope that is past doubt now.

OVERREACH: Then rest secure; not the hate of all mankind,
Not fear of what can fall on me hereafter,
Shall make me study aught but your advancement
One storey higher: an earl! if gold can do it. [_Exit. _

LOVELL: He's gone; I wonder how the earth can bear
Such a portent! I, that have lived a soldier,
And stood the enemy's violent charge undaunted,
Am bathed in a cold sweat.


SCENE II. --_A chamber in_ SIR GILES'S _house. Enter_ WELLBORN _and_
MARRALL.

WELLBORN: Now, Master Marrall, what's the weighty secret
You promised to impart?

MARRALL: This only, in a word: I know Sir Giles
Will come upon you for security
For his thousand pounds; which you must not consent to.
As he grows in heat (as I'm sure he will),
Be you but rough, and say, he's in your debt
Ten times the sum upon sale of your land.
The deed in which you passed it over to him
Bid him produce: he'll have it to deliver
To the Lord Lovell, with many other writings,
And present moneys. I'll instruct you farther
As I wait on your worship.

WELLBORN: I trust thee.

[_Exeunt. Enter_ MARGARET _as if in anger, followed
by_ ALLWORTH.

MARGARET: I'll pay my lord all debts due to his title;
And when with terms not taking from his honour
He does solicit me, I shall gladly hear him:
But in this peremptory, nay, commanding way,
To appoint a meeting, and without my knowledge,
Shows a confidence that deceives his lordship.

ALLWORTH: I hope better, good lady.

MARGARET: Hope, sir, what you please; I have
A father, and, without his full consent,
I can grant nothing.

[_Enter_ OVERREACH, _having overheard_.

OVERREACH _(aside)_: I like this obedience.
But whatever my lord writes must and shall be
Accepted and embraced. (_Addressing_ Allworth. ) Sweet Master Allworth,
You show yourself a true and faithful servant.
How! frowning, Meg? Are these looks to receive
A messenger from my lord? In name of madness,
What could his honour write more to content you?

MARGARET: Why, sir, I would be married like your daughter,
Not hurried away in the night, I know not whither,
Without all ceremony; no friends invited,
To honour the solemmnity.