The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Collection Of Old English Plays, Vol. IV.
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Title: A Collection Of Old English Plays, Vol. IV.

Author: Editor: A.H. Bullen

Release Date: February 3, 2004 [EBook #10925]

Language: English

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A COLLECTION OF OLD ENGLISH PLAYS, VOL. IV

In Four Volumes


Edited by

A.H. BULLEN


1882-89.




CONTENTS:

Preface
Two Tragedies in One. By Robert Yarington
The Captives, or the Lost Recovered. By Thomas Heywood
The Costlie Whore.
Everie Woman in her Humor.
Appendix
Index
Footnotes



PREFACE.

The fourth and final volume of this Collection of Old Plays ought to
have been issued many months ago. I dare not attempt to offer any
excuses for the wholly unwarrantable delay.

In the preface to the third volume I stated that I hoped to be able to
procure a transcript of an unpublished play (preserved in Eg. MS. 1,994)
of Thomas Heywood. It affords me no slight pleasure to include this play
in the present volume. Mr. JEAVES, of the Manuscript Department of the
British Museum, undertook the labour of transcription and persevered to
the end. As I have elsewhere stated, the play is written in a detestable
hand; and few can appreciate the immense trouble that it cost Mr. JEAVES
to make his transcript. Where Mr. JEAVES' labours ended mine began; I
spent many days in minutely comparing the transcript with the original.
There are still left passages that neither of us could decipher, but
they are not numerous.

I may be pardoned for regarding the Collection with some pride. Six of
the sixteen plays are absolutely new, printed for the first time; and I
am speaking within bounds when I declare that no addition so substantial
has been made to the Jacobean drama since the days of Humphrey Moseley
and Francis Kirkman. _Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt_ has been styled by
Mr. Swinburne a "noble poem." Professor Delius urged that it should be
translated into German; and I understand that an accomplished scholar,
Dr. Gelbeke of St. Petersburg, has just completed an admirable
translation. Meanwhile the English edition[1] has been reproduced in
Holland.

In the original announcement of this Collection I promised a reprint of
_Arden of Feversham_ from the quarto of 1592; I also proposed to include
plays by Davenport, William Rowley, and Nabbes. After I had transcribed
_Arden of Feversham_ I determined not to include it in the present
series. It occurred to me that I should enhance the value of these
volumes by excluding such plays as were already accessible in modern
editions. Accordingly I rejected _Arden of Feversham, Sir John
Oldcastle, Patient Grissel_, and _The Yorkshire Tragedy_. The plays of
Davenport, William Rowley, and Nabbes were excluded on other grounds.
Several correspondents suggested to me that I should issue separately
the complete works of each of these three dramatists; and, not without
some misgivings, I adopted this suggestion.

I acknowledge with regret that the printing has not been as accurate as
I should have desired. There have been too many misprints, especially in
the first two volumes;[2] but in the eyes of generous and competent
readers these blemishes (trivial for the most part) will not detract
from the solid value of the Collection.

It remains that I should thank Mr. BERNARD QUARITCH, the most famous
bibliopole of our age (or any age), for the kind interest that he has
shewn in the progress of my undertaking. Of his own accord Mr. QUARITCH
offered to subscribe for one third of the impression,--an offer which I
gratefully accepted. I have to thank Mr. FLEAY for looking over the
proof-sheets of a great part of the present volume and for aiding me
with suggestions and corrections. To Dr. KOeHLER, librarian to the Grand
Duke of Weimar, I am indebted for the true solution (see _Appendix_) of
the rebus at the end of _The Distracted Emperor_. Mr. EBSWORTH, with his
usual kindness, helped me to identify some of the songs mentioned in
_Everie Woman in Her Humor_ (see _Appendix_).

17, SUMATRA ROAD, WEST HAMPSTEAD, N.W.

_8th October, 1885_.






INTRODUCTION TO _TWO TRAGEDIES IN ONE_.


Of Robert Yarington, the author of _Two Tragedies in One_ absolutely
nothing is known. There is no mention of him in Henslowe's Diary, and
none of his contemporaries (so far as I can discover) make the slightest
allusion to him. The _Two Tragedies_ is of the highest rarity and has
never been reprinted before.

There are two distinct plots in the present play. The one relates to the
murder of Robert Beech, a chandler of Thames Street, and his boy, by a
tavern-keeper named Thomas Merry; and the other is founded on a story
which bears some resemblance to the well-known ballad of _The Babes in
the Wood_. I have not been able to discover the source from which the
playwright drew his account of the Thames Street murder. Holinshed and
Stow are silent; and I have consulted without avail Antony Munday's
"View of Sundry Examples," 1580, and "Sundry strange and inhumaine
Murthers lately committed," 1591 (an excessively rare, if not unique,
tract preserved at Lambeth). Yet the murder must have created some stir
and was not lightly forgotten. From Henslowe's Diary[3] (ed. Collier,
pp. 92-3) we learn that in 1599 Haughton and Day wrote a tragedy on the
subject,--"the Tragedy of Thomas Merrye." The second plot was derived, I
suppose, from some Italian story; and it is not improbable that the
ballad of the _Babes in the Wood_ (which was entered in the
Stationers' Books in 1595, tho' the earliest printed copy extant is the
black-letter broadside--circ. 1640?--in the Roxburghe Collection) was
adapted from Yarington's play.

Although not published until 1601, the _Two Tragedies_ would seem from
internal evidence to have been written some years earlier. The language
has a bald, antiquated look, and the stage-directions are amusingly
simple. I once entertained a theory (which I cannot bring myself to
wholly discard) that _Arden of Feversham_, 1592, _Warning for Fair
Women_, 1599, and _Two Tragedies in One_, 1601, are all by the same
hand; that the _Warning_ and _Two Tragedies_, though published later,
were early essays by the author whose genius displayed its full power in
_Arden of Feversham_. A reader who will take the trouble to read the
three plays together will discover many points of similarity between
them. _Arden_ is far more powerful than the two other plays; but I
venture to think that the superiority lies rather in single scenes and
detached passages than in general dramatic treatment. The noble scene of
the quarrel and reconciliation between Alice Arden and Mosbie is
incomparably finer than any scene in the _Warning_ or _Two Tragedies_;
but I am not sure that Arden contains another scene which can be
definitely pronounced to be beyond Yarington's ability, though there are
many scattered passages displaying such poetry as we find nowhere in the
_Two Tragedies_. That Yarington could write vigorously is shown in the
scene where Fallerio hires the two murderers (who remind us of Shagbag
and Black Will in _Arden_) to murder his nephew; and again in the
quarrel between these two ruffians. Allenso's affection for his little
cousin and solicitude at their parting are tenderly portrayed with
homely touches of quiet pathos. The diction of the _Two Tragedies_ is
plain and unadorned. In reading _Arden_ we sometimes feel that the
simplicity of language has been deliberately adopted for artistic
purposes; that the author held plenty of strength in reserve, and would
not have been wanting if the argument had demanded a loftier style. In
Yarington's case we have no such feeling. He seems to be giving us the
best that he had to give; and it must be confessed that he is
intolerably flat at times. It is difficult to resist a smile when the
compassionate Neighbour (in his shirt), discovering poor Thomas
Winchester with the hammer sticking in his head, delivers himself after
this fashion:--

    "What cruell hand hath done so foule a deede,
    Thus to bemangle a distressed youth
    Without all pittie or a due remorse!
    See how the hammer sticketh in his head
    Wherewith this honest youth is done to death!
    Speak, honest _Thomas_, if any speach remaine:
    What cruell hand hath done this villanie?"

Merry's "last dying speech and confession" is as nasty as such things
usually are.

In the introduction to _Arden of Feversham_ I intend to return to the
consideration of Yarington's _Two Tragedies_.




Two Lamentable Tragedies.


The one, of the Murther of _Maister_ Beech A _Chaundler in_
Thames-streete, and his boye, done by _Thomas Merry_.

_The other of a Young childe murthered_ in a Wood by two Ruffins, _with
the consent of his Vnckle_.

By ROB. YARINGTON.

LONDON.

Printed for _Mathew Lawe, and are to be solde at _his Shop in Paules
Church-yarde neere vnto S. Austines Gate, at the signe of the Foxe_.
1601.




Two Tragedies in One.


    _Enter Homicide, solus_.

I have in vaine past through each stately streete,
And blinde-fold turning of this happie towne,
For wealth, for peace, and goodlie government,
Yet can I not finde out a minde, a heart
For blood and causelesse death to harbour in;
They all are bent with vertuous gainefull trade,
To get their needmentes for this mortall life,
And will not soile their well-addicted harts
With rape, extortion, murther, or the death
Of friend or foe, to gaine an Empery.
I cannot glut my blood-delighted eye
With mangled bodies which do gaspe and grone,
Readie to passe to faire Elizium,
Nor bath my greedie handes in reeking blood
Of fathers by their children murthered:
When all men else do weepe, lament and waile,
The sad exploites of fearefull tragedies,
It glads me so, that it delightes my heart,
To ad new tormentes to their bleeding smartes.

    _Enter Avarice_.

But here comes _Avarice_, as if he sought,
Some busie worke for his pernicious thought:
Whether so fast, all-griping _Avarice_?

_Ava_. Why, what carst thou? I seeke for one I misse.

_Ho_. I may supplie the man you wish to have.

_Ava_. Thou seemes to be a bold audatious knave;
I doe not like intruding companie,
That seeke to undermine my secrecie.

_Ho_. Mistrust me not; I am thy faithfull friend.

_Ava_. Many say so, that prove false in the end.

_Ho_. But turne about and thou wilt know my face.

_Ava_. It may be so, and know thy want of grace.
What! _Homicide_? thou art the man I seeke:
I reconcile me thus upon thy cheeke.    [_Kisse, imbrace_.
Hadst thou nam'd blood and damn'd iniquitie,
I had forborne to bight so bitterlie.

_Hom_. Knowst thou a hart wide open to receive,
A plot of horred desolation?
Tell me of this, thou art my cheefest good,
And I will quaffe thy health in bowles of blood.

_Ava_. I know two men, that seem two innocents,
Whose lookes, surveied with iuditiall eyes,
Would seeme to beare the markes of honestie;
But snakes finde harbour mongst the fairest flowers,
Then never credit outward semblaunces.

    _Enter[4] Trueth_.

I know their harts relentlesse, mercilesse,
And will performe through hope of benefit:
More dreadfull things then can be thought upon.

_Hom_. If gaine will draw, I prethy then allure
Their hungrie harts with hope of recompence,
But tye dispaire unto those mooving hopes,
Unleast a deed of murther farther it,
Then blood on blood, shall overtake them all,
And we will make a bloodie feastivall.

_Cove_. The plots are laide, the keyes of golden coine,
Hath op'd the secret closets of their harts.
Inter [_sic_], insult, make captive at thy will,
Themselves, and friends, with deedes of damned ill:
Yonder is _Truth_, she commeth to bewaile,
The times and parties that we worke upon.

_Hom_. Why, let her weepe, lament and morne for me,
We are right bred of damn'd iniquitie,
And will go make a two-folde Tragedie.
                                         [_Exeunt_.

_Truth_. Goe you disturbers of a quiet soule,
Sad, greedy, gaping, hungrie _Canibals_,
That ioy to practise others miseries.
Gentles, prepare your teare-bedecked eyes,
To see two shewes of lamentation,
Besprinckled every where with guiltlesse blood,
Of harmlesse youth, and pretie innocents.
Our Stage doth weare habilliments of woe,
_Truth_ rues to tell the truth of these laments:
The one was done in famous London late,
Within that streete whose side the River Thames
Doth strive to wash from all impuritie:
But yet that silver stream can never wash,
The sad remembrance of that cursed deede,
Perform'd by cruell _Merry_ on iust _Beech_,
And his true boye poore _Thomas Winchester_.
The most here present, know this to be true:
Would _Truth_ were false, so this were but a tale!
The other further off, but yet too neere,
To those that felt and did the crueltie:
Neere _Padua_ this wicked deed was done,
By a false Uncle, on his brothers sonne,
Left to his carefull education
By dying Parents, with as strict a charge
As ever yet death-breathing brother gave.
Looke for no mirth, unlesse you take delight,
In mangled bodies, and in gaping wounds,
Bloodily made by mercy-wanting hands.
Truth will not faine, but yet doth grieve to showe,
This deed of ruthe and miserable woe.

                                           [_Exit_.



[ACT THE FIRST.]

[SCENE I.]


    _Enter Merry_.

I live in meane and discontented state,
But wherefore should I think of discontent?
I am belov'd, I have a pretty house,
A loving sister, and a carefull man,
That doe not thinke their dayes worke well at end,
Except it bring me in some benefit:
And well frequented is my little house
With many guestes and honest passengers,

    _Enter Beech and a friend_.

Which may in time advance my humble state
To greater wealth and reputation.
And here comes friends to drinke some beare or ale;    [_Sit in his Shop_.
They are my neighbours, they shall have the best.

_Ne_. Come neighbour _Beech_, lets have our mornings draught
And wele go drinke it at yong _Merries_ house:
They say he hath the best in all this towne,
Besides they say he is an honest man,
And keepes good rule and orders in his house.

_Beech_. He's so indeede; his conversation
Is full of honest harmlesse curtesie:
I dare presume, if that he be within,
Hele serve us well, and keepe us company.
See where he is, go in, ile follow you;    [_Strive curtesies_.
Nay straine no curtesie, you shall goe before.

_Mer_. Your welcome, neighbour, you are welcome, sir;
I praie sit downe, your verie welcome both.

_Beech_. We thanke you for it, and we thinke no lesse.
Now fill two cans of your ould strongest beare;
That make so manie loose their little wits,
And make indentures as they go along.

_Mer_. Hoe, sister _Rachell_!

_Rach_.                      I come presently,

    _Enter Rachell_.

_Mer_. Goe draw these gentlemen two cans of beare.
Your negligence that cannot tend the shop,
Will make our customers forsake the house.
Wheres _Harry Williams_ that he staies not here?

_Rach_. My selfe was busie dressing up the house:
As for your man he is not verie well,
But sitteth sleeping by the kitchen fier.

_Mer_. If you are busie, get you up againe;    [_Exit_.
Ile draw my neighbours then their drinke my selfe,
Ile warrant you as good as any mans,--
And yet no better; many have the like.
                                     [_Exit for Beare_.

_Neigh_. This showes him for a plain and honest man,
That will not flatter with too many wordes;
Some shriltong'd fellowes would have cogd and faind,
Saying, ile draw the best in Christendome.

_Beech_. Hees none of those, but beares an honest minde,
And shames to utter what he cannot prove.

    _Enter Merry_.

But here he comes: is that the best you have?

_Mer_. It is the best upon mine honest worde.

_Beech_. Then drinke to us.

_Mer_.                      I drinke unto you both.

_Nei_. _Beech_. We pledge you both, and thanke you hartelie.

_Beech_. Heres to you sir.

_Neigh_.                   I thank you.

      [_Maister Beech drinkes; drinke Neighbour_.

_Neigh_. Tis good indeed and I had rather drinke
Such beare as this as any _Gascoine_ Wine:
But tis our _English_ manner to affect
Strange things, and price them at a greater rate,
Then home-bred things of better consequence.

_Mer_. Tis true indeede; if all were of your mind,
My poore estate would sooner be advanc'd,
And our French Marchants seeke some other trade.

_Beech_. Your poore estate! nay, neighbour, say not so,
For God be thanked you are well to live.

_Mer_. Not so good neighbour, but a poore young man,
That would live better if I had the meanes:
But as I am I can content myselfe,
Till God amend my poore abilitie.

_Neigh_. In time no doubt; why, man, you are but young,
And God, assure your selfe, hath wealth in store,
If you awaight his will with patience.

_Beech_. Thankes be to God I live contentedlie,
And yet I cannot boast of mightie wealth:
But yet Gods blessings have beene infinit,
And farre beyond my expectations.
My shop is stor'd, I am not much in debt;
And here I speake it where I may be bold,
I have a score of poundes to helpe my neede,
If God should stretch his hand to visit me
With sicknesse or such like adversity.

_Neigh_. Enough for this; now, neighbour, whats to pay?

_Mer_. Two pence, good sir.

_Beech_.                    Nay, pray, sir, forbeare;
Ile pay this reckoning, for it is but small.

_Neigh_. I will not strive since yee will have it so.

_Beech_. Neighbour, farewell.

                             [_Exit Beech and Neigh_.

_Mer_. Farewell unto you both.
His shop is stor'd, he is not much in debt,
He hath a score of poundes to helpe his neede:
I and a score too if the trueth were known.
I would I had a shop so stor'd with wares,
And fortie poundes to buy a bargain with,
When as occasion should be offered me;
Ide live as merrie as the wealthiest man
That hath his being within London walles.
I cannot buy my beare, my bread, my meate,
My fagots, coales, and such like necessaries,
At the best hand, because I want the coine,
That manie misers cofer up in bagges,
Having enough to serve their turnes besides.
Ah for a tricke to make this _Beeches_ trash
Forsake his cofer and to rest in mine!
I, marrie, sir, how may that tricke be done?
Marrie, with ease and great facilitie.
I will invent some new-found stratagem,
To bring his coyne to my possession.
What though his death relieve my povertie?
Gaine waites on courage, losse on cowardice.

                                     [_Exit_.



[SCENE II.]


    _Enter Pandino and Armenia sicke on a bed, Pertillo
    their Sonne, Falleria his Brother, Sostrato his Wife,
    Alinso their Sonne, and a Scrivener with a Will, &c_.

_Pan_. Brother and sister, pray you both drawe neere,
And heere my will which you have promised
Shall be performde with wished providence.
This little Orphant I must leave behinde,
By your direction to be governed.
As for my wife and I, we do awaite
The blessed houre when it shall please the Lord,
To take us to the iust _Ierusalem_.
Our chiefest care is for that tender boye,
Which we should leave discomfortlesse behinde,
But that we do assure us of your love
And care to guide his weake unhable youth
In pathes of knowledge, grace, and godlinesse.
As for the riches of this mortall life,
We leave enough; foure hundreth pounds a yeare,
Besides two thousand pounds to make a stocke,
In money, iewels, plate, and houshold stuffe,--
Which yearly rents and goods we leave to you,
To be surrendered into his hands,
When he attaines to yeeres of discreation.
My Will imports thus much, which you shall heare;
And you shall be my sole Executor.

_Fall_. Brother and sister, how my hart laments
To see your weake and sicke afflicted limmes
Neere overcome with dyrefull malladies,
The God of heaven can truly testifie,--
Which, to speake plaine, is nere a whit at all--
                               [_To the people_.
Which knowes the secret corners of my heart;
But for the care you do impose on me,
For the tuition of your little sonne,
Thinke, my kinde brother, I will meditate,
Both day and night, how I may best fulfill,
The care and trust, reposed in your Will,--
And see him posted quickly after you.    [_To the people_.

_Arm_. Enough, kinde brother; we assure us so,
Else would we seeke another friend abroade,
To do our willes and dying Testament.
Nature and love will have a double care
To bring him up with carefull diligence,
As best beseemes one of such parentage.

_Fall_. Assure your selfe, the safest course I can,
Shall be provided for your little sonne,--
He shall be sent unto the King of Heaven.    [_To the people_.

_Sostr_. Feare not, good brother, and my loving sister,
But we will have as tender care of him
As if he were our owne ten thousand times:
God will be father of the fatherlesse,
And keepe him from all care and wretchednesse.

_Allenso_. Unckle and Aunt take comfort, I will see
My little coozen have no injurie.

_Pan_. _Ar_. We thanke you all, come let the Will be read,

_Fall_.--If it were seald, I would you both were dead.

_Scrive_. Then give attention, I will read the Will.
    _Reade the Will.
In the name of God. Amen.--I, &c_.

_Pan_. Thus, if my Sonne miscarry, my deare brother,
You and your sonne shall then enjoy the land
And all the goods which he should have possess'd.

_Fall_. If he miscarry, brother! God forbid!
God blesse mine Nephew, that thine eyes may see
Thy childrens children with prosperity!
I had rather see the little urchin hang'd    [_To the people_.
Then he should live and I forgoe the land.

_Ar_. Thankes, gentle brother; husband seale the will.

_Pand_. Give me a Pen and Inke first to subscribe;
I write so ill through very feeblenesse,
That I can scarcely know this hand for mine,
But that you all can witnesse that it is.

_Scri_. Give me the seale: I pray, sir, take it of.
This you deliver for your latest will,
And do confirme it for your Testament?

_Pand_. With all my hart; here, brother, keepe my Will,
And I referre me to the will of God,
Praying him deale as well with you and yours,
As you no doubt will deale with my poore child.
Come, my _Pertillo_, let me blesse thee, boy,
And lay my halfe-dead hand upon thy head.
God graunt those days that are cut off in me,
With ioy and peace may multiply in thee.
Be slowe to wrath, obey thy Unckle still,
Submit thy selfe unto Gods holy will,
In deede and word see thou be ever true;
So brother, childe, and kinsfolkes, all adue.    [_He dyeth_.

_Per_. Ah my deere Mother, is my father dead?

_Ar_. I, my sweete boye, his soule to heaven is fled,
But I shall after him immediatly.
Then take my latest blessing ere I dye:
Come, let me kisse thy little tender lips,
Cold death hath tane possession of thy mother;
Let me imbrace thee in my dying armes,
And pray the Lord protect thee from al harmes.
Brother, I feare, this Child when I am gone,
Wil have great cause of griefe and hideous feare:
You will protect him, but I prophecie,
His share will be of woe and misery:
But mothers feares do make these cares arise;
Come, boye, and close thy mothers dying eyes.
Brother and sister, here [_sic_] the latest words,
That your dead sister leaves for memory:
If you deale ill with this distressed boye,
God will revenge poore orphants iniuries,
If you deale well, as I do hope you will,
God will defend both you and yours from ill.
Farewell, farewell, now let me breath my last,
Into his dearest mouth, that wanteth breath,
And as we lov'd in life imbrace in death.
Brother and sister this is all I pray,
Tender my boye when we are laide in clay.    [_Dyeth_.

_Allen_. Gods holy Angell guide your loving soules
Unto a place of endlesse happinesse.

_Sostr_. Amen, Amen. Ah, what a care she had
Of her small Orphant! She did dying pray,
To love her Childe when she was laide in claye.

_Scr_. Ah blame her not although she held it deare;
She left him yonge, the greater cause of feare.

_Fall_. Knew she my mind, it would recall her life,    [_To the people_.
And like a staring Commet she would moove
Our harts to think of desolation.--
Scrivenor, have you certified the Will?

_Scri_. I have.

_Fall_. Then theres two Duckets for your paines.

_Scri_. Thankes, gentle sir, and for this time farewell.
                                                 [_Exit_.

_Sost_. Come pretty coozen, cozened by grim death
Of thy most carefull parents all too soone;
Weepe not, sweete boye, thou shalt have cause to say,
Thy Aunt was kinde, though parents lye in claye.

_Pert_. But give me leave first to lament the losse,
Of my deere parents, nature bindeth me,
To waile the death of those that gave me life,
And if I live untill I be a man,
I will erect a sumptuous monument,
And leave remembrance to ensuing times
Of kind _Pandino_ and _Armenia_.

_Allen_. That shall not neede; my father will erect
That sad memoriall of their timeles[5] death,
And at that tombe we will lament and say
Soft lye the bones of faire _Armenia_.

_Fall_. Surcease,_ Allenso_; thats a booteless cost,
The Will imports no such iniunction:
I will not spend my little Nephewes wealth,
In such vaine toyes; they shall have funerall,
But with no stately ceremoniall pompe,
Thats good for nought but fooles to gase uppon.
Live thou in hope to have thine unckles land.

_Allen_. His land! why, father, you have land enough,
And more by much then I do know to use:
I would his vertues would in me survive,
So should my Unckle seeme in me alive.
But to your will I doe submit my selfe;
Do what you please concerning funeralls.

_Fall_. Come then, away, that we may take in hand,
To have possession of my brothers land,
His goods and all untill he come of age
To rule and governe such possessions.--
That shalbe never, or ile misse my marke,
Till I surrender up my life to death:
And then my Sonne shalbe his fathers heire,
And mount aloft to honors happy chaire.

                            [_Exeunt omnes_.



[SCENE III.]


    _Enter Merry, solus_.

_Beech_ hath a score of pounds to helpe his neede,
And I may starve ere he will lend it me:
But in dispight ile have it ere I sleepe,
Although I send him to eternall rest.
But, shallow foole, thou talkst of mighty things,
And canst not compasse what thou dost conceive.
Stay, let me see, ile fetch him to my house,
And in my garret quickly murther him:
The night conceales all in her pitchie cloake,
And none can open what I meane to hide.
But then his boy will say I fetcht him foorth:
I am resolv'd he shall be murthered to [_sic_];
This toole shall write, subscribe, and seale their death
And send them safely to another world.
But then my sister, and my man at home,
Will not conceale it when the deede is done.
Tush, one for love, the other for reward,
Will never tell the world my close intent.
My conscience saith it is a damned deede
To traine one foorth, and slay him privily.
Peace, conscience, peace, thou art too scripulous [_sic_];
Gaine doth attend[6] this resolution.
Hence, dastard feare! I must, I can, I will,
Kill my best friend to get a bag of gold.
They shall dye both, had they a thousand lives;
And therefore I will place this hammer here,
And take it as I follow _Beech_ up staires,
That suddenlie, before he is aware,
I may with blowes dash out his hatefull braines.--
Hoe, _Rachell_, bring my cloake; look to the house,
I will returne againe immediately.

_Rach_. Here it is brother, I pray you stay not long;
Guesse[7] will come in, 'tis almost supper time.
                                           [_Ex. Ra_.

_Mer_. Let others suppe, ile make a bloudier feast
Then ever yet was drest in _Merryes_ house.
Be like thy selfe then, have a merrie hart,
Thou shalt have gold to mend thy povertie,
And after this live ever wealthilie.

    _Then Merry must passe to Beeches shoppe,
    who must sit in his shop, and Winchester
    his boy stand by: Beech reading_.

What, neighbour _Beech_, so godly occupied?

_Beech_. I, maister _Merry_; it were better reade,
Then meditate on idle fantasies.

_Mer_. You speake the trueth; there is a friend or two
Of yours making merry in my house,
And would desire to have your company.

_Beech_. Know you their names?

_Mer_. No truely, nor the men.
I never stoode to question them of that,
But they desire your presence earnestlie.

_Beech_. I pray you tell them that I cannot come,
Tis supper time, and many will resort
For ware at this time, above all other times;
Tis Friday night besides, and Bartholomew eve,
Therefore good neighbour make my just excuse.

_Mer_. In trueth they told me that you should not stay,
Goe but to drinke, you may come quick againe,--
But not and if my hand and hammer hold.    [_(To the) people_.

_Beech_. I am unwilling, but I do not care,
And if I go to see the Company.

_Mer_. Come quickly then, they think we stay too long.

_Beech_. Ile cut a peece of cheese to drink withall.

_Mer_. I, take the farewell of your cutting knife,
Here is a hand shall helpe to cut your throate,
And give my selfe a fairing[8] from your chest.--
What are you ready, will you goe along?

_Beech_. I, now I am; boy, looke you tend the shoppe;
If any aske, come for me to the _Bull_.
I wonder who they are that aske for me.

_Mer_. I know not that, you shall see presentlie.
Goe up those staires, your friends do stay above.--
Here is that friend shall shake you by the head,
And make you stagger ere he speake to you.

    _Then being in the upper Rome Merry strickes
    him in the head fifteene times_.

Now you are safe, I would the boy were so;
But wherefore wish I, for he shall not live?
For if he doe, I shall not live myselfe.

            [_Merry wiped [sic] his face from blood_.

Lets see what mony he hath in his purse.
Masse heres ten groates, heres something for my pains.
But I must be rewarded better yet.

    _Enter Rachell and Harry Williams_.

_Wil_. Who was it, _Rachell_, that went up the staires?

_Rach_. It was my brother, and a little man
Of black complexion, but I know him not.

_Wil_. Why do you not then carry up a light,
But suffer them to tarry in the darke?

_Rach_. I had forgot, but I will beare one up.    [_Exit up_.

_Wil_. Do so, I prethee; he will chide anon.    [_Exit_.

    [_Rachell speaketh to her Brother_.

_Rach_. Oh brother, brother, what have you done?

_Mer_. Why, murtherd one that would have murtherd me.

_Rach_. We are undone, brother, we are undone.
What shall I say, for we are quite undone?

_Mer_. Quiet thy selfe, sister; all shalbe well.
But see in any case you do not tell,
This deede to _Williams_ nor to any one.

_Rach_. No, no, I will not; was't not maister _Beech_?

_Mer_. It was, it is, and I will kill his man,    [_Exit Rach_.
Or in attempting doe the best I can.

    _Enter Williams and Rachell_.

_Wil_. What was the matter that you cride so lowde?

_Rach_. I must not tell you, but we are undone.

_Wil_. You must not tell me, but we are undone!
Ile know the cause wherefore we are undone.    [_Exit up_.

_Rach_. Oh would the thing were but to doe againe!
The thought thereof doth rent my hart in twaine.    [_She goes up_.

    _Williams to Merry above_.

_Wil_. Oh maister, maister, what have you done?

_Mer_. Why slaine a knave that would have murtherd me;
Better to kill, then to be kild my selfe.

_Wil_. With what? wherewith? how have you slaine the man?

_Mer_. Why, with this hammer I knockt out his braines.

_Wil_. Oh it was beastly so to butcher him.
If any quarrell were twixt him and you,
You should have bad him meete you in the field,
Not like a coward under your owne roofe
To knock him downe as he had bin an oxe,
Or silly sheepe prepard for slaughter house.
The Lord is just, and will revenge his blood,
On you and yours for this extremitie.
I will not stay an hower within your house,
It is the wickedst deed that ere was done.

_Mer_. Oh, sir, content your selfe, all shall be well;
Whats done already cannot be undone.

_Rach_. Oh would to God, the deed were now to do,
And I were privie to your ill intent,
You should not do it then for all the world.
But prethie, _Harry_, do not leave the house,
For then suspition will arise thereof,
And if the thing be knowne we are undone.

_Wil_. Forsake the house! I will not stay all night,
Though you will give the wealth of Christendome.

_Mer_. But yet conceale it, for the love of God;
If otherwise, I know not what to do.

_Wil_. Here is my hand, ile never utter it;
Assure your selfe of that, and so farewell.

_Mer_. But sweare to me, as God shall help thy soule,
Thou wilt not tell it unto any one.

_Wil_. I will not sweare, but take my honest worde,
And so farewell. My soule assureth me    [_Exit Merry and Rach_.
God will revenge this damn'd iniquitie.
What shall become of me unhappie wretch?
I dare not lodge within my Maisters house,
For feare his murthrous hand should kill me too.
I will go walke and wander up and downe,
And seeke some rest, untill the day appeare.
At the _Three Cranes_,[9] in some Haye loft ile lye,
And waile my maisters comming miserie.

                                            [_Exit_.



[SCENE IV.]


    _Enter Fallerio solus_.

_Fall_. I have possession of my brothers goods;
His tennants pay me rent, acknowledge me
To be their Landlord; they frequent my house,
With Turkeys, Capons, Pigeons, Pigges and Geese,
And all to game my favour and goodwill.
His plate, his iewels, hangings, household stuffe,
May well beseeme to fit a demie King;
His stately buildings, his delightfull walkes,
His fertile meadowes, and rich ploughed lands,
His well-growne woods and stor'd fishing ponds,
Brings endlesse wealth, besides continuall helpe,
To keepe a good and hospitable house:
And shall I ioy these pleasures but a time?
Nay brother, sister, all shall pardon me,
Before ile sell my selfe to penurie.
The world doth know thy brother but resigned
The lands and goods untill his sonne attain'de
To riper years to weld [_sic_] and governe them.
Then openly thou canst not do him wrong,
He living: theres the burthen of the song.
Call it a burthen, for it seemes so great
And heavie burthen, that the boy should live
And thrust me from this height of happinesse,
That I will not indure so heavie waight,
But shake it off, and live at libertie,
Free from the yoake of such subjection.
The boy shall dye, were he my fathers sonne,
Before ile part with my possession.
Ile call my sonne, and aske his good advice,
How I may best dispatch this serious cause.--
Hoe, sir, _Allenso_!

_Alle_. Father.

_Fall_.         Hearken, sonne.
I must intreate your furtherance and advise
About a thing that doth concerne us neere.
First tell me how thou doost affect in heart
Little _Pertillo_, thy dead Unckles sonne.

_Allen_. So well, good father, that I cannot tell,
Whether I love him dearer then my selfe;
And yet if that my heart were calde to count,
I thinke it would surrender me to death,
Ere young _Pertillo_ should sustain a wrong.

_Fall_. How got his safetie such a deepe regarde
Within your heart, that you affect it so?

_Allen_. Nature gave roote; love, and the dying charge,
Of his dead father, gives such store of sap
Unto this tree of my affection
That it will never wither till I dye.

_Fall_. But nature, love, and reason, tells thee thus,
Thy selfe must yet be neerest to thyselfe.

_Allen_. His love dooth not estrange me from my selfe,
But doth confirme my strength with multitudes
Of benefits his love will yeelde to me.

_Fall_. Beware to foster such pernicious snakes
Within thy bosome, which will poyson thee.

_Allen_. He is a Dove, a childe, an innocent,
And cannot poyson, father, though he would.

_Fall_. I will be plainer: know, _Pertillos_ life,
Which thou doost call a dove, an innocent,
A harmlesse childe, and, and I know not what,
Will harm thee more, than any Serpent can,
I, then the very sight of Basiliskes.

_Allen_. Father you tell me of a strange discourse.
How can his life produce such detriment,
As Basiliskes, whose only sight is death?

_Fall_. Hearken to me, and I will tell thee how;
Thou knowst his fathers goods, his houses, lands,
Have much advaunc'd our reputation,
In having but their usage for a time.
If the boy live, then like to sencelesse beasts,
Like longd-eard Asses and riche-laden Mules,
We must resign these treasures to a boye,
And we like Asses feede on simple haye:
Make him away, they shall continue ours
By vertue of his fathers Testament,--
The iewels, castles, medowes, houses, lands,
Which thy small cozen should defeate thee of,
Be still thine owne, and thou advance thy selfe,
Above the height of all thine Auncestours.

_Allen_. But if I mount by murther and deceite,
Iustice will thrust aspiring thoughts belowe,
And make me caper for to breake my neck,
After some wofull lamentation
Of my obedience to unlawfulnesse.
I tell you plaine, I would not have him dye,
Might I enjoy the _Soldans_ Emperie.

_Fall_. What, wilt thou barre thy selfe of happinesse?
Stop the large streame of pleasures which would flowe,
And still attend on thee like Servingmen?
Preferre the life of him that loves thee not
Before thine owne and my felicitie?

_Allen_. Ide rather choose to feede on carefulnesse,
To ditche, to delve, and labour for my bread,
Nay rather choose to begge from doore to doore,
Then condiscend to offer violence
To young _Pertillo_ in his innocence.
I know you speake, to sound what mightie share
_Pertillo_ hath in my affection.

_Fall_. In faith I do not; therefore, prethie, say,
Wilt thou consent to have him made away?

_Allen_. Why, then in faithe I am ashamde to think,
I had my being from so foule a lumpe
Of adulation and unthankfulnesse.
Ah, had their dying praiers no availe
Within your hart? no, damnd extorcion
Hath left no roome for grace to harbor in!
Audacious sinne, how canst thou make him say
Consent to make my brothers sonne away?

_Fall_. Nay if you ginne to brawle, withdrawe your selfe,
But utter not the motion[10] that I made,
As you love me, or do regarde your life.

_Allen_. And as you love my safetie and your soule,
Let grace and feare of God, such thoughts controule.

_Fall_. Still pratling! let your grace and feare alone,
And leave me quickly to my private thoughts,
Or with my sword ile open wide a gate,
For wrath and bloudie death to enter in.

_Allen_. Better you gave me death and buriall,
Then such foule deeds should overthrow us all.

_Fall_. Still are you wagging that rebellious tounge!
Ile dig it out for Crowes to feede upon,
If thou continue longer in my sight.    [_Exit Allenso_.
He loves him better then he loves his life!
Heres repetition of my brothers care,
Of sisters chardge, of grace, and feare of God.
Feare dastards, cowards, faint hart runawayes!
Ile feare no coulours[11] to obteine my will,
Though all the fiends in hell were opposite.
Ide rather loose mine eye, my hand, my foote,
Be blinde, wante senses, and be ever lame,
Then be tormented with such discontent
This resignation would afflict me with.
Be blithe, my boy, thy life shall sure be done,
Before the setting of the morrowe sunne.
                                       [_Exit_.

    _Enter Avarice and Homicide bloody_.

_Hom_. Make hast, runne headlong to destruction!
I like thy temper that canst change a heart
From yeelding flesh to Flinte and Adamant.
Thou hitst it home, where thou doost fasten holde;
Nothing can separate the love of golde.

_Ava_. Feare no relenting, I dare pawne my soule,
(And thats no gadge, it is the divels due)
He shall imbrew his greedie griping hands
In the dead bosome of the bloodie boy,
And winde himselfe, his sonne, and harmlesse wife,
In endlesse foldes of sure destruction.
Now, _Homicide_, thy lookes are like thyselfe,
For blood and death are thy companions.
Let my confounding plots but goe before,
And thou shalt wade up to the chin in gore.

_Homi_. I finde it true, for where thou art let in,
There is no scruple made of any sinne;
The world may see thou art the roote of ill,
For but for thee poore _Beech_ had lived still.

                                         [_Exeunt_.




[ACT THE SECOND.]

[SCENE I.]


    _Enter Rachell and Merry_.

_Rach_. Oh my deare brother, what a heap of woe,
Your rashnesse hath powrd downe upon your head!
Where shall we hide this trumpet of your shame,
This timelesse ougly map of crueltie?
Brother, if _Williams_ do reveale the truth,
Then brother, then, begins our sceane of ruthe.

_Mer_. I feare not _Williams_, but I feare the boy,
Who knew I fetcht his maister to my house.

_Rach_. What, doth the boy know whereabouts you dwell?

_Mer_. I, that tormentes me worse than panges of hell:--
He must be slaine to, else hele utter all.

_Rach_. Harke, brother, harke, me thinkes I here on[12] call.

_Mer_. Go downe and see; pray God my man keep close;
If he prove long-tongd then my daies are done.
The boy must die, there is no helpe at all;
For on his life my verie life dependes.
Besides I cannot compasse what I would,
Unlesse the boy be quicklie made away.
This that abridgde his haplesse maisters daies,
Shall leave such sound memorials one [_sic_] his head,
That he shall quite forget who did him harme,
Or train'd his master to this bloodie feast.--
Why, how now, _Rachell_? who did call below?

    _Enter Rachell_.

_Rach_. A maide that came to have a pennie loafe.

_Mer_. I would a pennie loafe cost me a pound,
Provided _Beeches_ boy had eate his last.

_Rach_. Perchance the boy doth not remember you.

_Mer_. It may be so,--but ile remember him.    [_To people_.
And send him quicklie with a bloodie scrowle,
To greete his maister in another world.

_Rach_. Ile go to _Beeches_ on a faind excuse,
To see if he will ask me for his maister.

_Mer_. No, get you up, you shall not stir abroade,
And when I call, come quicklie to the dore.

_Rach_. Brother, or that, or any thing beside,
To please your mind, or ease your miserie.    [_Exit_.

_Mer_. I am knee-deepe, ile wade up to the wast,
To end my hart of feare, and to atteine
The hoped end of my intention.
But I maie see, if I have eyes to see,
And if my understanding be not blind,
How manie dangers do alreadie waight,
Upon my steppes of bold securitie.
_Williams_ is fled, perchaunce to utter all;
Thats but perchance, naie rather flatlie no.
But should he tell, I can but die a death;
Should he conceale, the boy would utter it;
The boy must die, there is no remedie.

       [_The boy sitting at his maisters dore_.

_Win_. I wonder that my maister staies so long;
He had not wont to be abroade so late.
Yonder comes one; I thinke that same is he.

_Mer_. I see the boye sits at his maisters doore.
Or now, or never; _Merry_, stir thy selfe,
And rid thy hart from feare and jealousie.--
_Thomas Winchester_, go quicklie to your shoppe:
What, sit you still? your maister is at hand.

    [_When the boy goeth into the shoppe Merrie striketh six blowes
    on his head & with the seaventh leaves the hammer sticking in his
    head; the boy groaning must be heard by a maide who must crye to
    her Maister.
                                        [Merrie flieth_.

_Mai_. Oh God I thinke theres theeves in _Beeches_ shop.

    _Enter one in his shirt and a maide, and comming to Beeches shop
    findes the boy murthered_.

_Nei_. What cruell hand hath done so foule a deede,
Thus to bemangle a distressed youth
Without all pittie or a due remorse!
See how the hammer sticketh in his head,
Wherewith this honest youth is done to death!
Speak, honest _Thomas_, if any speach remaine:
What cruell hand hath done this villanie?
He cannot speake, his senses are bereft.
Hoe, neighbour _Loney_! pray come downe with speede,
Your tennant _Beeches_ man is murthered.

_Loney sleeping_. What, would you have some mustard?

_Nei_. Your tennant _Beeches_ man, is murthered.

_Lo_. Whose smothered, I thinke you lack your wit
What, neighbor? what make[13] you here so late?    [_Out at a window_.

_Nei_. I was affrighted by a sodaine crie,
And comming downe saw maister _Beeches_ man,
Thus with a hammer sticking in his head.    [_Comes to win_.

_Loney_. Ah wo is me for _Thomas Winchester_,
The truest soule that ever maister had!
Wheres maister _Beech_?

_Neigh_. Nay, no body can tell:
Did you see any running from the dore,
When you lookt out and heard the youngman crie?

_Maid_. Yes I saw two trulie to my thinking, but they ranne away as fast
as their hands could beare them.--By my troth twas so darke I could see
no bodie.--[_To people_. Praie God Maister _Beech_ hath not hurt his boy
in his patience and if he have he must be hangd in his choller.

_Lo_. I dare be sworne he would not strike him thus,
Praie God his Maister be not slaine himselfe.
The night growes late, and we will have this course
Be watch'd all night; to morrow we shall see
Whence sprang this strange uncivill crueltie.

_Nei_. Neighbour good night.

_Lon_. Neighbors all good night.

_Ma_. Praie God I never see so sad a sight.

                            [_Exeunt omnes_.

    _Enter Merry knocking at the doore, and Rachell comes downe_.

_Mer_. Oh sister, sister, now I am pursu'd!
The mightie clamour that the boy did make,
Hath raisde the neighbours round about the street:
So that I know not where to hide my selfe.

_Ra_. What, brother! have you kild _Beeches_ boy?

_Mer_. No, no, not I, but yet another hath.
Come, come to bed, for feare we be descri'd:
The fearfullest night that ever _Merry_ knew!

                                    [_Exeunt_.



[SCENE II.]


    _Enter Falleria and two Ruffaines_.

_Fall_. Seeme it not strange, resolved gentlemen,[14]
That I thus privatelie have severed you,
To open secret furrowes of my hart.
Think not I do intend to undermine,
Your passed lives, although you know I am
A man to whom the true unpartiall sworde,
Of equall justice is delivered.
Therefore sweare both, as you respect your soules,
At the last dreadfull sessions held in heaven,
First to conceale, and next to execute,
What I reveale, and shall enioyne you to.

_Both_. So you rewarde us, whatsoever it be,
We vowe performance, and true secrecie.

_Fall_. There go aside, yee seeming semblances,
Of equall justice, and true pietie,
And lay my hearts corrupted Cytadell
Wide open to your thoughts to look into.
Know I am named _Fallerio_ to deceive
The world with shew of truth and honestie,
But yet nor truth, nor honestie abides
Within my thoughts, but falshood, crueltie,
Blood-sucking _Avarice_, and all the sinnes,
That hale men on to bloodie stratagems,
Like to your selves, which care not how you gaine,
By blood, extorcion, falshood, periurie,
So you may have a pleasing recompence:    [_They start_.
Start not aside, depart not from your selves,
I know your composition is as mine,
Of bloud, extortion, falshood, periurie,
True-branded with the marke of wickednesse.

1 _Ruffin_. Be not so bitter; we are they indeede,
That would deprive our fathers of their lives,
So we were sure to have a benefit:
I way no more the murthring of a child,
Drag'd from the sucking bosome of his mother,
Then I respect to quaffe a boule of wine,
Unto his health, that dearely loveth me.

2 _Ruff_. Where golde rewardeth, were apparent death,
Before mine eyes, bolde, hartie, visible,
Ide wrastle with him for a deadly fall,
Or I would loose my guerdon promised.
Ide hang my brother for to wear his coate,
That all that saw me might have cause to say,
There is a hart more firme then Adamant,
To practise execrable butcheries.

_Fall_. I know that well, for were I not assur'd
Of your performance in this enterprice,
I would not ope the closet of my brest,
To let you know my close intention.
There is a little boy, an urchin lad,
That stands betweene me and the glorious rayes,
Of my soule-wishing sunne of happinesse.
There is a thicket ten miles from this place,
Whose secret ambush and unused wayes
Doth seeme to ioyne with our conspiracie:
There murther him, and when the deed is done,
Cast his dead body in some durtie ditch,
And leave him for the fowles to feed upon.
Do this, here is two hundreth markes in golde,
To harten on your resolution:
Two hundreth more, after the deed is done,
Ile pay you more for satisfaction.

1 _Ruff_. Swones her's rewards would make one kill himselfe,
To leave his progenie so rich a prize!
Were twentie lives engadged for this coine,
Ide end them all, to have the money mine.

2 _Ruff_. Who would not hazard life nay soule and all,
For such a franke and bounteous pay-maister?
Sblood! what labor is't to kill a boy?
It is but thus, and then the taske is done.
It grieves me most, that when this taske is past,
I have no more to occupie my selfe.
Two hundred markes to give a paltrie stab!
I am impatient till I see the brat.

_Fall_. That must be done with cunning secrecie,
I have devisde to send the boye abroade,
With this excuse, to have him fostered,
In better manners than this place affoords.
My wife, though loath indeed to part with him,
Yet for his good, she will forgoe her joy,
With hope in time to have more firme delights,
Which she expects from young _Pertillos_ life.

2 _Ruff_. Call you him _Pertillo_, faith leave out the _T_.

_Fall_. Why so?

_Ruff_. Because _Perillo_ will remaine,
For he shall surely perish if I live.
What do you call the father of the child?

_Fall_. Why man, he hath no father left alive.

1 _Ruff_.--Yes, such a father, that doth see and know,
How we do plot this little infants woe.    [_To the people_.

2 _Ruff_. Why, then his little sonne is much to blame,
That doth not keepe his father company.
When shall we have deliverie of the boy?

_Fall_. To morrow morning by the breake of day:
And you must sweare youle see him safely brought,
Unto the place that I do send him to.

2 _Ruff_. That may we safely, for you meane to send
Him to the wood and there his journey end.[15]
Both soule and limbes shall have a place to rest,
In earth the last, the first in _Abrams_ brest.

_Fall_. Come gentlemen, this night go rest with me,
To morrow end _Pertillos_ tragedie.

                                    [_Exeunt omnes_.



[SCENE III.]


    _Enter Merry and Rachell_.

_Mer_. Sister, now all my golde-expected hopes
Of future good is plainely vanished,
And in her stead grim-visadged dispaire,
Hath tane possession of my guiltie heart.
Desire to gaine began this desperate acte;
Now plaine apparance of destruction,
Of soule and body, waights upon my sinne.
Although we hide our sinnes from mortall men,
Whose glasse of knowledge is the face of man,
The eye of heaven beholdes our wickednesse,
And will no doubt revenge the innocent,

_Rach_. Ah, do not so disconsolate your selfe,
Nor adde new streames of sorrow to your griefe,
Which like a spring tide over-swels the bankes,
Least you do make an inundation
And so be borne away with swiftest tides
Of ugly feare and strong dispairing thoughts.
I am your sister; though a silly Maide,
Ile be your true and faithfull comforter.

_Mer_. _Rachell_, I see thy love is infinite,
And sorrow hath so borne my thoughts away,
That I had almost quite forgot my selfe.
Helpe me, deare sister, to convey from hence
The spectacle of inhumanitie.

_Rach_. Whether would you convey this lumpe of dust
Untimely murthered by your lucklesse hand?

_Mer_. To the lowe roome, where we will cover it,
With Fagots, till the evening doe approche:
In the meane time I will bethinke my selfe,
How I may best convey it foorth of doores;
For if we keepe it longer in the house,
The savour will be felt throughout the streete,
Which will betray us to destruction.
Oh what a horror brings this beastlinesse,
This chiefe of sinnes, this self-accusing crime
Of murther! now I shame to know my selfe,
That am estrang'd so much from that I was,
True, harmlesse, honest, full of curtesie,
Now false, deceitfull, full of injurie.
Hould thou his heeles, ile bear his wounded head:
Would he did live, so I myself were dead!

    [_Bring down the body, and cover it over with Faggots himselfe_.

_Rach_. Those little stickes, do hide the murthred course,
But stickes, nor ought besides, can hide the sinne.
He sits on high, whose quick all-seeing eye,
Cannot be blinded by mans subtilties.

_Mer_. Look every where, can you discerne him now?

_Rach_. Not with mine eye, but with my heart I can.

_Mer_. That is because thou knowest I laide him there:
To guiltinesse each thought begetteth feare.
But go, my true, though wofull comforter,
Wipe up the blood in every place above,
So that no drop be found about the house:
I know all houses will be searcht anon.
Then burne the clothes, with which you wipe the ground
That no apparant signe of blood be found.

_Rach_. I will, I will; oh, would to God I could
As cleerely wash your conscience from the deed
As I can cleanse the house from least suspect
Of murthrous deed, and beastly crueltie!

_Mer_. Cease to wish vainely, let us seeke to save
Our names, our fames, our lives and all we have.

                                         [_Exeunt_.



[SCENE IV.]


    _Enter three or foure neighbours together_.

1 _Neigh_. Neighbours, tis bruted all about the towne
That _Robert Beech_, a honest Chaundelor,
Had his man deadly wounded yester night,
At twelve a clock, when all men were a sleepe.

2. Where was his maister, when the deed was done?

3. No man can tell, for he is missing to,
Some men suspect that he hath done the fact,
And that for feare the man is fled away;
Others, that knew his honest harmlesse life,
Feare that himselfe is likewise made away.

4. Then let commaundement every where be given,
That sinkes and gutters, privies, crevises,
And every place where blood may be conceald,
Be throughly searcht, swept, washt, and neerely sought,
To see if we can finde the murther out.
And least that _Beech_ be throwne into the _Thames_,
Let charge be given unto the watermen
That, if they see the body of a man,
Floting in any place about the _Thames_,
That straight they bring it unto _Lambert Hill_,
Where _Beech_ did dwell when he did live in health.

1 _Neigh_. Ile see this charge performd immediatly.

4. Now let us go to Maister _Beeches_ shop,    [_Exit_.
To see if that the boy can give us light,
Of those suspitions which this cause doth yeeld.

2. This is the house; call Maister _Loney_ forth.

3. Hoe, Maister _Loney_! doth the boy yet live?

    _Enter Loney_.

Or can he utter who hath done him wrong.

_Lo_. He is not dead but hath a dying life,
For neither speech, nor any sense at all,
Abideth in the poore unhappie youth.

4. Here [_sic_] you of anie where his Maister is?

_Lo_. No, would we could; we all, that knew his life,
Suspect him not for any such offence.

4. Bring forth the boy, that we may see his wounds.

    [_Bringes him forth in a chaire with a hammer sticking
    in his head_.

What say the Surgeons to the youngmans woundes?

_Lo_. They give him over, saying everie wound,
Of sixe, whereof theres seav'n in his head,
Are mortall woundes and all incurable.

                       [_They survey his woundes_.

    _Enter Merrie and Williams_.

_Mer_. How now, good _Harry_, hast thou hid my fault?
The boy that knew I train'd his Maister forth,
Lies speechlesse, and even at the point of death.
If you prove true, I hope to scape the brunt.

_Will_. Whie, feare not me, I have conceal'd it yet,
And will conceale it, have no doubt of me.

_Mer_. Thanks, gentle _Harry_, thou shalt never lacke;
But thou and I will live as faithfull friendes,
And what I have, shalbe thine owne to use.
There is some monie for to spend to-day,
I know you meane to goe and see the faire.

_Will_. I faine would go, but that I want a cloake.

_Mer_. Thou shalt not want a cloake, or ought beside,
So thou wilt promise to be secret.    [_Gives him his cloake_.
Here, take my Cloake, ile weare my best my selfe.
But where did you lie this last night?

_Wil_. At the _three Cranes_, in a Carmans hay loft,
But ile have better lodging soone at night.

_Mer_. Thou wilt be secret. I will go and see,    [_Exit Willi_.
What stir they keepe about _Beeches_ shop,
Because I would avoyde suspition.    [_Go to them_.
God save you, Gentlemen! is this the boy
That is reported to be murthered?

4. He is not dead outright, but pleas'd it God,
Twere better he had left this wicked world,
Then to live thus in this extremitie.

_Mer_. A cruell hand no doubt that did the deede.
Whie pull you not the hammer from his head?

4. That must not be before the youth be dead,
Because the crowner and his quest may see,
The manner how he did receive his death.
Beare hence the bodie, and endevor all,
To finde them out that did the villanie.

                   [_Exeunt omnes: manet Merrie_.

_Mer_. Do what you can, cast all your wits about,
Rake kennells, gutters, seeke in everie place,
Yet I will overgoe your cunning heads,
If _Williams_ and my sister hold their tongues.
My neighbours holdes not me in least suspect,
Weighing of my former conversation.
Were _Beeches_ boy well conveid awaie,
Ide hope to overblow this stormie day.

                                          [_Exit_.



[SCENE V.]


    _Enter Falleria, Sostrata, Allenso, Pertillo,
    and two Murtherers booted_.

_Fall_. Now little cooze, you are content to goe,
From me your Unckle and your loving Aunt,
Your faithfull cozen, and your dearest friendes:
And all to come to be a skilfull man,
In learned artes and happy sciences?

_Per_, I am content, because it pleaseth you.
My father bid I should obey your will,
And yeelde my selfe to your discretion:
Besides my cozen gave me yesternight,
A prettie nag to ride to _Padua_.
Of all my friends _Allenso_ loves me best.

_Fall_. I thinke thou art inspir'd with prophesie:    [_To the people_.
He loves thee better then I would he did.--
Why, wherefore think you so, my prettie Nephew?

_Per_. Because he taught me how to say my prayers,
To ride a horse, to start the fearfull hare.
He gave this dagger to me yester night,
This little Ring, and many pretie things;
For which, kind cooze, I rest your true debtor,
And one day I will make you recompence.

_Fall_. I, with thy lands and goods thou leav'st behinde.

_Allen_. Pray, father, let me go along with him.--
Now, by the Saviour of my sinfull soule,    [_To the people_.
I do not like those fellowes countenance.

_Fall_. Sonne be content, weele go a seavenight hence,
And see him in his universitie weedes.
These will conduct him safely to the place;
Be well assured they'l have a care of him--
That you shall never see _Pertillo_ more.    [_To the people_.

_Allen_. Father, I pray you to withdraw your selfe,
Ide have a word or two in secresie.

                                      [_They speake together_.

_Sost_. Come living image of thy dead mother,
And take my loving farewell, ere we part.
I love thee dearly for thy fathers sake,
But for thy mothers dote with jealousie.
Oh I do feare, before I see thy face,
Or thou or I shall taste of bitternesse.
Kisse me, sweete boy, and, kissing, folde thine Aunte
Within the circle of thy little armes.
I neede not feare, death cannot offer wrong;
The majestie of thy presaging face,
Would vanquish him, though nere so terrible.
The angry Lionesse that is bereav'd
Of her imperious crew of forrest kings,
Would leave her furie, and defend thee safe
From Wolves, from Panthers, Leopards, and Shee Beares,
That live by rapine, stealth and crueltie.
Therefore to God I do commend thy state,
Who will be sure to guard thee tenderly.
And now to you, that carry hence this wealth,
This precious Jewell, this unprized good,
Have a regarde to use him carefully,
When he is parted from that serious care,
Which was imployde for his securitie.
I urge it not, that I misdoubt your truth;
I hope his Unckle doth perswade himselfe
You will be courteous, kinde, and affable.
Ther's some rewarde for hoped carefulnesse.

_Allen_. Now by my soule I do suspect the men,
Especially the lower of the two:
See, what a hollow discontented looke
He casts, which brings apparant cause of feare:
The other, though he seeme more courteous,
Yet dooth his lookes presadge this thought in me.
As if he scorn'd to thinke on courtesie.

_Fall_. Upon my life, my sonne you are to blame,
The gentlemen are honest, vertuous,
And will protect _Pertillo_ happily.
These thoughts proceed out of aboundant love,
Because you grieve to leave his company.
If ought betide him otherwise then well,
Let God require due vengaunce on my head,
And cut my hopes from all prosperitie.

_Allen_. A heavie sentence, full of wondrous feare:
I cannot choose but credit such a vowe.
Come hether then, my joy, my chiefest hopes,
My second selfe, my earthly happinesse,
Lend me thy little prety cherry lip,
To kisse me, cozen; lay thy little hand
Upon my cheeke, and hug me tenderly.
Would the cleere rayes of thy two glorious sunnes
Could penetrate the corners of my heart,
That thou might see how much I tender thee.
My friends, beholde, within this little bulke
Two perfect bodyes are incorporate;
His life holdes mine, his heart conteines my hart,
His every lim containes my every part;
Without his being I can never be,
He being dead, prepare to bury me.
Oh thou immortall mover of the spheares
Within their circled revolusions,
Whose glorious image this small orphant beares,
Wrought by thy all-sufficient majestie,
Oh never suffer any wicked hand
To harme this heavenly workmanship of thine,
But let him live, great God, to honor thee
With vertuous life and spotlesse pietie!

_Per_. Cease, my kind cooze; I cannot choose but weepe,
To see your care of my securitie.

_Allen_.--Knewst thou my reason, that perswades my hart,
Thou wouldst not wonder, why I grieve to part:
But yet I would suspect my fathers vowe,
Did any other make it by your leave.

_Fall_. What have you done? this lothnesse to depart,
Seemes you were trained up in tediousnesse,
Thou knowst not when and where to make an end.
Take him my friends, I know you will discharge
The hope and trust that I repose in you.

_Both_. Assure your selfe, in every circumstance.

_Fall_. Then to your horses quicklie, speedily,
Else we shall put our fingers in the eye,
And weepe for kindnesse till tomorrow morne.

_Per_. Farewell good Unckle, Aunt, and loving cooze.

          [_Sostratus [sic] kisseth the boy weeping_.

_Allen_. Farewell.--I fear me everlastinglie.

    [_Exeunt Sostratus and Allenso_.

    [_One of the Murtherers takes Falleria by the sleeve_.

1 _mu_. You meane not now to have him murthered?

_Fall_. Not murthered, what else? kill him, I say:
But wherefore makes thou question of my will?

_Mur_. Because you wisht that God should be revenged,
If any ill betide the innocent.

_Fall_. Oh that was nothing but to blind the eyes
Of my fond sonne, which loves him too too well.

_Mer_. It is enough, it shall be surely done.

                                      [_Exeunt om_.



[SCENE VI.]


    _Enter Merry and Rachel with a bag_.

_Mer_. What, hast thou sped? have you bought the bag?

_Rach_. I, brother, here it is; what is't to do?

_Mer_. To beare hence _Beeches_ body in the night.

_Rach_. You cannot beare so great a waight your selfe,
And tis no trusting of another man.

_Mer_. Yes well enough, as I will order it.
Ile cut him peece-meale; first his head and legs
Will be one burthen; then the mangled rest,
Will be another, which I will transport,
Beyond the water in a Ferryboate,
And throw it into _Paris-garden_ ditch,[16]
Fetch me the chopping knife, and in the meane
Ile move the fagots that do cover him.
                             [_Remove the Fagots_.

_Rach_. Oh can you finde in hart to cut and carve,
His stone-colde flesh, and rob the greedy grave,
Of his dissevered blood-besprinkled lims?

_Mer_. I, mary can I:--fetch the chopping knife.

_Rach_. This deed is worse, then when you took his life.    [_Exit_.

_Mer_. But worse, or better, now it must be so,
Better do thus than feele a greater woe.

    _Enter Rach_.

Here is the knife, I cannot stay to see
This barbarous deed of inhumanitie.    [_Exit Rachel_.

        [_Merry begins to cut the body, and bindes the armes
        behinde his back with Beeches garters; leaves out the
        body, covers the head and legs againe_.

    _Enter Truth_.

Yee glorious beames of that bright-shining lampe
That lights the starre-bespangled firmament,
And dimnes the glimmering shadowes of the night,
Why doost thou lend assistance to this wretch,
To shamble forth with bold audacitie
His lims, that beares thy makers semblance!
All you the sad spectators of this Acte,
Whose harts do taste a feeling pensivenesse
Of this unheard of, savadge massacre,
Oh be farre of to harbour such a thought
As this audacious murtherer put in ure![17]
I see your sorrowes flowe up to the brim,
And overflowe your cheekes with brinish teares,
But though this sight bring surfet to the eye,
Delight your eares with pleasing harmonie,[18]
That eares may counterchecke your eyes, and say,
Why shed you teares, this deede is but a playe?
His worke is done, he seekes to hide his sinne;
Ile waile his woe before his woe begin.    [_Exit Trueth_.

_Mer_. Now will I high me to the water side,
And fling this heavie burthen in a ditche,
Whereof my soule doth feele so great a waight
That it doth almost presse me downe with feare.




[ACT THE THIRD.]

[SCENE I.]


    _Enter Rachell_.

Harke, _Rachell_, I will crosse the water straight
And fling this middle mention of a man
Into some ditch; then high me home againe,
To rid my house of that is left behinde.

_Rach_. Where have you laid the legs & battered head?

_Mer_. Under the fagots where it lay before.
Helpe me to put this trunk into the bag.

_Rach_. My heart will not endure to handle it,
The sight hereof doth make me quake for feare,

_Mer_. Ile do't my selfe; onely drie up the blood,
And burne the clothes as you have done before.    [_Exit_.

_Rach_. I feare thy soule will burne in flames of hell,
Unless repentance wash wash away thy sinne
With clensing teares of true contrition.
Ah, did not nature oversway my will,
The world should know this plot of damned ill.

                                       [_Exit_.



[SCENE II.]


    _Enter two Murtherers with Pertillo_.

_Per_. I am so wearie in this combrous wood,
That I must needes go sit me downe and rest.

1 _Mur_. What were we best? to kill him unawares,
Or give him notice what we doe intend?

2 _Mur_. Whie then belike you meane to do your charge,
And feel no tast of pittie in your hart.

1 _Mur_. Of pittie, man! that never enters heere,
And if it should, Ide threat my craven heart
To stab it home for harbouring such a thought.
I see no reason whie I should relent;
It is a charitable vertuous deede,
To end this princkocke[19] from this sinfull world.

2 _Mur_. Such charitie will never have reward,
Unlesse it be with sting of conscience;
And thats a torment worse than Sisipus,
That rowles a restlesse stone against the hill.

1 _Mur_. My conscience is not prickt with such conceit.

2 _Mur_. That shews thee further off from hoped grace.

1 _Mur_. Grace me no graces, I respect no grace,
But with a grace, to give a gracelesse stab;
To chop folkes legges and armes off by the stumpes,
To see what shift theile make to scramble home;
Pick out mens eyes, and tell them thats the sport
Of hood-man-blinde, without all sportivenesse.
If with a grace I can perform such pranckes,
My hart will give mine agents many thankes.

2 _Mur_. Then God forbid I should consort my selfe
With one so far from grace and pietie,
Least being found within thy companie,
I should be partner of thy punishment.

1 _Mur_. When wee have done what we have vowed to do,
My hart desires to have no fellowship
With those that talk of grace or godlinesse.
I nam'd not God, unleast twere with an othe,
Sence the first hour that I could walk alone;
And you that make so much of conscience,
By heaven thou art a damned hipocrite,
For thou hast vow'd to kill that sleeping boy,
And all to gaine two hundreth markes in gold.
I know this purenesse comes of pure deceit,
To draw me from from the murthering of the child,
That you alone might have the benefit.
You are too shallow; if you gull me so,
Chop of my head to make a Sowsing-tub,
And fill it full of tripes and chitterlinges.

2 _Mur_. That thou shalt see my hart is far from fraud,
Or vaine illusion in this enterprize,
Which doth import the safetie of our soules,
There take my earnest of impietie.    [_Give him his mony_.
Onely forbeare to lay thy ruder handes
Upon the poore mistrustlesse tender child.
As for our vowes, feare not their violence;
God will forgive on hartie penitence.

1 _Mur_. Thou Eunuch, Capon, Dastard, fast and loose,
Thou weathercocke of mutabilitie,
White-livered Paisant, wilt thou vowe and sweare,
Face and make semblance with thy bagpipe othes
Of that thou never meanst to execute?
Pure cowardice, for feare to cracke thy necke
With the huge Caos of thy bodies waight,
Hath sure begot this true contrition.
Then fast and pray, and see if thou canst winne,
A goodlie pardon for thy hainous sinne.
As for the boy, this fatall instrument
Was mark'd by heaven to cut his line[20] of life,
And must supplie the knife of _Atropos_,
And if it doe not, let this maister-piece
(Which nature lent the world to wonder at)
Be slit in Carbonadoes[21] for the jawes
Of some men-eating hungrie Canniball.
By heaven ile kill him onely for this cause,
For that he came of vertuous Auncestors.

2 _m_. But by that God which made that wondrous globe,
Wherein is seene his powerfull dietie,[22]
Thou shalt not kill him maugre all thy spight.
Sweare, and forsweare thyselfe ten thousand times.
Awake _Pertillo_, for thou art betrai'd;
This bloody slave intends to murther thee.    [_Draw both_.

1 _mur_. Both him, and all, that dare to rescue him.

_Per_. Wherefore? because I slept without your leave?
Forgive my fault, ile never sleepe againe.

2 _Mur_. No Child, thy wicked Unckle hath suborn'd
Both him and me to take thy life away,
Which I would save, but that this hellish impe
Will not content to spare thy guiltlesse blood.

_Per_. Why should _Falleria_ seeke to have my life?

2 _mur_. The lands and goods, thy father left his sonne,
Do hale thee on to thy destruction.

_Per_. Oh needy treasure, harme-begetting good!
That safety[23] should procure the losse of blood!

2 _mur_. Those lands and goods, thy father got with paine,
Are swords wherewith his little sonne is slaine.

1 _mu_. Then let our swords let out his guiltlesse life.

_Per_. Sweete, sowre, kinde, cruell, hold thy murthering knife,
And here [_sic_] me speake, before you murther me.

2 _mu_. Feare not, sweet child, he shall not murther thee.

1 _mu_. No, but my sword shall let his puddings forth.

_Per_. First here me speake, thou map of Butcherie:
Tis but my goods and lands my Unckle seekes;
Having that safely, he desires no more.
I do protest by my dead parents soules,
By the deare love of false _Fallerios_ sonne,
Whose heart, my heart assures me, will be griev'd
To heare his fathers inhumanitie,
I will forsake my countrie, goods, and lands,
I, and my selfe will even change my selfe,
In name, in life, in habit, and in all,
And live in some farre-moved continent,
So you will spare my weake and tender youth,
Which cannot entertaine the stroake of death
In budding yeares and verie spring of life.

1 _Mur_. Leave of these bootlesse protestations,
And use no ruth-enticing argumentes,
For if you do, ile lop you lim by lim,
And torture you for childish eloquence.

2 _Mur_. Thou shalt not make his little finger ake.

1 _Mur_. Yes, every part, and this shall proove it true.
                    [_Runnes Perillo in with his sworde_.

_Per_. Oh I am slaine, the Lord forgive thy fact!
And give thee grace to dye with penitence.    [_Dyeth_.

2 _Mur_. A treacherous villaine, full of cowardise!
Ile make thee know that thou hast done amisse.

1 _m_. Teach me that knowledge when you will or dare.

    [_They fight and kill one another; the relenter
    having some more life, and the other dyeth_.

1 _mur_. Swoones, I am peppered, I had need have salt,
Or else to morrow I shall yeeld a stincke,
Worse then a heape of dirty excrements.
Now by this Hilt, this golde was earn'd too deare:
Ah, how now death, wilt thou be conquerour?
Then vengeance light on them that made me so,
And ther's another farewell ere I goe.
               [_Stab the other murtherer againe_.

2 _mur_. Enough, enough, I had my death before.

                                 [_A hunt within_.

    _Enter the Duke of Padua, Turqualo, Vesuvio, Alberto, &c_.

_Duke_. How now my Lords, was't not a gallant course,
Beleeve me sirs, I never saw a wretch,
Make better shift to save her little life.
The thickets full of buskes,[24] and scratching bryers,
A mightie dewe,[25] a many deepe mouth'd hounds,
Let loose in every place to crosse their course,--
And yet the Hare got cleanly from them all.
I would not for a hundred pound in faith,
But that she had escaped with her life;
For we will winde a merry hunters home,
And starte her once again tomorrow morne.

_Turq_. In troth my Lord, the little flocked[26] hound,
That had but three good legs to further him,
Twas formost still, and surer of his sent,
Then any one in all the crie besides.

_Vesu_. But yet _Pendragon_ gave the Hare more turnes.

_Alber_. That was because he was more polliticke,
And eyed her closely in her coverts still:
They all did well, and once more we will trie,
The subtile creature with a greater crie.

    _Enter Allenso, booted_.

_Duke_. But say, what well accomplished Gentleman
Is that that comes into our company?

_Vesu_. I know him well, it is _Fallerios_ sonne,
_Pandynos_ brother (a kinde Gentleman)
That dyed and left his little pretty sonne,
Unto his brother's[27] good direction.

_Duke_. Stand close awhile, and overheare his wordes;
He seemes much over-gone with passion.

_Allen_. Yee timorous thoughts that guide my giddy steps
In unknowne pathes of dreadfull wildernesse,
Why traitor-like do you conspire to holde
My pained heart twixt feare and jealousie?
My too much care hath brought me carelesly,
Into this woody savadge labyrinth,
And I can finde no way to issue out;
Feare hath so dazeled all my better part,
That reason hath forgot discreations art.
But in good time, see where is company.--
Kinde Gentlemen, if you, unlike my selfe,
Are not incumbred with the circling wayes
Of this erronious winding wildernesse,
I pray you to direct me foorth this wood
And showe the pathe that leades to _Padua_.

_Duke_. We all are _Paduans_, and we all intend
To passe forthwith with speed to _Padua_.

_Allen_. I will attend upon you presently.    [_See the bodyes_.

_Duke_. Come then away:--but, gentlemen beholde,
A bloody sight, and murtherous spectacle!

2 _Mur_. Oh, God, forgive me all my wickednesse
And take me to eternall happinesse!

_Duke_. Harke one of them hath some small sparke of life,
To kindle knowledge of their sad mishaps.

_Allen_. Ah gratious Lord, I know this wretched child,
And these two men that here lye murthered.

_Vesu_. Do you, _Allenso_?

_Allen_. I, my gracious Lord:
It was _Pertillo_ my dead Unckles sonne.
Now have my feares brought forth this fearefull childe
Of endlesse care, and everlasting griefe!

_Duke_. Lay hands upon _Allenso_, Gentlemen.
Your presence doth confirme you had a share
In the performance of this crueltie.

_Allen_. I do confesse I have so great a share
In this mishap, that I will give him thankes,
That will let foorth my sorrow-wounded soule
From out this goale of lamentation.

_Duke_. Tis now too late to wish for hadiwist.[28]
Had you withheld your hand from this attempt,
Sorrow had never so imprisoned you.

_Allen_. Oh my good Lord, do not mistake my case,
And yet my griefe is sure infallible.
The Lord of heaven can witnesse with my soule,
That I am guiltelesse of your wrong suspect,
But yet not griefelesse that the deed is done.

_Duke_. Nay if you stand to justifie your selfe,
This gentleman whose life dooth seeme to stay,
Within his body till[29] he tell your shame,
Shall testifie of your integritie:
Speake then, thou sad Anatomy of death,
Who were the Agents of your wofulnesse?

2 _Mur_. O be not blinded with a false surmise,
For least my tongue should faile to end the tale
Of our untimely fate-appointed death,
Know young _Allenso_ is as innocent
As is _Fallerio_ guiltie of the crime.
He, he it was, that with foure hundredth markes,
Whereof two hundred he paide presently,
Did hire[30] this damn'd villaine and my selfe
To massacre this harmelesse innocent:
But yet my conscience, toucht with some remorse,
Would faine have sav'd the young _Pertillos_ life,
But he remorselesse would not let him live,
But unawares thrust in his harmelesse brest
That life-bereaving fatall instrument:
Which cruell deede I seeking to revenge,
Have lost my life and paid the slave his due
Rewarde for spilling blood of innocents.
Surprise _Fallerio_, author of this ill;
Save young _Allenso_, he is guiltlesse still.    [_Dyeth_.

_Allen_. Oh sweetest honie mixt with bitter gall,
Oh Nightingale combinde with Ravens notes,
Thy speech is like a woodward that should say,--
Let the tree live, but take the root away.
As though my life were ought but miserie,
Having my father slaine for infamie!

_Duke_. What should incite _Fallerio_ to devise,
The overthrowe of this unhappie boy?

_Vesu_. That may be easily guest, my gracious Lord,
To be the lands _Pandino_ left his sonne,
Which, after that the boy were murthered,
Discend to him by due inheritance.

_Duke_. You deeme aright. See, gentlemen, the fruites,
Of coveting to have anothers right.
Oh wicked thought of greedie covetice!
Could neither nature, feare of punishment,
Scandall to wife and children, nor the feare,
Of Gods confounding strict severitie,
Allay the head-strong furie of thy will?
Beware, my friends, to wish unlawfull gaine;
It will beget strange actions full of feare,
And overthrowe the actor unawares.
For first _Fallerios_ life must satisfie
The large effusion of their guiltlesse bloods,
Traind on by him to these extremities;
Next, wife and children must be disposest,
Of lands and goods, and turnde to beggerie;
But most of all, his great and hainous sinne,
Will be an eye-sore to his guiltlesse kinne.
Beare hence away these models of his shame,
And let us prosecute the murtherer
With all the care and diligence we can.

               [_Two must be carrying away Pertillo_

_Allen_. Forbeare awhile to beare away my joy,
Which now is vanisht since his life is fled;
And give me leave to wash his deadly wound
With hartie teares, outflowing from those eyes
Which lov'd his sight, more then the sight of heaven.
Forgive me God for this idolatrie!
Thou ugly monster, grim imperious death,
Thou raw-bonde lumpe of foule deformitie,
Reguardlesse instrument of cruell fate,
Unparciall Sergeant, full of treacherie,
Why didst thou flatter my ill-boding thoughts,
And flesh my hopes with vaine illusions?
Why didst thou say, _Pertillo_ should not dye,
And yet, oh yet, hast done it cruelly?
Oh but beholde, with what a smiling cheere,
He intertain'd thy bloody harbinger!
See, thou transformer of a heavenly face
To Ashie palenesse and unpleasing lookes,
That his fair countenance still retaineth grace
Of perfect beauty in the very grave.
The world would say such beauty should not dye;
Yet like a theefe thou didst it cruelly.
Ah, had thy eyes, deepe-sunke into thy head,
Beene able to perceive his vertuous minde,
Where vertue sat inthroned in a chaire,
With awfull grace and pleasing maiestie,
Thou wouldest not then have let _Pertillo_ die,
Nor like a theefe have slaine him cruellie.
Inevitable fates, could you devise,
No means to bring me to this pilgrimage,
Full of great woes and sad calamities,
But that the father should be principall,
To plot the present downfall of the sonne?
Come then kind death and give me leave to die,
Since thou hast slaine _Pertillo_ cruellie.

_Du_. Forbeare, _Allenso_; hearken to my doome,
Which doth concerne thy fathers apprehension.
First we enjoyne thee, upon paine of death,
To give no succour to thy wicked sire,
But let him perrish in his damned sinne,
And pay the price of such a treacherie.
See that with speede the monster be attach'd,
And bring him safe to suffer punishment.
Prevent it not, nor seeke not to delude
The Officers to whom this charge is given;
For if thou doe, as sure as God doth live,
Thy selfe shall satisfie the lawes contempt.
Therefore forward about this punishment.

                            [_Exeunt omnes: manet Allenso_.

_Al_. Thankes, gratious God, that thou hast left the meanes
To end my soule from this perplexitie.
Not succour him on paine of present death!
That is no paine; death is a welcome guest
To those whose hearts are overwhelm'd with griefe.
My woes are done, I having leave to die
And after death live ever joyfullie.    [_Exit_.

    _Enter Murther and Covetousnesse_.

_Mur_. Now, _Avarice_, I have well satisfied
My hungrie thoughtes with blood and crueltie;
Now all my melanchollie discontent
Is shaken off, and I am throughlie pleas'd,
With what thy pollicie hath brought to passe.
Yet am I not so throughlie satisfied
Untill I bring the purple actors forth.
And cause them quaffe a bowle of bitternesse,
That father sonne, and sister brother may
Bring to their deathes with most assur'd decay.

_Ava_. That wilbe done without all question,
For thou hast slaine _Allenso_ with the boy,
And _Rachell_ doth not wish to overlive
The sad remembrance of her brothers sinne.
Leave faithfull love to teach them how to dye,
That they may share their kinsfolkes miserie.

                                    [_Exeunt_.




[ACT THE FOURTH.]

[SCENE I.]


    _Enter Merrie and Rachell uncovering the head and legges_.

_Mer_. I have bestow'd a watrie funerall
On the halfe bodie of my butchered friend.
The head and legges Ile leave in some darke place;
I care not if they finde them yea or no.

_Ra_. Where do you meane to leave the head and legs?

_Mer_. In some darke place nere to _Bainardes Castle_.[31]

_Ra_. But doe it closelie that you be not seene;
For all this while you are without suspect.

_Mer_. Take you no thought, Ile have a care of that;
Onelie take heede you have a speciall care
To make no shew of any discontent
Nor use too many words to any one.
            [_Puts on his Cloake; taketh up the bag_.
I will returne when I have left my loade.
Be merrie, _Rachell_; halfe the feare is past.    [_Exit_.

_Ra_. But I shall never thinke my selfe secure.
This deede would trouble any quiet soule,
To thinke thereof, much more to see it done;
Such cruell deedes can never long be hid,
Although we practice nere so cunningly.
Let others open what I doe conceale;
Lo he is my brother, I will cover it,
And rather dye than have it spoken rife,--
Lo where she goes, betrai'd her brothers life.

                                       [_Exit_.



[SCENE II.]


    _Enter Williams and Cowley_.

_Co_. Why, how now, _Harry_, what should be the cause,
That you are growne so discontent of late?
Your sighes do shew some inward heavinesse;
Your heavy lookes, your eyes brimfull of teares,
Beares testimonie of some secret griefe.
Reveale it, _Harry_; I will be thy friend,
And helpe thee to my poore habillity.

_Wil_. If I am heavie, if I often sigh,
And if my eyes beare recordes of my woe,
Condemne me not, for I have mightie cause,
More then I will impart to any one.

_Co_. Do you misdoubt me, that you dare not tell
That woe to me that moves your discontent?

_Wil_. Good Maister _Cowley_, you were ever kinde,
But pardon me; I will not utter it
To any one, for I have past my worde;
And therefore urge me not to tell my griefe.

_Cow_. But those that smother griefe too secretly,
May wast themselves in silent anguishment,
And bring their bodies to so low an ebb,
That all the world can never make it flowe,
Unto the happy hight of former health.
Then be not [so] iniurious to thy selfe,
To wast thy strength in lamentation,
But tell thy case; wele seeke some remedie.

_Wil_. My cause of griefe is now remedilesse,
And all the world can never lessen it;
Then since no meanes can make my sorrowes lesse,
Suffer me waile a woe which wants redresse.

_Cow_. Yet let me beare a part in thy lamentes,
I love thee not so ill but I will mone
Thy heavie haps; thou shalt not sigh alone.

_Wil_. Nay, if you are so curious to intrude
Your selfe to sorrow, where you have no share,
I will frequent some unfrequented place
Where none shall here nor see my lamentations.    [_Exit_.

_Cow_. And I will follow wheresoever thou goe;
I will be a partner of thy helplesse woe.

                                       [_Exit_.



[SCENE III.]


    _Enter two Watermen_.

1. _Will_, ist not time we should go to our boates,
And give attendance for this _Bartlemew_ tide?
Folkes will be stirring early in the morning.

2. By my troth I am indifferent whether I go or no. If a fare come,
why so; if not, why so; if I have not their money, they shall have
none of my labour.

1. But we that live by our labours, must give attendance.
But where lyes thy Boate?

2. At _Baynards Castle_ staires.

1. So do's mine, then lets go together.

2. Come, I am indifferent, I care not so much for going; but if I go
with you, why so; if not, why so.    [_He falls over the bag_.
Sblood, what rascall hath laide this in my way!

1. A[32] was not very indifferent that did so, but you are so
permentorie, to say, why so, and why so, that every one is glad to do
you iniurie. But lets see: what is it?

    [_Taking the Sack by the end, one of the legs and head drops out_.

Good Lord deliver us! a mans legges, and a head with manie wounds!

2. Whats that so much? I am indifferent, yet for mine owne part,
I understand the miserie of it; if you doe, why so, if not, why so.

1. By my troth I understand no other mistery but this:
It is a strange and very rufull sight.
But, prethee, what doost thou conceit of it?

2. In troth I am indifferent, for if I tell you, why so, if not why so.

1. If thou tell me, Ile thanke thee; therefore I prethee tell me.

2. I tell you I am indifferent; but to be plaine with you, I am greeved
to stumble at the hangmans budget.

1. At the hangmans budget? why, this is a sack.

2. And to speake indifferently, it is the hangman's Budget; and because
he thought too much of his labour to set this head upon the bridge, and
the legs upon the gates, he flings them into the streete for men to
stumble at, but If I get him in my boate, Ile so belabour him in a
stretcher, that he had better be stretcht in one of his owne halfepeny
halters. If this be a good conceit, why so; if not, why so.

1. Thou art deceiv'd, this head hath many wounds,
And hoase and shoes remaining on the legs.
_Bull_ always strips all quartered traitors quite.

2. I am indifferent whether you beleeve me or no; these were not worth
taking of, and therefore he left them on. If this be likely why so;
if not, why so.

1. Nay, then I see you growe from worse to worse.
I heard last night, that one neere _Lambert Hill_
Was missing, and his boy was murthered.
It may be this is a part of that same man;
What ere it be, ile beare it to that place.

2. Masse I am indifferent; ile go along with you, if it be so, why so;
if not why so.

                  [_Exeunt_.



[SCENE IV.]


    _Enter three neighbors knocking at Loneys doore: Loney comes_.

1. Hoe, Maister Loney! here you any newes
What is become of your Tennant _Beech_?

_Lon_. No truely, sir, not any newes at all.

2. What, hath the boy recovered any speach,
To give us light of these suggestions
That do arise upon this accident?

_Lon_. There is no hope he should recover speech;
The wives do say he's ready now to leave
This greevous world, full-fraught with treacherie.

3. Methinkes if _Beech_ himselfe be innocent,
That then the murtherer should not dwell farre off;
The hammer that is sticking in his head,
Was borrowed of a Cutler dwelling by,
But he remembers not who borrowed it:
He is committed that did owe[33] the hammer,
But yet he standes uppon his innocence;
And _Beeches_ absence causeth great suspition.

_Lo_. If _Beech_ be faulty, as I do not thinke,
I never was so much deceiv'd before.
Oh had you knowne his conversation,
You would not have him in suspition.

3. Divels seeme Saints, and in these[34] hatefull times,
Deceite can beare apparraunt signes of trueth,
And vice beare shew of vertues excellence.

    _Enter the two Watermen_.

1. Pray is this Maister _Beeches_ house?

_Lo_. My friend this same was maister _Beeches_ shop:
We cannot tell whether he live or no.

1. Know you his head and if I shew it you?
Or can you tell me what hose or shooes he ware,
At that same time when he forsooke the shoppe?

3. What, have you head, and hose, and shooes to show,
And want the body that should use the same?

1. Behold this head, these legges, these hose and shooes,
And see if they were _Beeches_, yea or no.

_Lo_. They are the same; alas, what is become,
Of the remainder of this wretched man!

1 _Wat_. Nay that I know not; onelie these we found,
As we were comming up a narrow lane,
Neere _Baynardes Castle_, where we two did dwell;
And heering that a man was missing hence,
We thought it good to bring these to this place,

3. Thankes, my good friendes; ther's some thing for your paines.

2 _Wat_. We are indifferent, whether you give us anything or nothing;
and if you had not, why so; but since you have, why so.

1 _Wat_. Leave your repining: Sir, we thanke you hartely.

3. Farewell good fellowes.--Neighbour, now be bold:    [_Exeunt Watermen_.
They dwell not farre that did this bloodie deed,
As God no doubt will at the last reveale,
Though they conceale it nere so cunninglie.
All houses, gutters, sincks and crevices
Have carefully been sought for, for the blood;
Yet theres no instaunce found in any place.

    _Enter a Porter and a Gentleman_.

But who is that that brings a heavy loade,
Behinde him on a painefull porters backe?

_Gen_. Praie, Gentlemen, which call you _Beeches_ shoppe?

2 _Neig_. This is the place; what wold you with the man?

_Gen_. Nothing with him; I heare the man is dead,
And if he be not, I have lost my paines.

_Lo_. Hees dead indeede, but yet we cannot finde
What is become of halfe his hopelesse bodie.
His head and legges are found, but for the rest,
No man can tell what is become of it.

_Gen_. Then I doe thinke I can resolve your doubt
And bring you certain tydings of the rest,
And if you know his doublet and his shirt.
As for the bodie it is so abus'd
That no man can take notice whoes it was.
Set downe this burden of anothers shame.
What, do you know the doublet and the shirt?

                                      [_Ex. Porter_.

_Lo_. This is the doublet, these the seuered limmes,
Which late were ioyned to that mangled trunke:
Lay them together, see if they can make
Among them all a sound and solid man.

3 _neigh_. They all agree, but yet they cannot make
That sound and whole which a remorsles hand
Hath severed with a knife of crueltie.
But say, good sir, where did you finde this out?

_Gent_. Walking betime by _Paris Garden_ ditch,
Having my Water Spaniell by my side,
When we approach'd unto that haplesse place
Where this same trunke lay drowned in a ditch,
My Spaniell gan to sent, to bark, to plunge
Into the water, and came foorth againe,
And fawnd one me, as if a man should say,
Helpe out a man that heere lyes murthered.
At first I tooke delight to see the dog,
Thinking in vaine some game did there lye hid
Amongst the Nettles growing neere the banke;
But when no game, nor anything appear'd,
That might produce the Spaniell to this sport,
I gan to rate and beate the harmlesse Cur,
Thinking to make him leave to follow me;
But words, nor blowes, could moove the dog away,
But still he plung'd, he div'd, he barkt, he ran
Still to my side, as if it were for helpe.
I seeing this, did make the ditch be dragd,
Where then was found this body as you see,
With great amazement to the lookers on.

3. Beholde the mightie miracles of God,
That sencelesse things should propagate their sinne
That are more bestiall farre then beastlinesse
Of any creature most insensible!

2. _Neigh_. Cease we to wonder at Gods wondrous works,
And let us labour for to bring to light
Those masked fiends that thus dishonor him.
This sack is new, and, loe! beholde his marke
Remaines upon it, which did sell the bag.
Amongst the Salters we shall finde it out
When, and to whom, this bloody bag was sold.

3. Tis very likely, let no paines be spar'd,
To bring it out, if it be possible;
Twere pitty such a murther should remaine
Unpunished mongst Turkes and Infidels.

1. _neigh_. Sirs, I do know the man that solde this bag,
And if you please, Ile fetch him presently?

_Gent_. With all our hearts. How say you gentlemen?
Perchance the murther thus may come to light.

3. I pray you do it, we will tarry heere:    [_Exit 1. neigh_.
And let the eyes of every passenger
Be satisfied, which may example be
How they commit such dreadfull wickednesse.

_Ent. wom_. And please your maisterships, the boy is dead.

3. _neigh_. Tis very strange that having many wounds
So terrible, so ghastlie; which is more,
Having the hammer sticking in his head;
That he should live and stirre from _Friday_ night,
To _Sunday_ morning, and even then depart,
When that his Maisters mangled course were found.
Bring him foorth too; perchance the murtherers
May have their hearts touched with due remorse,
Viewing their deeds of damned wickednesse.
          [_Bring forth the boye and laye him by Beech_.

1 _neigh_. Here is the Salters man that solde the bag.

_Gent_. My friend, how long since did you sell that bag?
And unto whom, if you remember it?

_Sal_. I sould the bag, good sir, but yesterday,
Unto a maide; I do not know her name.

3 _neigh_. Nor where she dwels.

_Sal_. No certeinly.

2 _neigh_. But what apparell had she on her back?

_Sal_. I do not well remember what she wore,
But if I saw her I should know her sure.

3 _neigh_. Go round about to every neighbours house,
And will them shew their maides immediately:
God grant we may finde out the murtherers.
      [_Go to one house, and knock at doore, asking_.
Bring forth such maides as are within your house!

1 _housekeeper_. I have but one, ile send her down to you.

3 _neigh_. Is this the maide?    [_Come out maide_.

_Salt_. No, sir, this is not she.    [_Go to another, &c_.
How many maides do dwell within this house?

2 _house_. Her's nere a woman here, except my wife.    [_Go to Merryes_.

3 _neigh_. Whose house is this?

_Lo_. An honest civill mans, cald Maister _Merry_,
Who I dare be sworne, would never do so great a murther;
But you may aske heere to for fashion sake.

                             [_Rachell sits in the shop_.

3. How now, faire maide, dwels any here but you?
Thou hast too true a face for such a deed.

_Rach_. No, gentle sir; my brother keepes no more.

3 _neigh_. This is not she?

_Salt_.                     No truly, gentleman.

                                            [_Ex. R_.

3. This will not serve; we cannot finde her out.
Bring in those bodyes, it growes towards night;
God bring these damn'd murtherers at length to light!

                                       [_Exeunt omnes_.



[SCENE V.]


    _Enter Merry and Rachell_.

_Mer_. Why go the neighbours round about the streete
To every house? what hast thou heard the cause?

_Rach_. They go about with that same Salters man,
Of whom I bought the bag but yesterday,
To see if he can know the maide againe
Which bought it: this I think the very cause.

_Mer_. How were my senses overcome with feare,
That I could not foresee this jeopardy!
For had I brought the bag away with me,
They had not had this meanes to finde it out.
Hide thee above least that the Salters man
Take notice of thee that thou art the maide,
And by that knowledge we be all undone.

_Rach_. That feare is past, I sawe, I spake with him,
Yet he denies that I did buy the bag;
Besides the neighbours have no doubt of you,
Saying you are an honest harmelesse man,
And made enquirie heere for fashion sake.

_Mer_. My former life deserves their good conceits,
Which is not blemisht with this treacherie.
My heart is merier then it was before,
For now I hope the greatest feare is past.
The hammer is denyed, the bag unknowne;
Now there is left no meanes to bring it out,
Unless our selves proove Traitors to our selves.

_Rach_. When saw you _Hary Williams_?

_Me_. Why, to day;
I met him comming home from _Powles Crosse_,
Where he had beene to heare a Sermon.

_Rach_. Why brought you not the man along with you
To come to dinner, that we might perswade
Him to continue in his secrecie?

_Mer_. I did intreate him, but he would not come,
But vow'd to be as secret as my selfe.

_Rach_. What, did he sweare?

_Mer_. What neede you aske me that?
You know we never heard him sweare an othe.
But since he hath conceal'd the thing thus long,
I hope in God he will conceale it still.

_Rach_. Pray God he do, and then I have no doubt
But God will overpasse this greevous sinne,
If you lament with true unfained teares
And seeke to live the remnant of your yeares
In Gods true feare with upright conscience.

_Mer_. If it would please him pardon this amisse
And rid my body from the open shame
That doth attend this deed, being brought to light,
I would endevour all my comming dayes
To please my maker and exalt his praise.
But it growes late, come bring me to my bed,
That I may rest my sorrow-charged head.

_Rach_. Rest still in calme secure tranquillitie,
And over-blowe this storme of mightie feare
With pleasant gales of hoped quietnesse.
Go when you will; I will attend, and pray
To send this wofull night a cheerfull day.

                                       [_Exeunt_.



[SCENE VI.]


    _Enter Falleria and Sostrata weeping_.

_Fall_. Passe ore these rugged furrowes of laments
And come to plainer pathes of cheerefulnesse;
Cease thy continuall showers of thy woe.
And let my pleasing wordes of comfort chase
These[35] duskie cloudes of thy uniust dispaire
Farre from thy hart, and let a pleasing hope
Of young _Pertillos_ happy safe returne
Establish all your ill-devining thoughts;
So shall you make me cheerfull that am sad,--
And feede your hopes with fond illusions.

_Sos_. I could be so; but my divided soule,
Twixt feare and hope of young _Pertillos_ life,
Cannot arrive at the desired port
Of firme beleefe, until mine eyes do see
Him that I sent to know the certainetie.

_Fal_. To know the certaintie! of whom, of what?
Whome, whether, when, or whereabout, I praie,
Have you dispatcht a frustrate messenger?--
By heaven, and earth, my heart misgiveth[36] me,
They will prevent my cunning pollicie.    [_To the people_.
Why speake you not? what winged Pegasus
Is posted for your satisfaction?

_Sos_. Me thinkes my speach reveales a hidden feare,
And that feare telles me that the childe is dead.

_Fall_. By sweete _S. Andrew_ and my fathers soule,
I thinke the peevish boy be too too well
But speake, who was your passions harbinger?

_Sos_. One that did kindle my misdoubting thoughts,
With the large flame of his timiddity.

_Fall_. Oh then I know the tinder of your feare.
Was young _Allenso_ your white[37] honnie sonne.
Confusion light upon his timerous head,
For broching this large streame of fearefulnesse!
And all the plagues that damned furies feele
For their forepassed bold iniquities,
Afflict you both for thus preventing me!

_Sos_. Preventing you! of what? _Fallerio_, speake,
For if you doe not my poore hart will breake.

_Fall_. Why of the good that I had purposed,
To young _Pertillo_, which I would conceale
From you and him until the deed were done.

_Sost_. If it were good, then we affect him deare,
And would add furtherance to your enterprise.

_Fall_. I say your close eaves-dropping[38] pollicies
Have hindred him of greater benefits
Then I can ever do him after this.--
If he live long, and growe to riper sinne,    [_To the people_.
Heele cursse you both, that thus have hindered
His freedom from this goale of sinfull flesh.--
But let that passe, when went your harebrainde sonne,
That Cuckow, vertue-singing, hatefull byrde,
To guarde the safetie of his better part,
Which he hath pend within the childish coope
Of young _Pertillos_ sweete securitie?

_Sost_. That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life,
The root of vertuous magnamitie,
That doth affect with an unfained love,
That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye,
Deserveth most to be affected deare,
Went some two houres after the little boy
Was sent away to keepe[39] at _Padua_.

_Fall_. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade,
A one eyde _Cyclops_, a stigmaticke[40] brat,
That durst attempt to contradict my will,
And prie into my close intendements.

    _Enter Alenso sad_.

Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke,
Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.--
I hope the brat is posted to his sire,
That he is growne so lazie of his pace;
Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue
Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.--
Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle,
That little _Dromus_ that crept into my sonne,
With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away?
Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note
That ever relisht in a mortals mouth.

_Allen_. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye,
Your note of shame and comming miserie.

_Fall_. Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare;
She was almost dead before for very feare.

_Allen_. Would I could roare as instruments of warre,
Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powder
Is toucht with part of _Etnas_ Element!
Would I could bellow like enraged Buls,
Whose harts are full of indignation,
To be captiv'd by humaine pollicie!
Would I could thunder like Almightie _Ioue_,
That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifie
The wicked hearts of earthly citizens!
Then roaring, bellowing, thundring, I would say,
Mother, lament, _Pertillos_ made away!

_Sost_. What, is he dead? God give me leave to die,
And him repentance for his treacherie!
                          [_Falleth down and dyeth_.

_Fall_. Never the like impietie was done:
A mother slaine, with terror of the sonne!
Helpe to repaire the damadge thou hast made,
And seeke to call back life with dilligence.

_Allen_. Call back a happy creature to more woe!
That were a sinne: good Father, let her go.
0 happy I, if my tormenting smart,
Could rend like her's, my griefe-afflicted heart!
Would your hard hart extend unto your wife,
To make her live an everdying life?
What, is she dead? oh, then thrice happy she,
Whose eyes are bard from our callamitie!

_Fall_. I, all too soone, thou viper, paracide!
But for thy tongue thy mother had not dyde:
That belching voice, that harsh night-raven sound,
Untimely sent thy mother to the ground:
Upbraid my fault, I did deceive my brother;
Cut out thy tongue, that slue thy carefull mother.

_Allen_. God love my soule, as I in heart rejoyce
To have such power in my death-bringing voice,
See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes;
Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes,
I doe behold with cheerefull countenance
The livelesse roote of my nativitie,
And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goe
To keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.--
Now, father, give attention to my tale;
I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongue
In bitter wordes of reprehension.
Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your head
Then wit or reason can remove againe;
For to be briefe, _Pertillo_, (oh that name
Cannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!)
Is murthered, and--

_Fal_. What and? this newes is good.

_Allen_. The men which you suborn'd to murther him--

_Fal_. Better and better, then it cannot out,
Unlesse your love will be so scripulous [_sic_]
That it will overthrowe your selfe and me.

_Allen_. The best is last, and yet you hinder me.
The Duke of _Padua_ hunting in the wood,
Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen--

_Fal_. Swones what of that? what good can come of that?

_Allen_. Was made acquainted by the one of them,
(That had some little remnant of his life)
With all your practice and conspiracie.

_Fall_. I would that remnant had fled quicke to hell,
To fetch fierce fi[e]ndes to rend their carcases,
Rather then bring my life in ieopardie!
Is this the best? swones, doe you mocke me, sonne,
And make a iest at my calamitie?

_Allen_. Not I, good father; I will ease your woe,
If you but yeeld unto my pollicie.

_Fal_. Declare it then, my wits are now to seeke;
That peece of life hath so confounded mee
That I am wholly overcome with feare.

_Allen_. The Duke hath vow'd to prosecute your life,
With all the strict severitie he can;
But I will crosse his resolution
And keepe you from his furie well enough.
Ile weare your habit, I will seeme the man
That did suborne the bloodie murtherers;
I will not stir from out this house of woe,
But waight the comming of the officers,
And answere for you fore the angrie Duke,
And, if neede be, suffer your punishment.

_Fall_. Ile none of that; I do not like the last;
I love thee dearer then I doe my life,
And all I did, was to advance thy state
To sunne-bright beames of shining happinesse.

_Allen_. Doubte not my life, for when I doe appeare
Before the Duke, I being not the man,
He can inflict no punishment on mee.

_Fall_. Mas, thou saiest true, a cannot punish thee;
Thou wert no actor of their Tragaedie.
But for my beard thou canst not counterfet
And bring gray haires uppon thy downy chinne;
White frostes are never seene in summers spring.

_Allen_. I bought a beard this day at _Padua_,
Such as our common actors use to weare
When youth would put on ages countenance;
So like in shape, in colour, and in all,
To that which growes upon your aged face,
That were I dressed in your abilimentes,
Your selfe would scarcely know me from your selfe.

_Fall_. That's excellent. What shape hast thou devis'd,
To be my vizard to delude the worlde?

_Allen_. Why thus: ile presentlie shave off your haire,
And dresse you in a lowlie shepheardes weede;
Then you will seeme to have the carefull charge
Of some wealth-bringing, rich, and fleecy flocke,
And so passe currant from suspition.

_Fall_. This care of thine, my sonne, doth testifie,
Nature in thee hath firme predominance,
That neither losse of friend, nor vile reproch,
Can shake thee with their strongest violence:
In this disguise, ile see the end of thee,
That thou, acquited, then maist succour me.

_Allen_. I am assur'd to be exempt from woe:--
This plot will worke my certaine overthrowe.    [_(To the) People_.

_Fall_. I will beare hence thy mother, and my wife,
Untimely murthered with true sorrowes knife.    [_Exit_.

_Allen_. Untimely murthered! happy was that griefe,
Which hath abridg'd whole numbers numberlesse
Of hart-surcharging deplorations.
She shall have due and Christian funerall,
And rest in peace amongst her auncestors.
As for our bodies, they shall be inter'd,
In ravening mawes, of Ravens, Puttockes, Crowes,
Of tatlin[g] Magpies, and deathes harbingers,
That wilbe glutted with winde-shaken limmes
Of blood-delighting hatefull murtherers.
And yet these many winged sepulchers,
Shall turne to earth, so I and father shall,
At last attaine to earth by funerall.
Well I will prosecute my pollicy,
That wished death may end my miseries.

                                    [_Exit_.



[SCENE VII.]


    _Enter Cowley and Williams_.

_Cow_. Still in your dumpes, good _Harry_? yet at last,
Utter your motive of this heavinesse.
Why go you not unto your maisters house?
What, are you parted? if that be the cause,
I will provide you of a better place.

_Wil_. Who roves all day, at length may hit the marke;
That is the cause,--because I cannot stay
With him whose love is dearer then my life.

_Cow_. Why fell you out? why did you part so soone?

_Wil_. We fell not out, but feare hath parted us.

_Cow_. What, did he feare your truth or honest life?

_Wil_. No, no, your understanding is but dimme,
That farre-remooved cannot iudge the feare.
We both were fearefull, and we both did part,
Because indeed we both were timerous.

_Cow_. What accident begot your mutuall feare?

_Wil_. That which my hart hath promis'd to conceale.

_Cow_. Why, now you fall into your auncient vaine.

_Wil_. Tis vaine to urge me from this silent vaine;
I will conceale it, though it breed my paine.

_Cow_. It seemes to be a thing of consequence,
And therefore prithie, _Harry_, for my love,
Open this close fast-clasped mysterie.

_Wil_. Were I assur'd my hart should have release
Of secret torment and distemperature,
I would reveale it to you specially
Whom I have found my faithfull favorite.

_Cow_. Good _Harrie Williams_, make no doubt of that;
Besides your griefe reveald may have reliefe,
Beyond your present expectation.
Then tell it, _Harry_, what soere it be,
And ease your hart of horror, me of doubt.

_Wil_. Then have you heard of _Beech_ of _Lambert Hill_,
And of his boy which late were murthered?

_Cow_. I heard, and sawe their mangled carcases.

_Will_. But have you heard of them that murthered them?

_Cow_. No, would I had, for then Ide blaze their shame,
And make them pay due penance for their sinne.

_Wil_. This I misdoubted, therefore will forbeare
To utter what I thought to have reveald.

_Cow_. Knowst thou the actors of this murthrous deed,
And wilt conceale it now the deed is done?
Alas, poore man, thou knowest not what thou doost!
Thou hast incur'd the danger of the lawe
And thou mongst them must suffer punishment,
Unlesse thou do confesse it presentlie.

_Wil_. What? shall I then betray my maisters life?

_Cow_. Better then hazard both thy life and soule
To boulster out such barbarous villanie.
Why, then belike your maister did the deed?

_Wil_. My maister unawares escapt my mouth;
But what the Lord doth please shall come to light,
Cannot be hid by humaine pollicie:
His haplesse hand hath wrought the fatall end
Of _Robert Beech_ and _Thomas Winchester_.

_Cow_. Could he alone do both those men to death?
Hadst thou no share in execution?

_Wil_. Nor knew not of it, till the deed was done.

_Cow_. If this be true, thou maist escape with life:
Confesse the truth unto the officers,
And thou shalt finde the favour of the lawe.

_Wil_. If I offended, 'twas my Maister's love
That made me hide his great transgressions:
But I will be directed as you please.
So save me God, as I am innocent!

                                     [_Exeunt_.



[SCENE VIII.]


    _Enter Alenso in Falleriaes apparell and berd;
    Falleria shaven in shepheards habilliments_.

_Fal_. Part of my selfe, now seemst thou wholy me,
And I seeme neither like my selfe nor thee,
Thankes to thy care and this unknown disguise.
I like a shepheard now must learn to know,
When to lead foorth my little bleating flock,
To pleasing pastures, and well-fatting walkes;
In stormie time to drive them to the lee;
To cheere the pretie Lambes, whose bleating voice
Doth crave the wished comfort of their dams;
To sound my merry Bag-pipe on the downes,
In shearing times, poore Shepheards festivals;
And lastlie, how to drive the Wolfe away,
That seeke to make the little Lambes their pray.

_Allen_. Ah, have you care to drive the Wolfe away
From sillie creatures wanting intellecte,
And yet would suffer your devouring thoughts,
To suck the blood of your dead brothers sonne!
As pure and innocent as any Lambe
_Pertillo_ was, which you have fed upon.
But things past helpe may better be bewaild
With carefull teares, then finde a remedie;
Therefore, for feare our practise be espide,
Let us to question of our husbandrie.
How many Lambes fell from the middle flock,
Since I myselfe did take the latter view?

    _Enter Vesuvio, Turqual, Alberto_.

_Fall_. Some vive and twenty, whereof two are dead.
But three and twenty scud about the fields,
That glads my hart to ze their iollitie.

_Vesu_. This is the man, conferring of his Lambes,
That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.

_Allen_. What is the time to let the Weathers blood?
The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse,
Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood,
Which must be purg'd; else, when the winter comes,
The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.

_Fall_. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time,
Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]

_Vesu_. Forbeare a while this idle businesse,
And talke of matters of more consequence.

_Fall_. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man,
To call a shepheards care an idle toye.
What though we have a little merry sport
With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe,
And jolly friskins on a holly-day,
Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke
Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.

_Vesu_. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!--
And now, _Fallerio_, in the Princes name,
I do arrest you, for the cruell murther
Of young _Pertillo_, left unto your charge,
Which you discharged with a bloody writ,
Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne.
Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence,
To ratifie your _Stigian_ cruelty,
That cannot be deluded any way.

_Allen_. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say!
As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well:
I sent him yesterday to _Padua_.

_Alber_. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes,
As will not winck at your iniquitie.

_Allen_. By heaven and earth my soule is innocent!
Say what you will, I know my conscience.

_Fal_.--To be afflicted with a scourge of care,
Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.

_Turq_. Come, beare him hence! expostulate no more;
That heart that could invent such treachery,
Can teach his face to brave it cunninglie.

_Alen_. I do defie your accusations;
Let me have justice, I will answere it.

_Vesuv_. So, beare him hence! I meane to stay behinde,
To take possession of his goods and landes
For the Dukes use: it is too manifest.

_Allen_. I hope youle answere anything you doe.
My Lord _Vesuvio_, you shall answere it,
And all the rest that use extremities.

_Alber_. I, to the Dukes Exchecker, not to you.

                       [_Exeunt omnes; manet Falleria_.

_Fal_. Thus shades are caught when substances are fled.
Indeede they have my garments, but my selfe
Am close enough from their discoverie;
But not so close but that my verie soule,
Is ract with tormentes for _Pertillos_ death.
I am _Acteon_; I doe beare about,
My hornes of shame and inhumanitie.
My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter me
With hope of great succeeding benefits,
Now gin to teare my care-tormented heart
With feare of death and tortring punishment.
These are the stings whenas our consciences
Are stuf'd and clogd with close-concealed crimes.
Well, I must smoather all these discontentes,
And strive to beare a smoother countenaunce
Then rugged care would willingly permit.
Ile to the Court to see _Allenso_ free,
That he may then relieve my povertie.

                                        [_Exit_.



[SCENE IX.]


    _Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes_.

_Con_. Who would have thought of all the men alive
That _Thomas Merry_ would have done this deede
So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!

1 _wat_. Of all the men that live in _London_ walles,
I would have thought that _Merry_ had bin free.

2 _wat_. Is this the fruites of Saint-like Puritans?
I never like such damn'd hipocrisie.

3 _wat_. He would not loase a sermon for a pound,
An oath he thought would rend his iawes in twaine,
An idle word did whet Gods vengeance on;
And yet two murthers were not scripulous.
Such close illusions God will bring to light,
And overthrowe the workers with his might.

_Con_. This is the house; come let us knocke at dore;
I see a light, they are not all in bed:
                     [_Knockes; Rachell comes downe_.
How now, faire maide? is your brother up?

_Rach_. He's not within, sir; would you speake with him?

_Con_. You doe but iest; I know he is within,
And I must needes go uppe and speake with him.

_Rach_. In deede, good sir, he is in bed a sleepe,
And I was loath to trouble him to-night.

_Con_. Well, sister, I am sorry for your sake;
But for your brother, he is knowne to be
A damned villaine and an hipocrite.
_Rachell_, I charge thee in her highnesse name,
To go with us to prison presently.

_Rach_. To prison, sir? alas, what have I done?

_Con_. You know that best, but every one doe know
You and your brother murthered Maister _Beech_,
And his poore boy that dwelt at _Lambert hill_.

_Rach_. I murthered? my brother knowes that I,
Did not consent to either of their deathes.

_Con_. That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?

_Rach_. Here in his bed; me thinks he's not a sleepe.

_Con_. Now, Maister _Merry_, are you in a sweate?
                           [_Throwes his night cap away_.

_Merry sigh_. No verily, I am not in a sweate.

_Con_. Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?

_Mer_. Nothing but that you wak'd me unawares.

_Con_. In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise,
And presently to goe along with us.
                                         [_Riseth up_.

_Mer_. With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?

_Con_. We partly doe; when saw you maister _Beech_?

_Mer_. I doe not well remember who you meane.

_Con_. Not _Beech_, the Chaundler upon _Lambert hill_?

_Mer_. I know the man, but saw him not this fortnight.

_Con_. I would you had not, for your sisters sake,
For yours, for his, and for his harmlesse boy.
Be not obdurate in your wickednesse;
Confession drawes repentance after it.

_Mer_. Well, maister Constable, I doe confesse,
I was the man that did them both to death:
As for my sister and my harmlesse man,
I doe protest they both are innocent.

_Con_. Your man is fast in hold, and hath confest
The manner how, and where, the deede was done;
Therefore twere vaine to colour anything.
Bring them away.

_Rach_. Ah brother, woe is me!

_Mer_. I comfortlesse will helpe to comfort thee.

                                        [_Exeunt_.

    _Enter Trueth_.

Weepe, weepe poor soules, & enterchange your woes;
Now, _Merry_, change thy name and countenance;
Smile not, thou wretched creature, least in scorne
Thou smile to thinke on thy extremities.
Thy woes were countlesse for thy wicked deedes,
Thy sisters death neede not increase the coumpt,
For thou couldst never number them before.--
Gentles, helpe out with this suppose, I pray,
And thinke it truth, for Truth dooth tell the tale.
_Merry_, by lawe convict as principall,
Receives his doome, to hang till he be dead,
And afterwards for to be hangd in chaines.
_Williams_ and _Rachell_ likewise are convict
For their concealment; _Williams_ craves his booke[42]
And so receaves a brond[43] of infamie;
But wretched _Rachels_ sexe denies that grace,
And therefore dooth receive a doome of death
To dye with him whose sinnes she did conceale.
Your eyes shall witnesse of their shaded tipes,
Which many heere did see perform'd indeed.
As for _Fallerio_, not his homelie weedes,
His beardlesse face, nor counterfetted speech,
Can shield him from deserved punishment;
But what he thinkes shall rid him from suspect,
Shall drench him in more waves of wretchednesse,
Pulling his sonne into relentlesse iawes,
Of hungrie death, on tree of infamie.
Heere comes the Duke that doomes them both to die;
Next _Merries_ death shall end this Tragedie.

                                           [_Exit_.




[ACT THE FIFTH.]

[SCENE I.]


    _Enter Duke, Vesuvio, Turq., Alberto: and Fallerio disguised_.

_Duke_. Where is that _Syren_, that incarnate fiend,
Monster of Nature, spectacle of shame,
Blot and confusion of his familie,
False-seeming semblance of true-dealing trust,
I meane _Fallerio_, bloody murtherer:
Hath he confest his cursed treacherie,
Or will he stand to proove his innocence?

_Vesu_. We have attach'de _Fallerio_, gracious lord,
And did accuse him with _Pertillos_ death;
But he remote will not confesse himselfe
Neither the meanes nor author of the same.
His mightie vowes and protestations
Do almost seeme to pleade integritie,
But that we all do know the contrarie.

_Fall_.--I know your error stricks your knowledge blinde;
His seeming me, doth so delude your minde.    [_(To the) People_.

_Duke_. Then bring him forth, to answer for himselfe,
Since he stands stoutly to denie the deed:

                    [_Alberto and other fetch Alenso_.

His sonne can witnesse that the dying man
Accusde _Fallerio_ for his treacherie.--
Stand forth thou close disguised hipocrite,
And speake directlie to these articles:
First, didst thou hire two bloodie murtherers
To massacre _Pertillo_ in a wood?

_Alen_. I never did suborne such murtherers,
But ever lov'd _Pertillo_ as my life.

_Duke_. Thy sonne can witnesse to the contrarie.

_Alen_. I have no sonne to testifie so much.

_Fal_.--No, for his gravitie is counterfeit,
Pluck off his beard, and you will sweare it so.

_Vesu_. Have you no sonne? doth not _Alenso_ live?

_Alen_. _Alenso_ lives, but is no sonne of mine.

_Alber_. Indeed his better part had not his source
From thy corrupted vice-affecting hart,
For vertue is the marke he aimeth at.

_Duke_. I dare be sworne that _Sostrata_ would blush,
Shouldst thou deny _Alenso_ for thy sonne.

_Alen_. Nay, did she live, she would not challenge me
To be the father of that haplesse sonne.

_Turq_. Nay, then anon you will denie your selfe
To be your selfe, unjust _Fallerio_.

_Alen_. I do confesse my selfe to be my selfe,
But will not answere to _Fallerio_.

_Duke_. Not to _Fallerio_? this is excellent!
You are the man was cal'd _Fallerio_.

_Alen_. He never breathed yet that cal'd me so,
Except he were deceiv'd as you are now.

_Duke_. This impudence shall not excuse your fault;
You are well knowne to be _Fallerio_,
The wicked husband of dead _Sostrata_
And father to the vertuous _Alenso_;
And even as sure as all these certeinties,
Thou didst contrive thy little Nephewes death.

_Alen_. True, for I am nor false _Fallerio_,
Husband, nor father, as you do suggest,
And therefore did not hire the murtherers;
Which to be true acknowledge with your eyes.
                       [_Puls off his disguise_.

_Duke_. How now, my Lords! this is a myracle,
To shake off thirtie yeares so sodeinlie
And turne from feeble age to flourishing youth!

_Alb_. But he my Lord that wrought this miracle,
Is not of power to free himselfe from death,
Through the performance of this suddaine change.

_Duke_. No, were he the chiefest hope of Christendome,
He should not live for this presumption:
Use no excuse, _Alenso_, for thy life;
My doome of death shall be irrevocable.

_Alen_. Ill fare his soule that would extenuate
The rigor of your life-confounding doome!
I am prepar'd with all my hart to die,
For thats th' end of humaine miserie.

_Duke_. Then thus: you shall be hang'd immediately,
For your illusion of the Magistrates
With borrowed shapes of false antiquitie.

_Alen_. Thrice-happy sentence, which I do imbrace
With a more fervent and unfained zeale
Then an ambicious rule-desiring man
Would do a Iem-bedecked Diadem,
Which brings more watchfull cares and discontent
Then pompe or honor can remunerate.
When I am dead, let it be said of me,
_Alenso_ died to set his father free.

_Fal_. That were a freedome worse than servitude
To cruell Turke or damned Infidell.
Most righteous Judge, I do appeale for Iustice,
Justice on him that hath deserved death,
Not on _Alenso_; he is innocent.

_Alen_. But I am guiltie of abetting him,
Contrarie to his Maiestie's Edict,
And therefore death is meritorious.

_Fall_. I am the wretch that did subborne the slaves,
To murther poore _Pertillo_ in the wood.
Spare, spare _Alenso_! he is innocent.

_Duke_. What strange appeale is this! we know thee not:
None but _Fallerio_ is accusde hereof.

_Alen_. Then, father, get you hence, depart in time,
Least being knowne you suffer for the crime.

_Fal_. Depart, and leave thee clad in horrors cloake,
And suffer death for true affection!
Although my soule be guiltie of more sinne,
Then ever sinfull soule were guiltie of,
Yet fiends of hell would never suffer this.
I am thy father, though unworthy so:
Oh, still I see these weeds do feare your eyes.
I am _Fallerio_, make no doubt of me,    [_Put off_.
Though thus disguisde, in habite, countenance,
Only to scape the terror of the lawe.

_Alen_. And I _Alenso_ that did succour him
Gainst your commaundement, mightie Soveraigne.
Ponder your oath, your vowe, as God did live,
I should not live, if I did rescue him.
I did, God lives, and will revenge it home,
If you defer my condigne punishment.

_Duke_. Assure your selves, you both shall suffer death:
But for _Fallerio_, he shall hang in chaines
After he's dead, for he was principall.

_Fall_. Unsaverie Woormewood, Hemlock, bitter gall,
Brings no such bad, unrelisht, sower taste,
Unto the tongue as this death-boding voice,
Brings to the eares of poore _Fallerio_,
Not for myselfe but for _Allensoes_ sake,
Whome I have murthered by my trechery.
Ah my dread Lord, if any little sparke
Of melting pittie doth remaine alive,
And not extinguisht by my impious deedes,
Oh kindle it unto a happie flame,
To light _Allenso_ from this miserie
Which through dim death he's like to fall into.

_Allen_. That were to overthrow my soule and all.
Should you reverse this sentence of my death,
My selfe would play the death-man on my selfe
And overtake your swift and winged soule,
Ere churlish _Caron_ had transported you
Unto the fields of sad _Proserpina_.

_Duke_. Cease, cease, _Fallerio_, in thy bootlesse prayers.
I am resolv'd, I am inexorable.
_Vesuvio_, see their judgement be performde,
And use _Alenso_ with all clemencie,
Provided that the lawe be satisfied.

                         [_Exit Duke and Alberto_.

_Vesu_. It shall be done with all respectivenesse;
Have you no doubt of that, my gratious Lord.

_Fall_. Here is a mercie mixt with equitie,
To show him favour but cut off his head.

_Alen_. My reverend father pacifie yourselfe;
I can, and will, indure the stroake of death,
Were his appearance nere so horrible,
To meete _Pertillo_ in another world.

_Fal_. Thou shouldst have tarried untill natures course
Had been extinct, that thou oregrowne with age,
Mightst die the death of thy progenitors;
Twas not thy meanes he died so soddenly,
But mine, that causing his, have murthered thee.

_Alen_. But yet I slew my mother, did I not?

_Fal_. I, with reporting of my villanie.
The very audit of my wickednesse,
Had force enough to give a sodaine death.
Ah sister, sister, now I call to minde,
Thy dying wordes now prov'd a prophesie,
If you deale ill with this distressed childe,
God will no doubt revenge the innocent.
I have delt ill, and God hath tane revenge.

_Allen_. Now let us leave remembrance of past deedes,
And thinke on that which more concerneth us.

_Fal_. With all my hart; thou ever wert the spur
Which prict me on to any godlinesse;
And now thou doest indevor to incite
Me make my parting peace with God and men.
I doe confesse, even from my verie soule,
My hainous sinne and grievous wickednesse
Against my maker manie thousand waies:
_Ab imo cordis_ I repent my selfe
Of all my sinnes against his maiestie;
And, heavenly father, lay not to my charge
The death of poore _Pertillo_ and those men
Which I suborn'd to