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BUSSY D'AMBOIS

AND

THE REVENGE OF
BUSSY D'AMBOIS

By GEORGE CHAPMAN

EDITED BY

FREDERICK S. BOAS, M.A.

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN
QUEEN'S COLLEGE, BELFAST

BOSTON, U.S.A., AND LONDON
D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS
1905

COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
D. C. HEATH & CO.

Table of Contents

Prefatory Note
Biography
Introduction

BUSSY D'AMBOIS
The Text
Sources
Prologue
Dramatis Personæ
Actus primi Scena prima.
Scena Secunda.
Actus Secund[i.] Scena Prima.
Scena Secunda.
Actus Tertii Scena Prima.
Scena Secunda.
Actus Quarti Scena Prima.
Scena Secunda.
Actus Quinti Scena Prima.
Scena Secunda.
Scena Tertia.
Scena Quarta.
Epilogue
Notes To Bussy D'Ambois

THE REVENGE OF BUSSY D'AMBOIS
The Text
Sources
The Actors Names
Actus primi Scæna prima.
Scæna Secunda.
Actus secundi Scæna prima.
Actus tertii Scæna prima.
Scæna Secunda.
Scæna Tertia.
Scæna Quarta.
Actus quarti Scæna prima.
Scæna secunda.
Scæna tertia.
Scæna quarta.
Scæna quinta.
Actus quinti Scæna prima.
Scæna secunda.
Scæna tertia.
Scæna quarta.
Scæna quinta.
Notes to The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois

Appendix A
Appendix B
Bibliography
Glossary

Prefatory Note

In this volume an attempt is made for the first time to edit Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois in a manner suitable to the requirements of modern scholarship. Of the relations of this edition to its predecessors some details are given in the Notes on the Text of the two plays. But in these few prefatory words I should like to call attention to one or two points, and make some acknowledgments.

The immediate source of Bussy D'Ambois still remains undiscovered. But the episodes in the career of Chapman's hero, vouched for by contemporaries like Brantôme and Marguerite of Valois, and related in some detail in my Introduction, are typical of the material which the dramatist worked upon. And an important clue to the spirit in which he handled it is the identification, here first made, of part of Bussy's dying speech with lines put by Seneca into the mouth of Hercules in his last agony on Mount Œta. The exploits of D'Ambois were in Chapman's imaginative vision those of a semi-mythical hero rather than of a Frenchman whose life overlapped with his own.

On the provenance of The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois I have been fortunately able, with valuable assistance from others, to cast much new light. In an article in The Athenæum, Jan. 10, 1903, I showed that the immediate source of many of the episodes in the play was Edward Grimeston's translation (1607) of Jean de Serres's Inventaire Général de l'Histoire de France. Since that date I owe to Mr. H. Richards, Fellow of Wadham College, Oxford, the important discovery that a number of speeches in the play are borrowed from the Discourses of Epictetus, from whom Chapman drew his conception of the character of Clermont D'Ambois. My brother-in-law, Mr. S. G. Owen, Student of Christ Church, has given me valuable help in explaining some obscure classical allusions. Dr. J. A. H. Murray, the editor of the New English Dictionary, has kindly furnished me with the interpretation of a difficult passage in Bussy D'Ambois; and Mr. W. J. Craig, editor of the Arden Shakespeare, and Mr. Le Gay Brereton, of the University of Sidney, have been good enough to proffer helpful suggestions. Finally I am indebted to Professor George P. Baker, the General Editor of this Series, for valuable advice and help on a large number of points, while the proofs of this volume were passing through the press.

F. S. B.

Biography

George Chapman was probably born in the year after Elizabeth's accession. Anthony Wood gives 1557 as the date, but the inscription on his portrait, prefixed to the edition of The Whole Works of Homer in 1616, points to 1559. He was a native of Hitchin in Hertfordshire, as we learn from an allusion in his poem Euthymiæ Raptus or The Teares of Peace, and from W. Browne's reference to him in Britannia's Pastorals as "the learned shepheard of faire Hitching Hill." According to Wood "in 1574 or thereabouts, he being well grounded in school learning was sent to the University." Wood is uncertain whether he went first to Oxford or to Cambridge, but he is sure, though he gives no authority for the statement, that Chapman spent some time at the former "where he was observed to be most excellent in the Latin & Greek tongues, but not in logic or philosophy, and therefore I presume that that was the reason why he took no degree there."

His life for almost a couple of decades afterwards is a blank, though it has been conjectured on evidences drawn from The Shadow of Night and Alphonsus Emperor of Germany, respectively, that he served in one of Sir F. Vere's campaigns in the Netherlands, and that he travelled in Germany. The Shadow of Night, consisting of two "poeticall hymnes" appeared in 1594, and is his first extant work. It was followed in 1595 by Ovid's Banquet of Sence, The Amorous Zodiac, and other poems. These early compositions, while containing fine passages, are obscure and crabbed in style.[v:1] In 1598 appeared Marlowe's fragmentary Hero and Leander with Chapman's continuation. By this year he had established his position as a playwright, for Meres in his Palladis Tamia praises him both as a writer of tragedy and of comedy. We know from Henslowe's Diary that his earliest extant comedy The Blinde Begger of Alexandria was produced on February 12, 1596, and that for the next two or three years he was working busily for this enterprising manager. An Humerous dayes Myrth (pr. 1599), and All Fooles (pr. 1605) under the earlier title of The World Runs on Wheels,[vi:1] were composed during this period.

Meanwhile he had begun the work with which his name is most closely linked, his translation of Homer. The first instalment, entitled Seaven Bookes of the Iliades of Homere, Prince of Poets, was published in 1598, and was dedicated to the Earl of Essex. After the Earl's execution Chapman found a yet more powerful patron, for, as we learn from the letters printed recently in The Athenæum (cf. Bibliography, sec. iii), he was appointed about 1604 "sewer (i. e. cupbearer) in ordinary," to Prince Henry, eldest son of James I. The Prince encouraged him to proceed with his translation, and about 1609 appeared the first twelve books of the Iliad (including the seven formerly published) with a fine "Epistle Dedicatory," to "the high-born Prince of men, Henry." In 1611 the version of the Iliad was completed, and that of the Odyssey was, at Prince Henry's desire, now taken in hand. But the untimely death of the Prince, on November 6th, 1612, dashed all Chapman's hopes of receiving the anticipated reward of his labours. According to a petition which he addressed to the Privy Council, the Prince had promised him on the conclusion of his translation £300, and "uppon his deathbed a good pension during my life." Not only were both of these withheld, but he was deprived of his post of "sewer" by Prince Charles. Nevertheless he completed the version of the Odyssey in 1614, and in 1616 he published a folio volume entitled The Whole Works of Homer. The translation, in spite of its inaccuracies and its "conceits," is, by virtue of its sustained dignity and vigour, one of the noblest monuments of Elizabethan genius.

By 1605, if not earlier, Chapman had resumed his work for the stage. In that year he wrote conjointly with Marston and Jonson the comedy of Eastward Hoe. On account of some passages reflecting on the Scotch, the authors were imprisoned. The details of the affair are obscure. According to Jonson, in his conversation later with Drummond, Chapman and Marston were responsible for the obnoxious passages, and he voluntarily imprisoned himself with them. But in one of the recently printed letters, which apparently refers to this episode, Chapman declares that he and Jonson lie under the Kings displeasure for "two clawses and both of them not our owne," i. e., apparently, written by Marston.[vii:1] However this may be, the offenders were soon released, and Chapman continued energetically his dramatic work. In 1606 appeared two of his most elaborate comedies, The Gentleman Usher and Monsieur D'Olive, and in the next year was published his first and most successful tragedy, Bussy D'Ambois. In 1608 were produced two connected plays, The Conspiracie and Tragedie of Charles, Duke of Byron, dealing with recent events in France, and based upon materials in E. Grimeston's translation (1607) of Jean de Serres' History. Again Chapman found himself in trouble with the authorities, for the French ambassador, offended by a scene in which Henry IV's Queen was introduced in unseemly fashion, had the performance of the plays stopped for a time. Chapman had to go into hiding to avoid arrest, and when he came out, he had great difficulty in getting the plays licensed for publication, even with the omission of the offending episodes. His fourth tragedy based on French history, The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois, appeared in 1613. It had been preceded by two comedies, May-Day (1611), and The Widdowes' Teares (1612). Possibly, as Mr Dobell suggests (Athenæum, 23 March, 1901), the coarse satire of the latter play may have been due to its author's annoyance at the apparent refusal of his suit by a widow to whom some of the recently printed letters are addressed. In 1613 he produced his Maske of the Middle Temple and Lyncolns Inne, which was one of the series performed in honour of the marriage of the Princess Elizabeth and the Elector Palatine. Another hymeneal work, produced on a much less auspicious occasion, was an allegorical poem, Andromeda Liberata, celebrating the marriage of the Earl of Somerset with the divorced Lady Essex in December, 1613.

The year 1614, when the Odyssey was completed, marks the culminating point of Chapman's literary activity. Henceforward, partly perhaps owing to the disappointment of his hopes through Prince Henry's death, his production was more intermittent. Translations of the Homeric Hymns, of the Georgicks of Hesiod, and other classical writings, mainly occupy the period till 1631. In that year he printed another tragedy, Cæsar and Pompey, which, however, as we learn from the dedication, had been written "long since." The remaining plays with which his name has been connected did not appear during his lifetime. A comedy, The Ball, licensed in 1632, but not published till 1639, has the names of Chapman and Shirley on the title-page, but the latter was certainly its main author. Another play, however, issued in the same year, and ascribed to the same hands, The Tragedie of Chabot, Admiral of France makes the impression, from its subject-matter and its style, of being chiefly due to Chapman. In 1654 two tragedies, Alphonsus Emperour of Germany and The Revenge for Honour, were separately published under Chapman's name. Their authorship, however, is doubtful. There is nothing in the style or diction of Alphonsus which resembles Chapman's undisputed work, and it is hard to believe that he had a hand in it. The Revenge for Honour is on an Oriental theme, entirely different from those handled by Chapman in his other tragedies, and the versification is marked by a greater frequency of feminine endings than is usual with him; but phrases and thoughts occur which may be paralleled from his plays, and the work may be from his hand.

On May 12, 1634, he died, and was buried in the churchyard of St. Giles's in the Field, where his friend Inigo Jones erected a monument to his memory. According to Wood, he was a person of "most reverend aspect, religious and temperate, qualities rarely meeting in a poet." Though his material success seems to have been small, he gained the friendship of many of the most illustrious spirits of his time—Essex, Prince Henry, Bacon, Jonson, Webster, among the number—and it has been his good fortune to draw in after years splendid tributes from such successors in the poetic art as Keats and A. C. Swinburne.

FOOTNOTES:

[v:1] This Biography was written before the appearance of Mr. Acheson's volume, Shakespeare and the Rival Poet. Without endorsing all his arguments or conclusions, I hold that Mr. Acheson has proved that Shakespeare in a number of his Sonnets refers to these earlier poems of Chapman's. He has thus brought almost conclusive evidence in support of Minto's identification of Shakespeare's rival with Chapman—a conjecture with which I, in 1896, expressed strong sympathy in my Shakspere and his Predecessors.

[vi:1] This identification seems established by the entry in Henslowe's Diary, under date 2 July 1599. "Lent unto thomas Dowton to paye M^r Chapman, in full paymente for his boocke called the world rones a whelles, and now all foolles, but the foolle, some of ______ xxxs."

[vii:1] See pp. 158-64, Jonson's Eastward Hoe and Alchemist, F. E. Schelling (Belles Lettres Series, 1904).

Introduction

The group of Chapman's plays based upon recent French history, to which Bussy D'Ambois and its sequel belong, forms one of the most unique memorials of the Elizabethan drama. The playwrights of the period were profoundly interested in the annals of their own country, and exploited them for the stage with a magnificent indifference to historical accuracy. Gorboduc and Locrine were as real to them as any Lancastrian or Tudor prince, and their reigns were made to furnish salutary lessons to sixteenth century "magistrates." Scarcely less interesting were the heroes of republican Greece and Rome: Cæsar, Pompey, and Antony, decked out in Elizabethan garb, were as familiar to the playgoers of the time as their own national heroes, real or legendary. But the contemporary history of continental states had comparatively little attraction for the dramatists of the period, and when they handled it, they usually had some political or religious end in view. Under a thin veil of allegory, Lyly in Midas gratified his audience with a scathing denunciation of the ambition and gold-hunger of Philip II of Spain; and half a century later Middleton in a still bolder and more transparent allegory, The Game of Chess, dared to ridicule on the stage Philip's successor, and his envoy, Gondomar. But both plays were suggested by the elements of friction in the relations of England and Spain.

French history also supplied material to some of the London playwrights, but almost exclusively as it bore upon the great conflict between the forces of Roman Catholicism and Protestantism. The Masaker of France, which Henslowe mentions as having been played on January 3, 1592-3, may or may not be identical with Marlowe's The Massacre at Paris, printed towards the close of the sixteenth century, but in all probability it expressed similarly the burning indignation of Protestant England at the appalling events of the Eve of St. Bartholomew. Whatever Marlowe's religious or irreligious views may have been, he acted on this occasion as the mouthpiece of the vast majority of his countrymen, and he founded on recent French history a play which, with all its defects, is of special interest to our present inquiry. For Chapman, who finished Marlowe's incompleted poem, Hero and Leander, must have been familiar with this drama, which introduced personages and events that were partly to reappear in the two Bussy plays. A brief examination of The Massacre at Paris will, therefore, help to throw into relief the special characteristics of Chapman's dramas.

It opens with the marriage, in 1572, of Henry of Navarre and Margaret, sister of King Charles IX, which was intended to assuage the religious strife. But the Duke of Guise, the protagonist of the play, is determined to counterwork this policy, and with the aid of Catherine de Medicis, the Queen-Mother, and the Duke of Anjou (afterwards Henry III), he arranges the massacre of the Huguenots. Of the events of the fatal night we get a number of glimpses, including the murder of a Protestant, Scroune, by Mountsorrell (Chapman's Montsurry), who is represented as one of the Guise's most fanatical adherents. Charles soon afterwards dies, and is succeeded by his brother Henry, but "his mind runs on his minions," and Catherine and the Guise wield all real power. But there is one sphere which Guise cannot control—his wife's heart, which is given to Mugeroun, one of the "minions" of the King. Another of the minions, Joyeux, is sent against Henry of Navarre, and is defeated and slain; but Henry, learning that Guise has raised an army against his sovereign "to plant the Pope and Popelings in the realm," joins forces with the King against the rebel, who is treacherously murdered and dies crying, "Vive la messe! perish Huguenots!" His brother, the Cardinal, meets a similar fate, but the house of Lorraine is speedily revenged by a friar, who stabs King Henry. He dies, vowing vengeance upon Rome, and sending messages to Queen Elizabeth, "whom God hath bless'd for hating papistry."

It is easy to see how a play on these lines would have appealed to an Elizabethan audience, while Marlowe, whether his religious sympathies were engaged or not, realized the dramatic possibilities of the figure of the Guise, one of the lawlessly aspiring brotherhood that had so irresistible a fascination for his genius. But it is much more difficult to understand why, soon after the accession of James I, Chapman should have gone back to the same period of French history, and reintroduced a number of the same prominent figures, Henry III, Guise, his Duchess, and Mountsorrell, not in their relation to great political and religious outbreaks, but grouped round a figure who can scarcely have been very familiar to the English theatre-going public—Louis de Clermont, Bussy d'Amboise.[xii:1]

This personage was born in 1549, and was the eldest son of Jacques de Clermont d'Amboise, seigneur de Bussy et de Saxe-Fontaine, by his first wife, Catherine de Beauvais. He followed the career of arms, and in 1568 we hear of him as a commandant of a company. He was in Paris during the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and took advantage of it to settle a private feud. He had had a prolonged lawsuit with his cousin Antoine de Clermont, a prominent Huguenot, and follower of the King of Navarre. While his rival was fleeing for safety he had the misfortune to fall into the hands of Bussy, who dispatched him then and there. He afterwards distinguished himself in various operations against the Huguenots, and by his bravery and accomplishments won the favour of the Duke of Anjou, who, after the accession of Henry III in 1575, was heir to the throne. The Duke in this year appointed him his couronell, and henceforward he passed into his service. In 1576, as a reward for negotiating "la paix de Monsieur" with the Huguenots, the Duke received the territories of Anjou, Touraine, and Berry, and at once appointed Bussy governor of Anjou. In November the new governor arrived at Angers, the capital of the Duchy, and was welcomed by the citizens; but the disorders and exactions of his troops soon aroused the anger of the populace, and the King had to interfere in their behalf, though for a time Bussy set his injunctions at defiance. At last he retired from the city, and rejoined the Duke, in close intercourse with whom he remained during the following years, accompanying him finally on his unsuccessful expedition to the Low Countries in the summer of 1578. On Anjou's return to court in January, 1579, Bussy, who seems to have alienated his patron by his presumptuous behaviour, did not go with him, but took up his residence again in the territory of Anjou. He was less occupied, however, with his official duties than with his criminal passion for Françoise de Maridort, wife of the Comte de Monsoreau, who had been appointed grand-veneur to the Duke. The favorite mansion of the Comte was at La Coutancière, and it was here that Bussy ardently pursued his intrigue with the Countess. But a jocular letter on the subject, which he sent to the Duke of Anjou, was shown, according to the historian, De Thou, by the Duke to the King, who, in his turn, passed it on to Montsoreau. The latter thereupon forced his wife to make a treacherous assignation with Bussy at the château on the night of the 18th of August, and on his appearance, with his companion in pleasure, Claude Colasseau, they were both assassinated by the retainers of the infuriated husband.

The tragic close of Bussy's life has given his career an interest disproportionate to his historical importance. But the drama of La Coutancière was only the final episode in a career crowded with romantic incidents. The annalists and memoir-writers of the period prove that Bussy's exploits as a duellist and a gallant had impressed vividly the imagination of his contemporaries. Margaret of Valois, the wife of Henry IV, Brantôme, who was a relative and friend of D'Ambois, and L'Estoile, the chronicler and journalist, are amongst those who have left us their impressions of this beau sabreur. Chapman must have had access to memorials akin to theirs as a foundation for his drama, and though, for chronological reasons, they cannot have been utilized by him, they illustrate the materials which he employed.

The first two Acts of the play are chiefly occupied with Bussy's arrival at court, his entry into the service of Monsieur, his quarrel with Guise, and the duel between himself and Barrisor, with two supporters on either side. Brantôme, in his Discours sur les Duels, relates from personal knowledge an incident between Guise and Bussy, which took place shortly after the accession of Henry III. The Duke took occasion of a royal hunting party to draw Bussy alone into the forest, and to demand certain explanations of him. D'Ambois gave these in a satisfactory manner; but had he not done so, the Duke declared, in spite of their difference of rank, he would have engaged in single combat with him. The explanations demanded may well have concerned the honour of the Duchess, and we get at any rate a hint for the episode in Chapman's play (i, ii, 57-185).

For the duelling narrative (ii, i, 35-137) we get considerably more than a hint. Our chief authority is again Brantôme, in another work, the Discours sur les Couronnels de l'infanterie de France. He tells us that he was with Bussy at a play, when a dispute arose between him and the Marquis of Saint-Phal as to whether the jet embroidery on a certain muff represented xx or yy. The quarrel was appeased for the time being, but on the following day Bussy, meeting Saint-Phal at the house of a lady with whom he had had relations, and who was now the mistress of the Marquis, renewed the dispute. An encounter took place between Bussy, supported by five or six gentlemen, and Saint-Phal, assisted by an equal number of Scotchmen of the Royal Guard, one of whom wounded Bussy's hand. Thereupon Saint-Phal withdrew, but his fire-eating rival was anxious at all hazards for another encounter. It was only with the greatest difficulty, as Brantôme relates in entertaining fashion, that the King was able to bring about a reconciliation between them. Such an episode, reported with exaggeration of details, might well have suggested the narrative in Act ii of the triple encounter.

Brantôme further relates a midnight attack upon Bussy, about a month later, by a number of his jealous rivals, when he had a narrow escape from death. Of this incident another account has been given by Margaret of Valois in her Mémoires. Margaret and her brother, the Duke of Anjou, were devoted to one another, and Bussy was for a time a paramour of the Queen of Navarre. Though she denies the liaison, she says of him that there was not "en ce siècle-là de son sexe et de sa qualité rien de semblable en valeur, reputation, grace, et esprit." Margaret, L'Estoile, and Brantôme all relate similar incidents during Bussy's sojourn at court in the year 1578, and the last-named adds:

"Si je voulois raconter toutes les querelles qu'il a eues, j'aurois beaucoup affaire; hélas! il en a trop eu, et toutes les a desmeslées à son très-grand honneur et heur. Il en vouloit souvant par trop à plusieurs, sans aucun respect; je luy ay dict cent fois; mais il se fioit tant en sa valeur qu'il mesprisoit tous les conseils de ses amis . . . Dieu ayt son âme! Mais il mourut (quand il trespassa) un preux trés vaillant et généreux."

It is plain, therefore, that Chapman in his picture of Bussy's quarrels and encounters-at-arms was deviating little, except in details of names and dates, from the actual facts of history. Bussy's career was so romantic that it was impossible for even the most inventive dramatist to embellish it. This was especially true of its closing episode, which occupies the later acts of Chapman's drama—the intrigue with the Countess of Montsoreau and the tragic fate which it involved. It is somewhat singular that the earliest narratives of the event which have come down to us were published subsequently to the play. The statement, accepted for a long time, that De Thou's Historiæ sui Temporis was the basis of Chapman's tragedy, has been completely disproved. The passage in which he narrates the story of Bussy's death does not occur in the earlier editions of his work, and first found its way into the issue published at Geneva in 1620. A similar narrative appeared in the following year in L'Estoile's Journal, which first saw the light in 1621, ten years after its author's death. But under a thin disguise there had already appeared a detailed history of Bussy's last amour and his fall, though this, too, was later than Chapman's drama. A novelist, François de Rosset, had published a volume of tales entitled Les Histoires Tragiques de Nostre Temps. The earliest known edition is one of 1615, though it was preceded, probably not long, by an earlier edition full of "fautes insupportables," for which Rosset apologizes. He is careful to state in his preface that he is relating "des histoires autant veritables que tristes et funestes. Les noms de la pluspart des personnages sont seulement desguisez en ce Theatre, à fin de n'affliger pas tant les familles de ceux qui en ont donné le sujet." The fate of Bussy forms the subject of the seventeenth history, entitled "De la mort pitoyable du valeureux Lysis." Lysis was the name under which Margaret of Valois celebrated the memory of her former lover in a poem entitled "L'esprit de Lysis disant adieu à sa Flore." But apart from this proof of identification, the details given by Rosset are so full that there can be no uncertainty in the matter. Indeed, in some of his statements, as in his account of the first meeting between the lovers, Rosset probably supplies facts unrecorded by the historians of the period.

From a comparison of these more or less contemporary records it is evident that, whatever actual source Chapman may have used, he has given in many respects a faithful portrait of the historical Bussy D'Ambois. It happened that at the time of Bussy's death the Duke of Anjou, his patron, was in London, laying ineffective siege to the hand of Elizabeth. This coincidence may have given wider currency in England to Bussy's tragic story than would otherwise have been the case. But a quarter of a century later this adventitious interest would have evaporated, and the success of Chapman's play would be due less to its theme than to its qualities of style and construction. To these we must therefore now turn.

With Chapman's enthusiasm for classical literature, it was natural that he should be influenced by classical models, even when handling a thoroughly modern subject. His Bussy is, in certain aspects, the miles gloriosus of Latin drama, while in the tragic crisis of his fate he demonstrably borrows, as is shown in this edition for the first time, the accents of the Senecan Hercules on Mount Œta (cf. notes on v, iv, 100 and 109). Hence the technique of the work is largely of the semi-Senecan type with which Kyd and his school had familiarized the English stage. Thus Bussy's opening monologue serves in some sort as a Prologue; the narrative by the Nuntius in Act ii, i, 35-137, is in the most approved classical manner; an Umbra or Ghost makes its regulation entrance in the last Act, and though the accumulated horrors of the closing scenes violate every canon of classical art, they had become traditional in the semi-Senecan type of play, and were doubtless highly acceptable to the audiences of the period. But while the Senecan and semi-Senecan methods had their dangers, their effect on English dramatists was in so far salutary that they necessitated care in plot-construction. And it is doubtful whether Chapman has hitherto received due credit for the ingenuity and skill with which he has woven into the texture of his drama a number of varied threads. Bussy's life was, as has been shown, crowded with incidents, and the final catastrophe at La Coutancière had no direct relation with the duels and intrigues of his younger days at Court. Chapman, however, has connected the earlier and the later episodes with much ingenuity. Departing from historical truth, he represents Bussy as a poor adventurer at Court, whose fortunes are entirely made by the patronage of Monsieur. His sudden elevation turns his head, and he insults the Duke of Guise by courting his wife before his face, thus earning his enmity, and exciting at the same time the ridicule of the other courtiers. Hence springs the encounter with Barrisor and his companions, and this is made to serve as an introduction to the amour between Bussy and Tamyra, as Chapman chooses to call the Countess of Montsurry. For Barrisor, we are told (ii, ii, 202 ff.), had long wooed the Countess, and the report was spread that the "main quarrel" between him and Bussy "grew about her love," Barrisor thinking that D'Ambois's courtship of the Duchess of Guise was really directed towards "his elected mistress." On the advice of a Friar named Comolet, to whom Chapman strangely enough assigns the repulsive rôle of go-between, Bussy wins his way at night into Tamyra's chamber on the plea that he has come to reassure her that she is in no way guilty of Barrisor's blood. Thus the main theme of the play is linked with the opening incidents, and the action from first to last is laid in Paris, whither the closing scenes of Bussy's career are shifted. By another ingenious departure from historical truth the Duke of Anjou, to whom Bussy owes his rise, is represented as the main agent in his fall. He is angered at the favour shown by the King to the follower whom he had raised to serve his own ends, and he conspires with Guise for his overthrow. He is the more eagerly bent upon this when he discovers through Tamyra's waiting-woman that the Countess, whose favours he has vainly sought to win, has granted them to Bussy. It is he who, by means of a paper, convinces Montsurry of his wife's guilt, and it is he, together with Guise, who suggests to the Count the stratagem by which Tamyra is forced to decoy her paramour to his doom. All this is deftly contrived and does credit to Chapman's dramatic craftsmanship. It is true that the last two Acts are spun out with supernatural episodes of a singularly unconvincing type. The Friar's invocation of Behemoth, who proves a most unserviceable spirit, and the vain attempts of this scoundrelly ecclesiastic's ghost to shield D'Ambois from his fate, strike us as wofully crude and mechanical excursions into the occult. But they doubtless served their turn with audiences who had an insatiable craving for such manifestations, and were not particular as to the precise form they took.

In point of character-drawing the play presents a more complex problem. Bussy is a typically Renaissance hero and appealed to the sympathies of an age which set store above all things on exuberant vitality and prowess, and was readier than our own to allow them full rein. The King seems to be giving voice to Chapman's conception of Bussy's character, when he describes him in iii, ii, 90 ff. as

"A man so good that only would uphold Man in his native noblesse, from whose fall All our dissentions arise," &c.

And in certain aspects Bussy does not come far short of the ideal thus pictured. His bravery, versatility, frankness, and readiness of speech are all vividly portrayed, while his mettlesome temper and his arrogance are alike essential to his rôle, and are true to the record of the historical D'Ambois. But there is a coarseness of fibre in Chapman's creation, an occasional foul-mouthed ribaldry of utterance which robs him of sympathetic charm. He has in him more of the swashbuckler and the bully than of the courtier and the cavalier. Beaumont and Fletcher, one cannot help feeling, would have invested him with more refinement and grace, and would have given a tenderer note to the love-scenes between him and Tamyra. Bussy takes the Countess's affections so completely by storm, and he ignores so entirely the rights of her husband, that it is difficult to accord him the measure of sympathy in his fall, which the fate of a tragic hero should evoke.

Tamyra appeals more to us, because we see in her more of the conflict between passion and moral obligation, which is the essence of drama. Her scornful rejection of the advances of Monsieur (ii, ii), though her husband palliates his conduct as that of "a bachelor and a courtier, I, and a prince," proves that she is no light o' love, and that her surrender to Bussy is the result of a sudden and overmastering passion. Even in the moment of keenest expectation she is torn between conflicting emotions (ii, ii, 169-182), and after their first interview, Bussy takes her to task because her

"Conscience is too nice, And bites too hotly of the Puritane spice."

But she masters her scruples sufficiently to play the thorough-going dissembler when she meets her husband, and she keeps up the pretence when she declares to Bussy before the Court (iii, ii, 138), "Y'are one I know not," and speaks of him vaguely in a later scene as "the man." So, too, when Montsurry first tells her of the suspicions which Monsieur has excited in him, she protests with artfully calculated indignation against the charge of wrong-doing with this "serpent." But the brutal and deliberate violence of her husband when he knows the truth, and the perfidious meanness with which he makes her the reluctant instrument of her lover's ruin, win back for her much of our alienated sympathy. Yet at the close her position is curiously equivocal. It is at her prayer that Bussy has spared Montsurry when "he hath him down" in the final struggle; but when her lover is mortally wounded by a pistol shot, she implores his pardon for her share in bringing him to his doom. And when the Friar's ghost seeks to reconcile husband and wife, the former is justified in crying ironically (v, iv, 163-64):

"See how she merits this, still kneeling by, And mourning his fall, more than her own fault!"

Montsurry's portraiture, indeed, suffers from the same lack of consistency as his wife's. In his earlier relations with her he strikes a tenderer note than is heard elsewhere in the play, and his first outburst of fury, when his suspicions are aroused, springs, like Othello's, from the depth of his love and trust (iv, i, 169-70):

"My whole heart is wounded, When any least thought in you is but touch'd."

But there is nothing of Othello's noble agony of soul, nor of his sense that he is carrying out a solemn judicial act on the woman he still loves, in Montsurry's long-drawn torture of his wife. Indeed a comparison of the episodes brings into relief the restraint and purity of Shakespeare's art when handling the most terrible of tragic themes. Yet the Moor himself might have uttered Montsurry's cry (v, i, 183-85),

"Here, here was she That was a whole world without spot to me, Though now a world of spot."

And there is something of pathetic dignity in his final forgiveness of his wife, coupled with the declaration that his honour demands that she must fly his house for ever.

Monsieur and the Guise are simpler types. The former is the ambitious villain of quality, chafing at the thought that there is but a thread betwixt him and a crown, and prepared to compass his ends by any means that fall short of the actual killing of the King. It is as a useful adherent of his faction that he elevates Bussy, and when he finds him favoured by Henry he ruthlessly strikes him down, all the more readily that he is his successful rival for Tamyra's love. He is the typical Renaissance politician, whose characteristics are expounded with characteristically vituperative energy by Bussy in iii, ii, 439-94.

Beside this arch-villain, the Guise, aspiring and factious though he be, falls into a secondary place. Probably Chapman did not care to elaborate a figure of whom Marlowe had given so powerful a sketch in the Massacre at Paris. The influence of the early play may also be seen in the handling of the King, who is portrayed with an indulgent pen, and who reappears in the rôle of an enthusiastic admirer of the English Queen and Court. The other personages in the drama are colourless, though Chapman succeeds in creating the general atmosphere of a frivolous and dissolute society.

But the plot and portraiture in Bussy D'Ambois are both less distinctive than the "full and heightened" style, to which was largely due its popularity with readers and theatre-goers of its period, but which was afterwards to bring upon it such severe censure, when taste had changed. Dryden's onslaught in his Dedication to the Spanish Friar (1681) marks the full turn of the tide. The passage is familiar, but it must be reproduced here:

"I have sometimes wondered, in the reading, what has become of those glaring colours which annoyed me in Bussy D'Ambois upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what I supposed a fallen star, I found I had been cozened with a jelly; nothing but a cold dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross hyperboles; the sense of one line expanded prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all, uncorrect English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry and true nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil's manes; and I have indignation enough to burn a D'Ambois annually to the memory of Jonson."

Dryden's critical verdicts are never lightly to be set aside. He is singularly shrewd and unprejudiced in his judgements, and has a remarkable faculty of hitting the right nail on the head. But Chapman, in whom the barbarian and the pedant were so strongly commingled, was a type that fell outside the wide range of Dryden's appreciation. The Restoration writer fails, in the first place, to recognize that Bussy D'Ambois is pitched advisedly from first to last in a high key. Throughout the drama men and women are playing for great stakes. No one is ever at rest. Action and passion are both at fever heat. We move in an atmosphere of duels and state intrigues by day, of assignations and murders by night. Even the subordinate personages in the drama, the stewards and waiting-women, partake of the restless spirit of their superiors. They are constantly arguing, quarrelling, gossiping—their tongues and wits are always on the move. Thus Chapman aimed throughout at energy of expression at all costs. To this he sacrificed beauty of phrase and rhythm, even lucidity. He pushed it often to exaggerated extremes of coarseness and riotous fancy. He laid on "glaring colours" till eye and brain are fatigued. To this opening phrase of Dryden no exception can be taken. But can his further charges stand? Is it true to say of Bussy D'Ambois that it is characterised by "dwarfish thought dressed up in gigantic words," that it is "a hideous mingle of false poetry and true nonsense"? The accusation of "nonsense" recoils upon its maker. Involved, obscure, inflated as Chapman's phrasing not infrequently is, it is not mere rhodomontade, sound, and fury, signifying nothing. There are some passages (as the Notes testify) where the thread of his meaning seems to disappear amidst his fertile imagery, but even here one feels not that sense is lacking, but that one has failed to find the clue to the zigzag movements of Chapman's brain. Nor is it fair to speak of Chapman as dressing up dwarfish thoughts in stilted phrases. There is not the slightest tendency in the play to spin out words to hide a poverty of ideas; in fact many of the difficulties spring from excessive condensation. Where Chapman is really assailable is in a singular incontinence of imagery. Every idea that occurs to him brings with it a plethora of illustrations, in the way of simile, metaphor, or other figure of speech; he seems impotent to check the exuberant riot of his fancy till it has exhausted its whole store. The underlying thought in many passages, though not deserving Dryden's contemptuous epithet, is sufficiently obvious. Chapman was not dowered with the penetrating imagination that reveals as by a lightning flash unsuspected depths of human character or of moral law. But he has the gnomic faculty that can convey truths of general experience in aphoristic form, and he can wind into a debatable moral issue with adroit casuistry. Take for instance the discussion (ii, i, 149-79) on the legitimacy of private vengeance, or (iii, i, 10-30) on the nature and effect of sin, or (v, ii) on Nature's "blindness" in her workings. In lighter vein, but winged with the shafts of a caustic humour are Bussy's invectives against courtly practices (i, i, 84-104) and hypocrisy in high places (iii, ii, 25-59), while the "flyting" between him and Monsieur is perhaps the choicest specimen of Elizabethan "Billingsgate" that has come down to us. It was a versatile pen that could turn from passages like these to the epic narrative of the duel, or Tamyra's lyric invocation of the "peaceful regents of the night" (ii, ii, 158), or Bussy's stately elegy upon [Pg xxviii]himself, as he dies standing, propped on his true sword.

It can only have been the ingrained prejudice of the Restoration period against "metaphysical" verse that deadened Dryden's ear to the charm of such passages as these. Another less notable poet and playwright of the time showed more discrimination. This was Thomas D'Urfey, who in 1691 brought out a revised version of the play at the Theatre Royal. In a dedication to Lord Carlisle which he prefixed to this version, on its publication in the same year, he testifies to the great popularity of the play after the reopening of the theatres.

"About sixteen years since, when first my good or ill stars ordained me a Knight Errant in this fairy land of poetry, I saw the Bussy d'Ambois of Mr. Chapman acted by Mr. Hart, which in spight of the obsolete phrases and intolerable fustian with which a great part of it was cramm'd, and which I have altered in these new sheets, had some extraordinary beauties, which sensibly charmed me; which being improved by the graceful action of that eternally renowned and best of actors, so attracted not only me, but the town in general, that they were obliged to pass by and excuse the gross errors in the writing, and allow it amongst the rank of the topping tragedies of that time."

Charles Hart, who was thus one of the long succession of actors to make a striking reputation in the title part, died in 1683, and, according to D'Urfey, "for a long time after" the play "lay buried in [his] grave." But "not willing to have it quite lost, I presumed to revise it and write the plot new." D'Urfey's main alteration was to represent Bussy and Tamyra as having been betrothed before the play opens, and the latter forced against her will into a marriage with the wealthy Count Montsurry. This, he maintained, palliated the heroine's surrender to passion and made her "distress in the last Act . . . much more liable to pity." Whether morality is really a gainer by this well-meant variation from the more primitive code of the original play is open to question, but we welcome the substitution of Teresia the "governess" and confidante of Tamyra for Friar Comolet as the envoy between the lovers. Another notable change is the omission of the narrative of the Nuntius, which is replaced by a short duelling scene upon the stage. D'Urfey rejects, too, the supernatural machinery in Act iv, and the details of the torture of the erring Countess, whom, at the close of the play, he represents not as wandering from her husband's home, but as stabbing herself in despair.

If Chapman's plot needed to be "writ new" at all, D'Urfey deserves credit for having done his work with considerable skill and taste, though he hints in his dedication that there were detractors who did not view his version as favourably as Lord Carlisle. He had some difficulty, he tells us, in finding an actor to undertake the part, but at last prevailed upon Mountfort to do so, though he was diffident of appearing in a rôle in which Hart had made so great a reputation. Mrs. Bracegirdle, as we learn from the list of Dramatis Personæ prefixed to the published edition, played Tamyra, and the revival seems to have been a success. But Mountfort was assassinated in the Strand towards the close of the following year, and apparently the career of Bussy upon the boards ended with his life.

In the same year as D'Urfey revised the play, Langbaine published his Account of the English Dramatick Poets, wherein (p. 59) he mentions that Bussy "has the preference" among all Chapman's writings and vindicates it against Dryden's attack:

"I know not how Mr. Dryden came to be so possest with indignation against this play, as to resolve to burn one annually to the memory of Ben Jonson: but I know very well that there are some who allow it a just commendation; and others that since have taken the liberty to promise a solemn annual sacrifice of The Hind and Panther to the memory of Mr. Quarles and John Bunyan."

But neither D'Urfey nor Langbaine could secure for Bussy D'Ambois a renewal of its earlier popularity. During the eighteenth century it fell into complete oblivion, and though (as the Bibliography testifies) nineteenth-century critics and commentators have sought to atone for the neglect of their predecessors, the faults of the play, obvious at a glance, have hitherto impaired the full recognition of its distinctive merits of design and thought. To bring these into clearer relief, and trace the relation of its plot to the recorded episodes of Bussy's career, has been the aim of the preceding pages. It must always count to Chapman's credit that he, an Englishman, realized to the full the fascination of the brilliant Renaissance figure, who had to wait till the nineteenth century to be rediscovered for literary purposes by the greatest romance-writer among his own countrymen. In Bussy, the man of action, there was a Titanic strain that appealed to Chapman's intractable and rough-hewn genius. To the dramatist he was the classical Hercules born anew, accomplishing similar feats, and lured to a similar treacherous doom. Thus the cardinal virtue of the play is a Herculean energy of movement and of speech which borrows something of epic quality from the Homeric translations on which Chapman was simultaneously engaged, and thereby links Bussy D'Ambois to his most triumphant literary achievement.

Six years after the publication of the first Quarto of Bussy D'Ambois Chapman issued a sequel, The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois, which, as we learn from the title-page, had been "often presented at the private Playhouse in the White-Fryers." But in the interval he had written two other plays based on recent French history, Byrons Conspiracie and The Tragedie of Charles Duke of Byron, and in certain aspects The Revenge is more closely related to these immediate forerunners than to the piece of which it is the titular successor. The discovery which I recently was fortunate enough to make of a common immediate source of the two Byron plays and of The Revenge accentuates the connection between them, and at the same time throws fresh light on the problem of the provenance of the second D'Ambois drama.

In his scholarly monograph Quellen Studien zu den Dramen George Chapmans, Massingers, und Fords (1897), E. Koeppel showed that the three connected plays were based upon materials taken from Jean de Serres's Inventaire Général de l'Histoire de France (1603), Pierre Matthieu's Histoire de France durant Sept Années de Paix du Regne de Henri IV (1605), and P. V. Cayet's Chronologie Septénaire de l'Histoire de la Paix entre les Roys de France et d'Espagne (1605). The picture suggested by Koeppel's treatise was of Chapman collating a number of contemporary French historical works, and choosing from each of them such portions as suited his dramatic purposes. But this conception, as I have shown in the Athenæum for Jan. 10, 1903, p. 51, must now be abandoned. Chapman did not go to the French originals at all, but to a more easily accessible source, wherein the task of selection and rearrangement had already been in large measure performed. In 1607 the printer, George Eld, published a handsome folio, of which the British Museum possesses a fine copy (c. 66, b. 14), originally the property of Prince Henry, eldest son of James I. Its title is: "A General Inventorie of the Historie of France, from the beginning of that Monarchie, unto the Treatie of Vervins, in the Yeare 1598. Written by Jhon de Serres. And continued unto these Times, out of the best Authors which have written of that Subiect. Translated out of French into English by Edward Grimeston, Gentleman." This work, the popularity of which is attested by the publication of a second, enlarged, edition in 1611, was the direct source of the "Byron" plays, and of The Revenge.

In a dedication addressed to the Earls of Suffolk and Salisbury, Grimeston states that having retired to "private and domesticke cares" after "some years expence in France, for the publike service of the State," he has translated "this generall Historie of France written by John de Serres." In a preface "to the Reader" he makes the further important statement:

[Pg xxxiii]

"The History of John de Serres ends with the Treatie at Vervins betwixt France and Spaine in the yeare 1598. I have been importuned to make the History perfect, and to continue it unto these times, whereunto I have added (for your better satisfaction) what I could extract out of Peter Mathew and other late writers touching this subject. Some perchance will challenge me of indiscretion, that I have not translated Peter Mathew onely, being reputed so eloquent and learned a Writer. To them I answere first, that I found many things written by him that were not fit to be inserted, and some things belonging unto the Historie, related by others, whereof he makes no mention. Secondly his style is so full and his discourse so copious, as the worke would have held no proportion, for that this last addition of seven years must have exceeded halfe Serres Historie. Which considerations have made me to draw forth what I thought most materiall for the subject, and to leave the rest as unnecessarie."

From this we learn that Grimeston followed Jean de Serres till 1598, and that from then till 1604 (his time-limit in his first edition) his principal source was P. Matthieu's Histoire de France, rigorously condensed, and, at the same time, supplemented from other authorities. A collation of Grimeston's text with that of the "Byron" plays and The Revenge proves that every passage in which the dramatist draws upon historical materials is to be found within the four corners of the folio of 1607. The most striking illustrations of this are to be found in the "Byron" plays, and I have shown elsewhere (Athenæum, loc. cit.) that though Chapman in handling the career of the ill-fated Marshal of France is apparently exploiting Pierre Matthieu, Jean de Serres, and Cayet in turn, he is really taking advantage of the labours of Grimeston, who had rifled their stores for his skilful historical mosaic. Grimeston must thus henceforward be recognized as holding something of the same relation to Chapman as Sir T. North does to Shakespeare, with the distinction that he not only provides the raw material of historical tragedy, but goes some way in the refining process.

The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois follows historical lines less closely than the "Byron" plays, but here, too, Grimeston's volume was Chapman's inspiring source, and the perusal of its closing pages gives a clue to the origin of this most singular of the dramatist's serious plays. The final episode included in the folio of 1607 was the plot by which the Count d'Auvergne, who had been one of Byron's fellow conspirators, and who had fallen under suspicion for a second time in 1604, was treacherously arrested by agents of the King while attending a review of troops. The position of this narrative (translated from P. Matthieu) at the close of the folio must have helped to draw Chapman's special attention to it, and having expended his genius so liberally on the career of the arch-conspirator of the period, he was apparently moved to handle also that of his interesting confederate. But D'Auvergne's fortunes scarcely furnished the stuff for a complete drama, on Chapman's customary broad scale, and he seems therefore to have conceived the ingenious idea of utilising them as the groundwork of a sequel to his most popular play, Bussy D'Ambois.

He transformed the Count into an imaginary brother of his former hero. For though D'Ambois had two younger brothers, Hubert, seigneur de Moigneville, and Georges, baron de Bussy, it is highly improbable that Chapman had ever heard of them, and there was nothing in the career of either to suggest the figure of Clermont D'Ambois. The name given by Chapman to this unhistorical addition to the family was, I believe, due to a mere chance, if not a misunderstanding. In Grimeston's narrative of the plot against D'Auvergne he mentions that one of the King's agents, D'Eurre, "came to Clermont on Monday at night, and goes unto him [D'Auvergne] where he supped." Here the name Clermont denotes, of course, a place. But Chapman may have possibly misconceived it to refer to the Count, and, in any case, its occurrence in this context probably suggested its bestowal upon the hero of the second D'Ambois play.

A later passage in Grimeston's history gives an interesting glimpse of D'Auvergne's character. We are told that after he had been arrested, and was being conducted to Paris, "all the way he seemed no more afflicted, then when he was at libertie. He tould youthfull and idle tales of his love, and the deceiving of ladies. Hee shott in a harquebuse at birds, wherein hee was so perfect and excellent, as hee did kill larkes as they were flying."

From this hint of a personality serenely proof against the shocks of adversity Chapman elaborated the figure of the "Senecall man," Clermont D'Ambois. In developing his conception he drew, however, not primarily, as this phrase suggests, from the writings of the Roman senator and sage, but from those of the lowlier, though not less authoritative exponent of Stoic doctrine, the enfranchised slave, Epictetus. As is shown, for the first time, in the Notes to this edition, the Discourses of "the grave Greek moralist," known probably through a Latin version (cf. ii, i, 157), must have been almost as close to Chapman's hand while he was writing The Revenge as Grimeston's compilation. Five long passages in the play (i, i, 336-42, ii, i, 157-60, ii, i, 211-32, iii, iv, 58-75, and iii, iv, 127-41) are translated or adapted from specific dicta in the Discourses, while Epictetus's work in its whole ethical teaching furnished material for the delineation of the ideal Stoic (iv, iv, 14-46) who

"May with heavens immortall powers compare, To whom the day and fortune equall are; Come faire or foule, what ever chance can fall, Fixt in himselfe, hee still is one to all."

But in the character of Clermont there mingle other elements than those derived from either the historical figure of D'Auvergne, or the ideal man of Stoic speculation. Had Hamlet never faltered in the task of executing justice upon the murderer of his father, it is doubtful if a brother of Bussy would ever have trod the Jacobean stage. Not indeed that the idea of vengeance being sought for D'Ambois's fate by one of his nearest kith and kin was without basis in fact. But it was a sister, not a brother, who had devoted her own and her husband's energies to the task, though finally the matter had been compromised. De Thou, at the close of his account of Bussy's murder, relates (vol. iii, lib. lxvii, p. 330):

"Inde odia capitalia inter Bussianos et Monsorellum exorta: quorum exercendorum onus in se suscepit Joannes Monlucius Balagnius, . . . ducta in matrimonium occisi Bussii sorore, magni animi [Pg xxxvii]foemina quae faces irae maritali subjiciebat: vixque post novennium certis conditionibus jussu regis inter eum et Monsorellum transactum fuit."[xxxvii:1]

In a later passage (vol. v, lib. cxviii, p. 558) he is even more explicit. After referring to Bussy's treacherous assassination, he continues:

"Quam injuriam Renata ejus soror, generosa foemina et supra sexum ambitiosa, a fratre proximisque neglectam, cum inultam manere impatientissime ferret, Balagnio se ultorem profitente, spretis suorum monitis in matrimonium cum ipso consensit."[xxxvii:2]

As these passages first appeared in De Thou's History in the edition of 1620, they cannot have been known to Chapman, when he was writing The Revenge. But the circumstances must have been familiar to him from some other source, probably that which supplied the material for the earlier play. He accordingly introduces Renée D'Ambois (whom he rechristens Charlotte) with her husband into his drama, but with great skill he makes her fiery passion for revenge at all costs a foil to the scrupulous and deliberate procedure of the high-souled Clermont. Like Hamlet, the latter has been commissioned by the ghost of his murdered kinsman to the execution of a task alien to his nature.

[Pg xxxviii]

Though he sends a challenge to Montsurry, and is not lacking in "the D'Ambois spirit," the atmosphere in which he lingers with whole-hearted zest is that of the philosophical schools. He is eager to draw every chance comer into debate on the first principles of action. Absorbed in speculation, he is indifferent to external circumstances. As Hamlet at the crisis of his fate lets himself be shipped off to England, so Clermont makes no demur when the King, who suspects him of complicity with Guise's traitorous designs, sends him to Cambray, of which his brother-in-law, Baligny, has been appointed Lieutenant. When on his arrival, his sister, the Lieutenant's wife, upbraids him with "lingering" their "dear brother's wreak," he makes the confession (iii, ii, 112-15):

"I repent that ever (By any instigation in th'appearance My brothers spirit made, as I imagin'd) That e'er I yeelded to revenge his murther."

Like Hamlet, too, Clermont, "generous and free from all contriving," is slow to suspect evil in others, and though warned by an anonymous letter—here Chapman draws the incidents from the story of Count D'Auvergne—he lets himself be entrapped at a "muster" or review of troops by the King's emissaries. But the intervention of Guise soon procures his release. In the dialogue that follows between him and his patron the influence of Shakespeare's tragedy is unmistakably patent. The latter is confiding to Clermont his apprehensions for the future, when the ghost of Bussy appears, and chides his brother for his delay in righting his wrongs. That the Umbra of the elder D'Ambois is here merely emulating the attitude of the elder Hamlet's spirit would be sufficiently obvious, even if it were not put beyond doubt by the excited dialogue between Guise, to whom the Ghost is invisible, and Clermont, which is almost a verbal echo of the parallel dialogue between the Danish Prince and the Queen. This second visitation from the unseen world at last stirs up Clermont to execute the long-delayed vengeance upon Montsurry, though he is all but forestalled by Charlotte, who has donned masculine disguise for the purpose. But hard upon the deed comes the news of Guise's assassination, and impatient of the earthly barriers that now sever him from his "lord," Clermont takes his own life in the approved Stoic fashion. So passes from the scene one of the most original and engaging figures in our dramatic literature, and the more thorough our analysis of the curiously diverse elements out of which he has been fashioned, the higher will be our estimate of Chapman's creative power.

Was it primarily with the motive of providing Clermont with a plausible excuse for suicide that Chapman so startlingly transformed the personality of Henry of Guise? The Duke as he appears in The Revenge has scarcely a feature in common either with the Guise of history or of the earlier play. Instead of the turbulent and intriguing noble we see a "true tenth worthy," who realizes that without accompanying virtues "greatness is a shade, a bubble," and who drinks in from the lips of Clermont doctrines "of stability and freedom." To such an extent does Chapman turn apologist for Guise that in a well-known passage (ii, i, 205 ff.) he goes out of his way to declare that the Massacre of St. Bartholomew was "hainous" only "to a brutish sense, But not a manly reason," and to argue that the blame lay not with "religious Guise," but with those who had played false to "faith and true religion." So astonishing is the dramatist's change of front that, but for the complete lack of substantiating evidence, one would infer that, like Dryden in the interval between Religio Laici and The Hind and Panther, he had joined the Church of Rome. In any case the change is not due to the influence of Grimeston's volume, whence Chapman draws his material for the account of Guise's last days. For Jean de Serres (whom the Englishman is here translating) sums up the Duke's character in an "appreciation," where virtues and faults are impartially balanced and the latter are in no wise extenuated. It is another tribute to Chapman's skill, which only close study of the play in relation to its source brings out, that while he borrows, even to the most minute particulars, from the annalist, he throws round the closing episodes of Guise's career a halo of political martyrdom which there is nothing in the original to suggest. This metamorphosis of Guise is all the more remarkable, because Monsieur, his former co-partner in villany, reappears, in the one scene where he figures, in the same ribald, blustering vein as before, and his death is reported, at the close of Act iv, as a fulfilment of Bussy's dying curse.

While Guise is transfigured, and Monsieur remains his truculent, vainglorious self, Montsurry has suffered a strange degeneration. It is sufficiently remarkable, to begin with, after his declaration at the end of Bussy D'Ambois,

"May both points of heavens strait axeltree Conjoyne in one, before thy selfe and me!"

to find him ready to receive back Tamyra as his wife, though her sole motive in rejoining him is to precipitate vengeance on his head. Nor had anything in the earlier play prepared us for the spectacle of him as a poltroon, who has "barricado'd" himself in his house to avoid a challenge, and who shrieks "murther!" at the entrance of an unexpected visitor. In the light of such conduct it is difficult to regard as merely assumed his pusillanimity in the final scene, where he at first grovels before Clermont on the plea that by his baseness he will "shame" the avenger's victory. And when he does finally nerve himself to the encounter, and dies with words of forgiveness for Clermont and Tamyra on his lips, the episode of reconciliation, though evidently intended to be edifying, is so huddled and inconsecutive as to be well-nigh ridiculous.

Equally ineffective and incongruous are the moralising discourses of which Bussy's ghost is made the spokesman. It does not seem to have occurred to Chapman that vindications of divine justice, suitable on the lips of the elder Hamlet, fell with singular infelicity from one who had met his doom in the course of a midnight intrigue. In fact, wherever the dramatist reintroduces the main figures of the earlier play, he falls to an inferior level. He seems unable to revivify its nobler elements, and merely repeats the more melodramatic and garish effects which refuse to blend with the classic grace and pathos of Clermont's story. The audiences before whom The Revenge was produced evidently showed themselves ill-affected towards such a medley of purely fictitious creations, and of historical personages and incidents, treated in the most arbitrary fashion. For Chapman in his dedicatory letter to Sir Thomas Howard refers bitterly to the "maligners" with whom the play met "in the scenicall presentation," and asks who will expect "the autenticall truth of eyther person or action . . . in a poeme, whose subject is not truth, but things like truth?" He forgets that "things like truth" are not attained, when alien elements are forced into mechanical union, or when well-known historical characters and events are presented under radically false colours. But we who read the drama after an interval of three centuries can afford to be less perturbed than Jacobean playgoers at its audacious juggling with facts, provided that it appeals to us in other ways. We are not likely indeed to adopt Chapman's view that the elements that give it enduring value are "materiall instruction, elegant and sententious excitation to vertue, and deflection from her contrary." For these we shall assuredly look elsewhere; it is not to them that The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois owes its distinctive charm. The secret of that charm lies outside the spheres of "autenticall truth," moral as well as historical. It consists, as it seems to me, essentially in this—that the play is one of the most truly spontaneous products of English "humanism" in its later phase. The same passionate impulse—in itself so curiously "romantic"—to revitalise classical life and ideals, which prompted Chapman's translation of "Homer, Prince of Poets," is the shaping spirit of this singular tragedy. Its hero, as we have seen, has strayed into the France of the Catholic Reaction from some academe in Athens or in imperial Rome. He is, in truth, far more really a spirit risen from the dead than the materialised Umbra of his brother. His pervasive influence works in all around him, so that nobles and courtiers forget for a time the strife of faction while they linger over some fragrant memory of the older world. Epictetus with his doctrines of how to live and how to die; the "grave Greeke tragedian" who drew "the princesse, sweet Antigone"; Homer with his "unmatched poem"; the orators Demetrius Phalerius and Demades—these and their like cast a spell over the scene, and transport us out of the troubled atmosphere of sixteenth-century vendetta into the "ampler æther," the "diviner air," of "the glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome."

Thus the two Bussy plays, when critically examined, are seen to be essentially unlike in spite of their external similarity. The plot of the one springs from that of the other; both are laid in the same period and milieu; in technique they are closely akin. The diction and imagery are, indeed, simpler, and the verse is of more liquid cadence in The Revenge than in Bussy D'Ambois. But the true difference lies deeper,—in the innermost spirit of the two dramas. Bussy D'Ambois is begotten of "the very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind" of passion; it throbs with the stress of an over-tumultuous life. The Revenge is the offspring of the meditative impulse, that averts its gaze from the outward pageant of existence, to peer into the secrets of Man's ultimate destiny, and his relation to the "Universal," of which he involuntarily finds himself a part.

Frederick S. Boas.

FOOTNOTES:

[xii:1] Through the kindness of Professor Baker I have seen an unpublished paper of Mr. P. C. Hoyt, Instructor in Harvard University, which first calls attention to the combined suggestiveness of three entries in Henslowe's Diary (Collier's ed.) for any discussion of the date of Bussy D'Ambois. In Henslowe's "Enventorey of all the aparell of the Lord Admirals men, taken the 13^th of Marcher 1598," is an item, "Perowes sewt, which W^m Sley were." (Henslowe's Diary, ed. Collier, p. 275.) In no extant play save Bussy D'Ambois is a character called Pero introduced. Moreover, Henslowe (pp. 113 and 110) has the following entries: "Lent unto W^m Borne, the 19 of novembr 1598 . . . the some of xij^s, w^ch he sayd y^t was to Imbrader his hatte for the Gwisse. Lent W^m Birde, ales Borne, the 27 of novembr, to bye a payer of sylke stockens, to playe the Gwisse in xx^s." Taken by themselves these two allusions to the "Gwisse" might refer, as Collier supposed, to Marlowe's The Massacre at Paris. But when combined with the mention of Pero earlier in the year, they may equally well refer to the Guise in Bussy D'Ambois. Can Bussy D'Ambois have been the unnamed "tragedie" by Chapman, for the first three Acts of which Henslowe lent him iij^li on Jan. 4, 1598, followed by a similar sum on Jan. 8th, "in fulle payment for his tragedie?" The words which Dekker quotes in Satiromastix, Sc 7 (1602), "For trusty D'Amboys now the deed is done," seem to be a line from a play introducing D'Ambois. If, however, the play was written circa 1598, it must have been considerably revised after the accession of James I to the throne, for the allusions to Elizabeth as an "old Queene" (1, 2, 12), and to Bussy as being mistaken for "a knight of the new edition," must have been written after the accession of James I (Chronicle of the English Drama, 1, 59). But Mr Fleay's further statement that the words, "Tis leape yeere" (1, 2, 85), "must apply to the date of production," and "fix the time of representation to 1604," is only an ingenious conjecture. If the words "Ile be your ghost to haunt you," etc (1, 2, 243-244), refer to Macbeth, as I have suggested in the note on the passage, they point to a revision of the play not earlier than the latter part of 1606.

[xxxvii:1] "Hence a deadly feud arose between the kin of Bussy and Montsurry. The task of carrying this into action was undertaken by Jean Montluc Baligny, who had married the murdered man's sister, a high-spirited woman who fanned the flame of her husband's wrath. With difficulty, after a period of nine years, was an arrangement come to between him and Montsurry on specified terms by the order of the King."

[xxxvii:2] "Renée, his sister, a high-souled woman, and of aspirations loftier than those of her sex, brooked it very ill that this injury, of which his brother and nearest kin took no heed, should remain unavenged. When, therefore, Baligny profferred himself as an avenger, she agreed to marry him, in defiance of the admonitions of her family."

THE TEXT

Bussy D'Ambois was first printed in quarto in 1607 by W. Aspley, and was reissued in 1608. In 1641, seven years after Chapman's death, Robert Lunne published another edition in quarto of the play, which, according to the title-page, was "much corrected and amended by the Author before his death." This quarto differs essentially from its predecessors. It omits and adds numerous passages, and makes constant minor changes in the text. The revised version is not appreciably superior to the original draft, but, on the evidence of the title-page, it must be accepted as authoritative. It was reissued by Lunne, with a different imprint, in 1646, and by J. Kirton, with a new title-page, in 1657. Copies of the 1641 quarto differ in unimportant details such as articular, articulat, for evidently some errors were corrected as the edition passed through the press. Some copies of the 1646 quarto duplicate the uncorrected copies of the 1641 quarto.

In a reprint of Chapman's Tragedies and Comedies, published by J. Pearson in 1873, the anonymous editor purported to "follow mainly" the text of 1641, but collation with the originals shows that he transcribed that of 1607, substituting the later version where the two quartos differed, but retaining elsewhere the spelling of the earlier one. Nor is his list of variants complete. There have been also three editions of the play in modernized spelling by C. W. Dilke in 1814, R. H. Shepherd in 1874, and W. L. Phelps in 1895, particulars of which are given in the Bibliography. The present edition is therefore the first to reproduce the authoritative text unimpaired. The original spelling has been retained, though capitalization has been modernized, and the use of italics for personal names has not been preserved. But the chaotic punctuation has been throughout revised, though, except to remove ambiguity, I have not interfered with one distinctive feature, an exceptionally frequent use of brackets. In a few cases of doubtful interpretation, the old punctuation has been given in the footnotes.

Dilke, though the earliest of the annotators, contributed most to the elucidation of allusions and obsolete phrases. While seeking to supplement his and his successors' labours in this direction, I have also attempted a more perilous task—the interpretation of passages where the difficulty arises from the peculiar texture of Chapman's thought and style. Such a critical venture seems a necessary preliminary if we are ever to sift truth from falsehood in Dryden's indictment—indolently accepted by many critics as conclusive—of Bussy D'Ambois.

The group of quartos of 1641, 1646, and 1657, containing Chapman's revised text, is denoted by the symbol "B"; those of 1607 and 1608 by "A." In the footnotes all the variants contained in A are given except in a few cases where the reading of A has been adopted in the text and that of B recorded as a variant. I have preferred the reading of A to B, when it gives an obviously better sense, or is metrically superior. I have also included in the Text fifty lines at the beginning of Act ii, Scene 2, which are found only in A. Some slight conjectural emendations have been attempted which are distinguished by "emend. ed." in the footnotes. In these cases the reading of the quartos, if unanimous, is denoted by "Qq."

In the quartos the play is simply divided into five Acts. These I have subdivided into Scenes, within which the lines have been numbered to facilitate reference. The stage directions in B are numerous and precise, and I have made only a few additions, which are enclosed in brackets. The quartos vary between Bussy and D'Ambois, and between Behemoth and Spiritus, as a prefix to speeches. I have kept to the former throughout in either case.

F. S. B.

Bussy D'Ambois:

A
TRAGEDIE:

As it hath been often Acted with
great Applause.

Being much corrected and amended
by the Author before his death.

LONDON:
Printed by A. N. for Robert Lunne.
1641.

SOURCES

The immediate source of the play has not been identified, but in the Introduction attention has been drawn to passages in the writings of Bussy's contemporaries, especially Brantôme and Marguerite de Valois, which narrate episodes similar to those in the earlier Acts. Extracts from De Thou's Historiae sui temporis and Rosset's Histoires Tragiques, which tell the tale of Bussy's amorous intrigue and his assassination, have also been reprinted as an Appendix. But both these narratives are later than the play. Seneca's representation in the Hercules Œtaeus of the Greek hero's destruction by treachery gave Chapman suggestions for his treatment of the final episode in Bussy's career (cf. v, 4, 100-108, and note).

PROLOGUE

Not out of confidence that none but wee

Are able to present this tragedie,

Nor out of envie at the grace of late

It did receive, nor yet to derogate

From their deserts, who give out boldly that5

They move with equall feet on the same flat;

Neither for all, nor any of such ends,

We offer it, gracious and noble friends,

To your review; wee, farre from emulation,

And (charitably judge) from imitation,10

With this work entertaine you, a peece knowne,

And still beleev'd, in Court to be our owne.

To quit our claime, doubting our right or merit,

Would argue in us poverty of spirit

Which we must not subscribe to: Field is gone,15

Whose action first did give it name, and one

Who came the neerest to him, is denide

By his gray beard to shew the height and pride

Of D'Ambois youth and braverie; yet to hold

Our title still a foot, and not grow cold20

By giving it o're, a third man with his best

Of care and paines defends our interest;

As Richard he was lik'd, nor doe wee feare,

In personating D'Ambois, hee'le appeare

To faint, or goe lesse, so your free consent,25

As heretofore, give him encouragement.

LINENOTES:

Prologue. The Prologue does not appear in A.

10 (charitably judge). So punctuated by ed. B has:—

To your review, we farre from emulation (And charitably judge from imitation) With this work entertaine you, a peece knowne And still beleev'd in Court to be our owne, To quit our claime, doubting our right or merit, Would argue in us poverty of spirit Which we must not subscribe to.

13 doubting. In some copies of B this is misprinted oubting.

[DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.[4:1]

Henry III

, King of France.

Monsieur

, his brother.

The Duke of Guise. Montsurry

, a Count.

Bussy D'Ambois. Barrisor

,

L'Anou

,

Pyrhot

,

     

Courtiers: enemies of

D'Ambois

.

Brisac

,

Melynell

,

   

Courtiers: friends of

D'Ambois

.

Comolet

, a Friar.

Maffe

, steward to

Monsieur

.

Nuncius. Murderers.   Behemoth

,

Cartophylax

,

Umbra of Friar.      

Spirits.

  Elenor

, Duchess of Guise.

Tamyra

, Countess of Montsurry.

Beaupre

, niece to

Elenor

.

Annable

, maid to

Elenor

.

Pero

, maid to

Tamyra

.

Charlotte

, maid to

Beaupre

.

Pyra

, a court lady.

Courtiers, Ladies, Pages, Servants, Spirits, &c.

Scene.—Paris[4:2]]

FOOTNOTES:

[4:1] The Quartos contain no list of Dramatis Personæ. One is however prefixed to D'Urfey's version (1691), with the names of the performers added. C. W. Dilke prefixed a somewhat imperfect one to his edition in vol. iii of Old English Plays (1814). W. L. Phelps, who did not know of Dilke's list, supplied a more correct one in his edition in the Mermaid Series (1895). The subjoined list adds some fresh details, especially concerning the subordinate characters.

[4:2] Many episodes in Bussy D'Ambois's career, which took place in the Province of Anjou, are transferred in the play to Paris.

Bussy D'Ambois

A
Tragedie

Actus primi Scena prima.

[A glade, near the Court.]

Enter Bussy D'Ambois poore.

[Bussy.] Fortune, not Reason, rules the state of things,

Reward goes backwards, Honor on his head,

Who is not poore is monstrous; only Need

Gives forme and worth to every humane seed.

As cedars beaten with continuall stormes,5

So great men flourish; and doe imitate

Unskilfull statuaries, who suppose

(In forming a Colossus) if they make him

Stroddle enough, stroot, and look bigg, and gape,

Their work is goodly: so men meerely great10

In their affected gravity of voice,

Sowrnesse of countenance, manners cruelty,

Authority, wealth, and all the spawne of Fortune,

Think they beare all the Kingdomes worth before them;

Yet differ not from those colossick statues,15

Which, with heroique formes without o're-spread,

Within are nought but morter, flint and lead.

Man is a torch borne in the winde; a dreame

But of a shadow, summ'd with all his substance;

And as great seamen using all their wealth20

And skills in Neptunes deepe invisible pathes,

In tall ships richly built and ribd with brasse,

To put a girdle round about the world,

When they have done it (comming neere their haven)

Are faine to give a warning peece, and call25

A poore staid fisher-man, that never past

His countries sight, to waft and guide them in:

So when we wander furthest through the waves

Of glassie Glory, and the gulfes of State,

Topt with all titles, spreading all our reaches,30

As if each private arme would sphere the earth,

Wee must to vertue for her guide resort,

Or wee shall shipwrack in our safest port. Procumbit.

[Enter] Monsieur with two Pages.

[Monsieur.] There is no second place in numerous state

That holds more than a cypher: in a King35

All places are contain'd. His words and looks

Are like the flashes and the bolts of Jove;

His deeds inimitable, like the sea

That shuts still as it opes, and leaves no tracts,

Nor prints of president for meane mens facts:40

There's but a thred betwixt me and a crowne;

I would not wish it cut, unlesse by nature;

Yet to prepare me for that possible fortune,

'Tis good to get resolved spirits about mee.

I follow'd D'Ambois to this greene retreat;45

A man of spirit beyond the reach of feare,

Who (discontent with his neglected worth)

Neglects the light, and loves obscure abodes;

But hee is young and haughty, apt to take

Fire at advancement, to beare state, and flourish;50

In his rise therefore shall my bounties shine:

None lothes the world so much, nor loves to scoffe it,

But gold and grace will make him surfet of it.

What, D'Ambois!—

Buss.He, sir.

Mons.Turn'd to earth, alive!

Up man, the sunne shines on thee.

Buss.Let it shine:55

I am no mote to play in't, as great men are.

Mons. Callest thou men great in state, motes in the sunne?

They say so that would have thee freeze in shades,

That (like the grosse Sicilian gurmundist)

Empty their noses in the cates they love,60

That none may eat but they. Do thou but bring

Light to the banquet Fortune sets before thee

And thou wilt loath leane darknesse like thy death.

Who would beleeve thy mettall could let sloth

Rust and consume it? If Themistocles65

Had liv'd obscur'd thus in th'Athenian State,

Xerxes had made both him and it his slaves.

If brave Camillus had lurckt so in Rome,

He had not five times beene Dictator there,

Nor foure times triumpht. If Epaminondas70

(Who liv'd twice twenty yeeres obscur'd in Thebs)

Had liv'd so still, he had beene still unnam'd,

And paid his country nor himselfe their right:

But putting forth his strength he rescu'd both

From imminent ruine; and, like burnisht steele,75

After long use he shin'd; for as the light

Not only serves to shew, but render us

Mutually profitable, so our lives

In acts exemplarie not only winne

Our selves good names, but doe to others give80

Matter for vertuous deeds, by which wee live.

Buss. What would you wish me?

Mons.Leave the troubled streames,

And live where thrivers doe, at the well head.

Buss. At the well head? Alas! what should I doe

With that enchanted glasse? See devils there?85

Or (like a strumpet) learne to set my looks

In an eternall brake, or practise jugling,

To keep my face still fast, my heart still loose;

Or beare (like dames schoolmistresses their riddles)

Two tongues, and be good only for a shift;90

Flatter great lords, to put them still in minde

Why they were made lords; or please humorous ladies

With a good carriage, tell them idle tales,

To make their physick work; spend a man's life

In sights and visitations, that will make95

His eyes as hollow as his mistresse heart:

To doe none good, but those that have no need;

To gaine being forward, though you break for haste

All the commandements ere you break your fast;

But beleeve backwards, make your period100

And creeds last article, "I beleeve in God":

And (hearing villanies preacht) t'unfold their art,

Learne to commit them? Tis a great mans part.

Shall I learne this there?

Mons.No, thou needst not learne;

Thou hast the theorie; now goe there and practise.105

Buss. I, in a thrid-bare suit; when men come there,

They must have high naps, and goe from thence bare:

A man may drowne the parts of ten rich men

In one poore suit; brave barks, and outward glosse

Attract Court loves, be in parts ne're so grosse.110

Mons. Thou shalt have glosse enough, and all things fit

T'enchase in all shew thy long smothered spirit:

Be rul'd by me then. The old Scythians

Painted blinde Fortunes powerfull hands with wings,

To shew her gifts come swift and suddenly,115

Which if her favorite be not swift to take,

He loses them for ever. Then be wise;

Exit Mon[sieur] with Pages. Manet Buss[y].

Stay but a while here, and I'le send to thee.

Buss. What will he send? some crowns? It is to sow them

Upon my spirit, and make them spring a crowne120

Worth millions of the seed crownes he will send.

Like to disparking noble husbandmen,

Hee'll put his plow into me, plow me up;

But his unsweating thrift is policie,

And learning-hating policie is ignorant125

To fit his seed-land soyl; a smooth plain ground

Will never nourish any politick seed.

I am for honest actions, not for great:

If I may bring up a new fashion,

And rise in Court for vertue, speed his plow!130

The King hath knowne me long as well as hee,

Yet could my fortune never fit the length

Of both their understandings till this houre.

There is a deepe nicke in Times restlesse wheele

For each mans good, when which nicke comes, it strikes;135

As rhetorick yet workes not perswasion,

But only is a meane to make it worke:

So no man riseth by his reall merit,

But when it cries "clincke" in his raisers spirit.

Many will say, that cannot rise at all,140

Mans first houres rise is first step to his fall.

I'le venture that; men that fall low must die,

As well as men cast headlong from the skie.

Ent[er] Maffe.

[Maffe.] Humor of Princes! Is this wretch indu'd

With any merit worth a thousand crownes?145

Will my lord have me be so ill a steward

Of his revenue, to dispose a summe

So great, with so small cause as shewes in him?

I must examine this. Is your name D'Ambois?

Buss. Sir?

Maff. Is your name D'Ambois?

Buss. Who have we here?150

Serve you the Monsieur?

Maff. How?

Buss. Serve you the Monsieur?

Maff. Sir, y'are very hot. I doe serve the Monsieur;

But in such place as gives me the command

Of all his other servants: and because

His Graces pleasure is to give your good155

His passe through my command, me thinks you might

Use me with more respect.

Buss. Crie you mercy!

Now you have opened my dull eies, I see you,

And would be glad to see the good you speake of:

What might I call your name?

Maff. Monsieur Maffe.160

Buss. Monsieur Maffe? Then, good Monsieur Maffe,

Pray let me know you better.

Maff. Pray doe so,

That you may use me better. For your selfe,

By your no better outside, I would judge you

To be some poet. Have you given my lord165

Some pamphlet?

Buss. Pamphlet!

Maff. Pamphlet, sir, I say.

Buss. Did your great masters goodnesse leave the good,

That is to passe your charge to my poore use,

To your discretion?

Maff. Though he did not, sir,

I hope 'tis no rude office to aske reason170

How that his Grace gives me in charge, goes from me?

Buss. That's very perfect, sir.

Maff. Why, very good, sir;

I pray, then, give me leave. If for no pamphlet,

May I not know what other merit in you

Makes his compunction willing to relieve you?175

Buss. No merit in the world, sir.

Maff. That is strange.

Y'are a poore souldier, are you?

Buss. That I am, sir.

Maff. And have commanded?

Buss. I, and gone without, sir.

Maff. I see the man: a hundred crownes will make him

Swagger, and drinke healths to his Graces bountie,180

And sweare he could not be more bountifull;

So there's nine hundred crounes sav'd. Here, tall souldier,

His Grace hath sent you a whole hundred crownes.

Buss. A hundred, sir! Nay, doe his Highnesse right;

I know his hand is larger, and perhaps185

I may deserve more than my outside shewes.

I am a poet as I am a souldier,

And I can poetise; and (being well encourag'd)

May sing his fame for giving; yours for delivering

(Like a most faithfull steward) what he gives.190

Maff. What shall your subject be?

Buss. I care not much

If to his bounteous Grace I sing the praise

Of faire great noses, and to you of long ones.

What qualities have you, sir, (beside your chaine

And velvet jacket)? Can your Worship dance?195

Maff. A pleasant fellow, faith; it seemes my lord

Will have him for his jester; and, berlady,

Such men are now no fooles; 'tis a knights place.

If I (to save his Grace some crounes) should urge him

T'abate his bountie, I should not be heard;200

I would to heaven I were an errant asse,

For then I should be sure to have the eares

Of these great men, where now their jesters have them.

Tis good to please him, yet Ile take no notice

Of his preferment, but in policie205

Will still be grave and serious, lest he thinke

I feare his woodden dagger. Here, Sir Ambo!

Buss. How, Ambo, Sir?

Maff. I, is not your name Ambo?

Buss. You call'd me lately D'Amboys; has your Worship

So short a head?

Maff. I cry thee mercy, D'Amboys.210

A thousand crownes I bring you from my lord;

If you be thriftie, and play the good husband, you may make

This a good standing living; 'tis a bountie,

His Highnesse might perhaps have bestow'd better.

Buss. Goe, y'are a rascall; hence, away, you rogue! [Strikes him.]215

Maff. What meane you, sir?

Buss. Hence! prate no more!

Or, by thy villans bloud, thou prat'st thy last!

A barbarous groome grudge at his masters bountie!

But since I know he would as much abhorre

His hinde should argue what he gives his friend,220

Take that, Sir, for your aptnesse to dispute. Exit.

Maff. These crownes are set in bloud; bloud be their fruit! Exit.

LINENOTES:

5 continuall. A, incessant.

8 forming. A, forging.

10 men meerely great. A, our tympanouse statists.

20 wealth. A, powers.

25 faine. A, glad.

31 earth. A, world.

40 meane. A, poore.

43 possible. A, likely.

44 good to. A, fit I.

57 Callest. A, Think'st.

80 doe. A, doth.

82 me? A, me doe.

92 humorous. A, portly.

102-3 And . . . part. Repunctuated by ed. Qq have:—

And (hearing villanies preacht) t'unfold their Art Learne to commit them, Tis a great mans Part.

110 loves. A, eies.

113 old. A, rude.

117 be wise. A, be rul'd.

122-125 Like . . . ignorant. A omits.

126 To fit his seed-land soyl. A, But hee's no husband heere.

130 for. A, with.

153 After this line B inserts: Table, Chesbord & Tapers behind the Arras. This relates not to the present Scene, but to Scene 2, where the King and Guise play chess (cf. i, 2, 184). Either it has been inserted, by a printer's error, prematurely; or, more probably, it may be an instruction to the "prompter" to see that the properties needed in the next Scene are ready, which has crept from an acting version of the play into the Quartos.

156 His passe. A, A passe.

157 respect. A, good fashion.

167 your great masters goodnesse. A, his wise excellencie.

170 rude. A, bad.

180 Graces. A, highnes.

192 bounteous Grace. A, excellence.

193 and to you of long ones. A has:—

And to your deserts The reverend vertues of a faithfull steward.

196 pleasant. A, merrie.

197 berlady. A, beleeve it.

199 his Grace. A, my Lord.

208-210. How . . . D'Amboys. A omits.

212 If you be thriftie, and. A, Serve God.

[Scena Secunda.

A room in the Court.]

Henry, Guise, Montsurry, Elenor, Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero, Charlotte, Pyra, Annable.

Henry. Duchesse of Guise, your Grace is much enricht

In the attendance of that English virgin,

That will initiate her prime of youth,

(Dispos'd to Court conditions) under the hand

Of your prefer'd instructions and command,5

Rather than any in the English Court,

Whose ladies are not matcht in Christendome

For gracefull and confirm'd behaviours,

More than the Court, where they are bred, is equall'd.

Guise. I like not their Court-fashion; it is too crestfalne10

In all observance, making demi-gods

Of their great nobles; and of their old Queene

An ever-yong and most immortall goddesse.

Montsurry. No question shee's the rarest Queene in Europe.

Guis. But what's that to her immortality?15

Henr. Assure you, cosen Guise, so great a courtier,

So full of majestic and roiall parts,

No Queene in Christendome may vaunt her selfe.

Her Court approves it: that's a Court indeed,

Not mixt with clowneries us'd in common houses;20

But, as Courts should be th'abstracts of their Kingdomes,

In all the beautie, state, and worth they hold,

So is hers, amplie, and by her inform'd.

The world is not contracted in a man,

With more proportion and expression,25

Than in her Court, her kingdome. Our French Court

Is a meere mirror of confusion to it:

The king and subject, lord and every slave,

Dance a continuall haie; our roomes of state

Kept like our stables; no place more observ'd30

Than a rude market-place: and though our custome

Keepe this assur'd confusion from our eyes,

'Tis nere the lesse essentially unsightly,

Which they would soone see, would they change their forme

To this of ours, and then compare them both;35

Which we must not affect, because in kingdomes,

Where the Kings change doth breed the subjects terror,

Pure innovation is more grosse than error.

Mont. No question we shall see them imitate

(Though a farre off) the fashions of our Courts,40

As they have ever ap't us in attire;

Never were men so weary of their skins,

And apt to leape out of themselves as they;

Who, when they travell to bring forth rare men,

Come home delivered of a fine French suit:45

Their braines lie with their tailors, and get babies

For their most compleat issue; hee's sole heire

To all the morall vertues that first greetes

The light with a new fashion, which becomes them

Like apes, disfigur'd with the attires of men.50

Henr. No question they much wrong their reall worth

In affectation of outlandish scumme;

But they have faults, and we more: they foolish-proud

To jet in others plumes so haughtely;

We proud that they are proud of foolerie,55

Holding our worthes more compleat for their vaunts.

Enter Monsieur, D'Ambois.

Monsieur. Come, mine owne sweet heart, I will enter thee.

Sir, I have brought a gentleman to court;

And pray, you would vouchsafe to doe him grace.

Henr. D'Ambois, I thinke.

Bussy. That's still my name, my lord,60

Though I be something altered in attire.

Henr. We like your alteration, and must tell you,

We have expected th'offer of your service;

For we (in feare to make mild vertue proud)

Use not to seeke her out in any man.65

Buss. Nor doth she use to seeke out any man:

He that will winne, must wooe her: she's not shameless.

Mons. I urg'd her modestie in him, my lord,

And gave her those rites that he sayes shee merits.

Henr. If you have woo'd and won, then, brother, weare him.70

Mons. Th'art mine, sweet heart! See, here's the Guises Duches;

The Countesse of Mountsurreaue, Beaupre.

Come, I'le enseame thee. Ladies, y'are too many

To be in counsell: I have here a friend

That I would gladly enter in your graces.75

Buss. 'Save you, ladyes!

Duchess. If you enter him in our graces, my

lord, me thinkes, by his blunt behaviour he should

come out of himselfe.

Tamyra. Has he never beene courtier, my80

lord?

Mons. Never, my lady.

Beaupre. And why did the toy take him inth'

head now?

Buss. Tis leape yeare, lady, and therefore very85

good to enter a courtier.

Henr. Marke, Duchesse of Guise, there is

one is not bashfull.

Duch. No my lord, he is much guilty of the

bold extremity.90

Tam. The man's a courtier at first sight.

Buss. I can sing pricksong, lady, at first

sight; and why not be a courtier as suddenly?

Beaup. Here's a courtier rotten before he be

ripe.95

Buss. Thinke me not impudent, lady; I am

yet no courtier; I desire to be one and would

gladly take entrance, madam, under your

princely colours.

Enter Barrisor, L'Anou, Pyrhot.

Duch. Soft sir, you must rise by degrees, first100

being the servant of some common Lady or

Knights wife, then a little higher to a Lords

wife; next a little higher to a Countesse; yet a

little higher to a Duchesse, and then turne the

ladder.105

Buss. Doe you alow a man then foure mistresses,

when the greatest mistresse is alowed

but three servants?

Duch. Where find you that statute sir.

Buss. Why be judged by the groome-porters.110

Duch. The groome-porters!

Buss. I, madam, must not they judge of all

gamings i'th' Court?

Duch. You talke like a gamester.

Gui. Sir, know you me?115

Buss. My lord!

Gui. I know not you; whom doe you serve?

Buss. Serve, my lord!

Gui. Go to companion; your courtship's too

saucie.120

Buss. Saucie! Companion! tis the Guise,

but yet those termes might have beene spar'd of

the guiserd. Companion! He's jealous, by this

light. Are you blind of that side, Duke? Ile

to her againe for that. Forth, princely mistresse,125

for the honour of courtship. Another riddle.

Gui. Cease your courtshippe, or, by heaven,

Ile cut your throat.

Buss. Cut my throat? cut a whetstone, young

Accius Nœvius! Doe as much with your130

tongue as he did with a rasor. Cut my throat!

Barrisor. What new-come gallant have wee

heere, that dares mate the Guise thus?

L'Anou. Sfoot, tis D'Ambois! the Duke mistakes

him (on my life) for some Knight of the135

new edition.

Buss. Cut my throat! I would the King

fear'd thy cutting of his throat no more than I

feare thy cutting of mine.

Gui. Ile doe't, by this hand.140

Buss. That hand dares not doe't; y'ave cut

too many throats already, Guise, and robb'd the

realme of many thousand soules, more precious

than thine owne. Come, madam, talk on. Sfoot,

can you not talk? Talk on, I say. Another145

riddle.

Pyrhot. Here's some strange distemper.

Bar. Here's a sudden transmigration with

D'Ambois, out of the Knights ward into the

Duches bed.150

L'An. See what a metamorphosis a brave

suit can work.

Pyr. Slight! step to the Guise, and discover

him.

Bar. By no meanes; let the new suit work;155

wee'll see the issue.

Gui. Leave your courting.

Buss. I will not. I say, mistresse, and I will

stand unto it, that if a woman may have three

servants, a man may have threescore mistresses.160

Gui. Sirrha, Ile have you whipt out of the

Court for this insolence.

Buss. Whipt! Such another syllable out a

th'presence, if thou dar'st, for thy Dukedome.

Gui. Remember, poultron!165

Mons. Pray thee forbeare!

Buss. Passion of death! Were not the King

here, he should strow the chamber like a rush.

Mons. But leave courting his wife then.

Buss. I wil not: Ile court her in despight of170

him. Not court her! Come madam, talk on;

feare me nothing. [To Guise.] Well mai'st

thou drive thy master from the Court, but never

D'Ambois.

Mons. His great heart will not down, tis like the sea,175

That partly by his owne internall heat,

Partly the starrs daily and nightly motion,

Their heat and light, and partly of the place

The divers frames, but chiefly by the moone,

Bristled with surges, never will be wonne,180

(No, not when th'hearts of all those powers are burst)

To make retreat into his setled home,

Till he be crown'd with his owne quiet fome.

Henr. You have the mate. Another?

Gui. No more. Flourish short.

Exit Guise; after him the King, Mons[ieur] whispering.

Bar. Why here's the lion skar'd with the185

throat of a dunghill cock, a fellow that has

newly shak'd off his shackles; now does he

crow for that victory.

L'An. Tis one of the best jiggs that ever

was acted.190

Pyr. Whom does the Guise suppose him to

be, troe?

L'An. Out of doubt, some new denizond

Lord, and thinks that suit newly drawne out a

th' mercers books.195

Bar. I have heard of a fellow, that by a fixt

imagination looking upon a bulbaiting, had a

visible paire of hornes grew out of his forhead:

and I beleeve this gallant overjoyed with the

conceit of Monsieurs cast suit, imagines himselfe200

to be the Monsieur.

L'An. And why not? as well as the asse

stalking in the lions case, bare himselfe like a

lion, braying all the huger beasts out of the

forrest?205

Pyr. Peace! he looks this way.

Bar. Marrie, let him look, sir; what will you

say now if the Guise be gone to fetch a blanquet

for him?

L'An. Faith, I beleeve it, for his honour sake.210

Pyr. But, if D'Ambois carrie it cleane? Exeunt Ladies.

Bar. True, when he curvets in the blanquet.

Pyr. I, marrie, sir.

L'An. Sfoot, see how he stares on's.

Bar. Lord blesse us, let's away.215

Buss. Now, sir, take your full view: who

does the object please ye?

Bar. If you aske my opinion, sir, I think

your suit sits as well as if't had beene made for

you.220

Buss. So, sir, and was that the subject of your

ridiculous joylity?

L'An. What's that to you, sir?

Buss. Sir, I have observ'd all your fleerings;

and resolve your selves yee shall give a strickt225

account for't.

Enter Brisac, Melynell.

Bar. O miraculous jealousie! Doe you think

your selfe such a singular subject for laughter

that none can fall into the matter of our merriment

but you?230

L'An. This jealousie of yours, sir, confesses

some close defect in your selfe that wee never

dream'd of.

Pyr. Wee held discourse of a perfum'd asse,

that being disguis'd in a lions case imagin'd235

himself a lion: I hope that toucht not you.

Buss. So, sir? Your descants doe marvellous

well fit this ground; we shall meet where your

buffonly laughters will cost ye the best blood in

your bodies.240

Bar. For lifes sake, let's be gone; hee'll kill's

outright else.

Buss. Goe, at your pleasures; Ile be your

ghost to haunt you; and yee sleepe an't, hang

me.245

L'An. Goe, goe, sir; court your mistresse.

Pyr. And be advis'd; we shall have odds

against you.

Buss. Tush, valour stands not in number: Ile

maintaine it that one man may beat three boyes.250

Brisac. Nay, you shall have no ods of him in

number, sir; hee's a gentleman as good as the

proudest of you, and yee shall not wrong him.

Bar. Not, sir?

Melynell. Not, sir; though he be not so rich,255

hee's a better man than the best of you; and I

will not endure it.

L'An. Not you, sir?

Bris. No, sir, nor I.

Buss. I should thank you for this kindnesse,260

if I thought these perfum'd musk-cats (being

out of this priviledge) durst but once mew at us.

Bar. Does your confident spirit doubt that,

sir? Follow us and try.

L'An. Come, sir, wee'll lead you a dance. 265

Exeunt.

Finis Actus Primi.

LINENOTES:

2 that. A, this.

4 the. A omits.

10 Court-fashion. A, Court forme.

11 demi-gods. A, semi-gods.

14-15 No question . . . immortality. A omits.

18 vaunt. A, boast.

20 clowneries. A, rudenesse.

32 confusion. A, deformitie.

47 sole heire. A, first borne.

53 more. A omits.

54 To jet . . . haughtely. A, To be the pictures of our vanitie.

56 Holding . . . vaunts. A omits.

58 a. A, this. to court. A, t'attend you.

60-61 That's . . . attire. Printed as prose in Qq.

62, 63 We. A, I.

67 So in A: B has only: They that will winne, must wooe her.

71 sweet heart. A, my love.

68-75. I urg'd . . . graces. Printed as prose in Qq.

76 'Save you, ladyes! A omits.

87-90 Marke . . . extremity. A omits.

Enter . . . Pyrhot. After l. 146 in A.

100-114 Soft . . . gamester. A omits.

124 Duke. A, Sir.

125 princely mistresse. A, madam.

126 Another riddle. A omits.

129 young. A, good.

132-139, and an additional line: "Gui. So, sir, so," inserted after l. 146 in A.

141-145 Set as verse in B, the lines ending in many, of, owne, talk.

145-146 Another riddle. A, More courtship, as you love it.

178 Their heat. A, Ardor.

204 braying. A, roaring.

227 miraculous jealousie. A, strange credulitie.

229 the matter of. A omits.

227-231 O . . . you. Printed as three lines of verse, ending in selfe, into, you.

235 in. A, with.

241 else. A omits.

Actus Secund[i.] Scena Prima.

[A Room in the Court.]

Henry, Guise, Montsurry, and Attendants.

Henry. This desperate quarrell sprung out of their envies

To D'Ambois sudden bravery, and great spirit.

Guise. Neither is worth their envie.

Henr. Lesse than either

Will make the gall of envie overflow;

She feeds on outcast entrailes like a kite:5

In which foule heape, if any ill lies hid,

She sticks her beak into it, shakes it up,

And hurl's it all abroad, that all may view it.

Corruption is her nutriment; but touch her

With any precious oyntment, and you kill her.10

Where she finds any filth in men, she feasts,

And with her black throat bruits it through the world

Being sound and healthfull; but if she but taste

The slenderest pittance of commended vertue,

She surfets of it, and is like a flie15

That passes all the bodies soundest parts,

And dwels upon the sores; or if her squint eie

Have power to find none there, she forges some:

She makes that crooked ever which is strait;

Calls valour giddinesse, justice tyrannie:20

A wise man may shun her, she not her selfe;

Whither soever she flies from her harmes,

She beares her foe still claspt in her own armes:

And therefore, cousen Guise, let us avoid her.

Enter Nuncius.

Nuncius. What Atlas or Olympus lifts his head25

So farre past covert, that with aire enough

My words may be inform'd, and from their height

I may be seene and heard through all the world?

A tale so worthy, and so fraught with wonder,

Sticks in my jawes, and labours with event.30

Henr. Com'st thou from D'Ambois?

Nun. From him, and the rest,

His friends and enemies; whose sterne fight I saw,

And heard their words before, and in the fray.

Henr. Relate at large what thou hast seene and heard.

Nun. I saw fierce D'Ambois and his two brave friends35

Enter the field, and at their heeles their foes;

Which were the famous souldiers, Barrisor,

L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of armes.

All which arriv'd at the evenest peece of earth

The field afforded, the three challengers40

Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood ranck't;

When face to face the three defendants met them,

Alike prepar'd, and resolute alike.

Like bonfires of contributorie wood

Every mans look shew'd, fed with eithers spirit;45

As one had beene a mirror to another,

Like formes of life and death each took from other;

And so were life and death mixt at their heights,

That you could see no feare of death, for life,

Nor love of life, for death: but in their browes50

Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone:

That life and death in all respects are one.

Henr. Past there no sort of words at their encounter?

Nun. As Hector, twixt the hosts of Greece and Troy,

(When Paris and the Spartane King should end55

The nine yeares warre) held up his brasen launce

For signall that both hosts should cease from armes,

And heare him speak; so Barrisor (advis'd)

Advanc'd his naked rapier twixt both sides,

Ript up the quarrell, and compar'd six lives60

Then laid in ballance with six idle words;

Offer'd remission and contrition too,

Or else that he and D'Ambois might conclude

The others dangers. D'Ambois lik'd the last;

But Barrisors friends (being equally engag'd65

In the maine quarrell) never would expose

His life alone to that they all deserv'd.

And for the other offer of remission

D'Ambois (that like a lawrell put in fire

Sparkl'd and spit) did much much more than scorne70

That his wrong should incense him so like chaffe,

To goe so soone out, and like lighted paper

Approve his spirit at once both fire and ashes.

So drew they lots, and in them Fates appointed,

That Barrisor should fight with firie D'Ambois;75

Pyrhot with Melynell, with Brisac L'Anou;

And then, like flame and powder, they commixt

So spritely, that I wisht they had beene spirits,

That the ne're shutting wounds they needs must open

Might, as they open'd, shut, and never kill.80

But D'Ambois sword (that lightned as it flew)

Shot like a pointed comet at the face

Of manly Barrisor, and there it stucke:

Thrice pluckt he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts

From him that of himselfe was free as fire,85

Who thrust still as he pluckt; yet (past beliefe!)

He with his subtile eye, hand, body, scap't.

At last, the deadly bitten point tugg'd off,

On fell his yet undaunted foe so fiercely,

That (only made more horrid with his wound)90

Great D'Ambois shrunke, and gave a little ground;

But soone return'd, redoubled in his danger,

And at the heart of Barrisor seal'd his anger.

Then, as in Arden I have seene an oke

Long shooke with tempests, and his loftie toppe95

Bent to his root, which being at length made loose

(Even groaning with his weight), he gan to nodde

This way and that, as loth his curled browes

(Which he had oft wrapt in the skie with stormes)

Should stoope: and yet, his radicall fivers burst,100

Storme-like he fell, and hid the feare-cold earth—

So fell stout Barrisor, that had stood the shocks

Of ten set battels in your Highnesse warre,

'Gainst the sole souldier of the world, Navarre.

Gui. O pitious and horrid murther!

[Montsurry.] Such a life105

Me thinks had mettall in it to survive

An age of men.

Henr. Such often soonest end.—

Thy felt report cals on; we long to know

On what events the other have arriv'd.

Nun. Sorrow and fury, like two opposite fumes110

Met in the upper region of a cloud,

At the report made by this worthies fall,

Brake from the earth, and with them rose Revenge,

Entring with fresh powers his two noble friends;

And under that ods fell surcharg'd Brisac,115

The friend of D'Ambois, before fierce L'Anou;

Which D'Ambois seeing, as I once did see,

In my young travels through Armenia,

An angrie unicorne in his full cariere

Charge with too swift a foot a jeweller,120

That watcht him for the treasure of his brow,

And, ere he could get shelter of a tree,

Naile him with his rich antler to the earth:

So D'Ambois ranne upon reveng'd L'Anou,

Who eying th'eager point borne in his face,125

And giving backe, fell back; and, in his fall,

His foes uncurbed sword stopt in his heart:

By which time all the life strings of th'tw'other

Were cut, and both fell, as their spirit flew,

Upwards, and still hunt Honour at the view.130

And now (of all the six) sole D'Ambois stood

Untoucht, save only with the others bloud.

Henr. All slaine outright?

Nun. All slaine outright but he,

Who kneeling in the warme life of his friends,

(All freckled with the bloud his rapier raind)135

He kist their pale lips, and bade both farewell:

And see the bravest man the French earth beares! [Exit Nuntius.]

Enter Monsieur, D'Amb[ois] bare.

Bussy. Now is the time; y'are princely vow'd my friend;

Perform it princely, and obtaine my pardon.

Monsieur. Else Heaven forgive not me! Come on, brave friend!140

If ever Nature held her selfe her owne,

When the great triall of a King and subject

Met in one bloud, both from one belly springing,

Now prove her vertue and her greatnesse one,

Or make the t'one the greater with the t'other,145

(As true Kings should) and for your brothers love

(Which is a speciall species of true vertue)

Doe that you could not doe, not being a King.

Henr. Brother, I know your suit; these wilfull murthers

Are ever past our pardon.

Mons. Manly slaughter150

Should never beare th'account of wilfull murther,

It being a spice of justice, where with life

Offending past law equall life is laid

In equall ballance, to scourge that offence

By law of reputation, which to men155

Exceeds all positive law; and what that leaves

To true mens valours (not prefixing rights

Of satisfaction suited to their wrongs)

A free mans eminence may supply and take.

Henr. This would make every man that thinks him wrong'd,160

Or is offended, or in wrong or right,

Lay on this violence; and all vaunt themselves

Law-menders and supplyers, though meere butchers,

Should this fact, though of justice, be forgiven.

Mons. O no, my Lord! it would make cowards feare165

To touch the reputations of true men.

When only they are left to impe the law,

Justice will soone distinguish murtherous minds

From just revengers. Had my friend beene slaine,

His enemy surviving, he should die,170

Since he had added to a murther'd fame

(Which was in his intent) a murthered man;

And this had worthily beene wilfull murther;

But my friend only sav'd his fames deare life,

Which is above life, taking th'under value175

Which in the wrong it did was forfeit to him;

And in this fact only preserves a man

In his uprightnesse, worthy to survive

Millions of such as murther men alive.

Henr. Well, brother, rise, and raise your friend withall180

From death to life: and, D'Ambois, let your life

(Refin'd by passing through this merited death)

Be purg'd from more such foule pollution;

Nor on your scape, nor valour, more presuming

To be again so violent.

Buss. My Lord,185

I lothe as much a deed of unjust death,

As law it selfe doth; and to tyrannise,

Because I have a little spirit to dare,

And power to doe, as to be tyranniz'd.

This is a grace that (on my knees redoubled)190

I crave, to double this my short lifes gift,

And shall your royal bountie centuple,

That I may so make good what Law and Nature

Have given me for my good: since I am free,

(Offending no just law) let no law make,195

By any wrong it does, my life her slave:

When I am wrong'd, and that Law failes to right me,

Let me be King my selfe (as man was made)

And doe a justice that exceeds the Law:

If my wrong passe the power of single valour200

To right and expiate, then be you my King,

And doe a right, exceeding Law and Nature.

Who to himselfe is law, no law doth need,

Offends no law, and is a King indeed.

Henr. Enjoy what thou intreat'st, we give but ours.205

Buss. What you have given, my lord, is ever yours. Exit Rex cum [Montsurry.]

Gui. Mort dieu, who would have pardon'd such a murther? Exit.

Mons. Now vanish horrors into Court attractions

For which let this balme make thee fresh and faire!

And now forth with thy service to the Duchesse,210

As my long love will to Monsurries Countesse. Exit.

Buss. To whom my love hath long been vow'd in heart,

Although in hand, for shew, I held the Duchesse.

And now through bloud and vengeance, deeds of height,

And hard to be atchiev'd, tis fit I make215

Attempt of her perfection. I need feare

No check in his rivality, since her vertues

Are so renown'd, and hee of all dames hated. Exit.

LINENOTES:

Montsurry, and Attendants. A, Beaumond, Nuncius.

11 Where. A, When.

27 their. A, his.

70 Sparkl'd. So in A; B, Spakl'd.

105 [Montsurry.] Emend. ed.: Beau. Qq; see note 30, p. 149.

120 a foot. A, an eie.

128 th'. A, the.

129 spirit. A, spirits.

133 All slaine outright? So in A; B, All slaine outright but hee?

135 freckled. A, feebled.

166 true. A, full.

185 violent. So in A; B, daring.

204 law. A, King.

206 cum [Montsurry.] Emend. ed.: Qq, cum Beau. See note 30, p. 149.

207 Mort dieu. A; B omits.

210-218 And now . . . hated. A omits, inserting instead:

Buss. How shall I quite your love?

Mons. Be true to the end.

I have obtained a kingdome with my friend.

[Actus Secundi Scena Secunda.

A Room in Montsurry's House.]

Montsur[ry], Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero, Charlotte, Pyrha.

Montsurry. He will have pardon, sure.

Tamyra. Twere pittie else:

For though his great spirit something overflow,

All faults are still borne, that from greatnesse grow:

But such a sudden courtier saw I never.

Beaupre. He was too sudden, which indeed was rudenesse.5

Tam. True, for it argued his no due conceit

Both of the place, and greatnesse of the persons,

Nor of our sex: all which (we all being strangers

To his encounter) should have made more maners

Deserve more welcome.

Mont. All this fault is found10

Because he lov'd the Duchesse and left you.

Tam. Ahlas, love give her joy! I am so farre

From envie of her honour, that I sweare,

Had he encounterd me with such proud sleight,

I would have put that project face of his15

To a more test than did her Dutchesship.

Beau. Why (by your leave, my lord) Ile speake it heere,

(Although she be my ante) she scarce was modest,

When she perceived the Duke, her husband, take

Those late exceptions to her servants courtship,20

To entertaine him.

Tam. I, and stand him still,

Letting her husband give her servant place:

Though he did manly, she should be a woman.

Enter Guise.

[Guise.] D'Ambois is pardond! wher's a King? where law?

See how it runnes, much like a turbulent sea;25

Heere high and glorious, as it did contend

To wash the heavens, and make the stars more pure;

And heere so low, it leaves the mud of hell

To every common view. Come, Count Montsurry,

We must consult of this.

Tam. Stay not, sweet lord.30

Mont. Be pleased; Ile strait returne. Exit cum Guise.

Tam. Would that would please me!

Beau. Ile leave you, madam, to your passions;

I see ther's change of weather in your lookes. Exit cum suis.

Tam. I cannot cloake it; but, as when a fume,

Hot, drie, and grosse, within the wombe of earth35

Or in her superficies begot,

When extreame cold hath stroke it to her heart,

The more it is comprest, the more it rageth,

Exceeds his prisons strength that should containe it,

And then it tosseth temples in the aire,40

All barres made engines to his insolent fury:

So, of a sudden, my licentious fancy

Riots within me: not my name and house,

Nor my religion to this houre observ'd,

Can stand above it; I must utter that45

That will in parting breake more strings in me,

Than death when life parts; and that holy man

That, from my cradle, counseld for my soule,

I now must make an agent for my bloud.

Enter Monsieur.

Monsieur. Yet is my mistresse gratious?

Tam. Yet unanswered?50

Mons. Pray thee regard thine owne good, if not mine,

And cheere my love for that: you doe not know

What you may be by me, nor what without me;

I may have power t'advance and pull downe any.

Tam. That's not my study. One way I am sure55

You shall not pull downe me; my husbands height

Is crowne to all my hopes, and his retiring

To any meane state, shall be my aspiring.

Mine honour's in mine owne hands, spite of kings.

Mons. Honour, what's that? your second maydenhead:60

And what is that? a word: the word is gone,

The thing remaines; the rose is pluckt, the stalk

Abides: an easie losse where no lack's found.

Beleeve it, there's as small lack in the losse

As there is paine ith' losing. Archers ever65

Have two strings to a bow, and shall great Cupid

(Archer of archers both in men and women)

Be worse provided than a common archer?

A husband and a friend all wise wives have.

Tam. Wise wives they are that on such strings depend,70

With a firme husband joyning a lose friend.

Mons. Still you stand on your husband; so doe all

The common sex of you, when y'are encounter'd

With one ye cannot fancie: all men know

You live in Court here by your owne election,75

Frequenting all our common sports and triumphs,

All the most youthfull company of men.

And wherefore doe you this? To please your husband?

Tis grosse and fulsome: if your husbands pleasure

Be all your object, and you ayme at honour80

In living close to him, get you from Court,

You may have him at home; these common put-ofs

For common women serve: "my honour! husband!"

Dames maritorious ne're were meritorious:

Speak plaine, and say "I doe not like you, sir,85

Y'are an ill-favour'd fellow in my eye,"

And I am answer'd.

Tam. Then I pray be answer'd:

For in good faith, my lord, I doe not like you

In that sort you like.

Mons. Then have at you here!

Take (with a politique hand) this rope of pearle;90

And though you be not amorous, yet be wise:

Take me for wisedom; he that you can love

Is nere the further from you.

Tam. Now it comes

So ill prepar'd, that I may take a poyson

Under a medicine as good cheap as it:95

I will not have it were it worth the world.

Mons. Horror of death! could I but please your eye,

You would give me the like, ere you would loose me.

"Honour and husband!"

Tam. By this light, my lord,

Y'are a vile fellow; and Ile tell the King100

Your occupation of dishonouring ladies,

And of his Court. A lady cannot live

As she was borne, and with that sort of pleasure

That fits her state, but she must be defam'd

With an infamous lords detraction:105

Who would endure the Court if these attempts,

Of open and profest lust must be borne?—

Whose there? come on, dame, you are at your book

When men are at your mistresse; have I taught you

Any such waiting womans quality?110

Mons. Farewell, good "husband"! Exit Mons[ieur].

Tam. Farewell, wicked lord!

Enter Mont[surry].

Mont. Was not the Monsieur here?

Tam. Yes, to good purpose;

And your cause is as good to seek him too,

And haunt his company.

Mont. Why, what's the matter?

Tam. Matter of death, were I some husbands wife:115

I cannot live at quiet in my chamber

For oportunities almost to rapes

Offerd me by him.

Mont. Pray thee beare with him:

Thou know'st he is a bachelor, and a courtier,

I, and a Prince: and their prerogatives120

Are to their lawes, as to their pardons are

Their reservations, after Parliaments—

One quits another; forme gives all their essence.

That Prince doth high in vertues reckoning stand

That will entreat a vice, and not command:125

So farre beare with him; should another man

Trust to his priviledge, he should trust to death:

Take comfort then (my comfort), nay, triumph,

And crown thy selfe; thou part'st with victory:

My presence is so onely deare to thee130

That other mens appeare worse than they be:

For this night yet, beare with my forced absence:

Thou know'st my businesse; and with how much weight

My vow hath charged it.

Tam. True, my lord, and never

My fruitlesse love shall let your serious honour;135

Yet, sweet lord, do no stay; you know my soule

Is so long time with out me, and I dead,

As you are absent.

Mont. By this kisse, receive

My soule for hostage, till I see my love.

Tam. The morne shall let me see you?

Mont. With the sunne140

Ile visit thy more comfortable beauties.

Tam. This is my comfort, that the sunne hath left

The whole worlds beauty ere my sunne leaves me.

Mont. Tis late night now, indeed: farewell, my light! Exit.

Tam. Farewell, my light and life! but not in him,145

In mine owne dark love and light bent to another.

Alas! that in the wane of our affections

We should supply it with a full dissembling,

In which each youngest maid is grown a mother.

Frailty is fruitfull, one sinne gets another:150

Our loves like sparkles are that brightest shine

When they goe out; most vice shewes most divine.

Goe, maid, to bed; lend me your book, I pray,

Not, like your selfe, for forme. Ile this night trouble

None of your services: make sure the dores,155

And call your other fellowes to their rest.

Per. I will—yet I will watch to know why you watch. Exit.

Tam. Now all yee peacefull regents of the night,

Silently-gliding exhalations,

Languishing windes, and murmuring falls of waters,160

Sadnesse of heart, and ominous securenesse,

Enchantments, dead sleepes, all the friends of rest,

That ever wrought upon the life of man,

Extend your utmost strengths, and this charm'd houre

Fix like the Center! make the violent wheeles165

Of Time and Fortune stand, and great Existens,

(The Makers treasurie) now not seeme to be

To all but my approaching friends and me!

They come, alas, they come! Feare, feare and hope

Of one thing, at one instant, fight in me:170

I love what most I loath, and cannot live,

Unlesse I compasse that which holds my death;

For life's meere death, loving one that loathes me,

And he I love will loath me, when he sees

I flie my sex, my vertue, my renowne,175

To runne so madly on a man unknowne. The Vault opens.

See, see, a vault is opening that was never

Knowne to my lord and husband, nor to any

But him that brings the man I love, and me.

How shall I looke on him? how shall I live,180

And not consume in blushes? I will in;

And cast my selfe off, as I ne're had beene. Exit.

Ascendit Frier and D'Ambois.

Friar. Come, worthiest sonne, I am past measure glad

That you (whose worth I have approv'd so long)

Should be the object of her fearefull love;185

Since both your wit and spirit can adapt

Their full force to supply her utmost weaknesse.

You know her worths and vertues, for report

Of all that know is to a man a knowledge:

You know besides that our affections storme,190

Rais'd in our blood, no reason can reforme.

Though she seeke then their satisfaction

(Which she must needs, or rest unsatisfied)

Your judgement will esteeme her peace thus wrought

Nothing lesse deare than if your selfe had sought:195

And (with another colour, which my art

Shall teach you to lay on) your selfe must seeme

The only agent, and the first orbe move

In this our set and cunning world of love.

Bussy. Give me the colour (my most honour'd father)200

And trust my cunning then to lay it on.

Fri. Tis this, good sonne:—Lord Barrisor (whom you slew)

Did love her dearely, and with all fit meanes

Hath urg'd his acceptation, of all which

Shee keepes one letter written in his blood:205

You must say thus, then: that you heard from mee

How much her selfe was toucht in conscience

With a report (which is in truth disperst)

That your maine quarrell grew about her love,

Lord Barrisor imagining your courtship210

Of the great Guises Duchesse in the Presence

Was by you made to his elected mistresse:

And so made me your meane now to resolve her,

Chosing by my direction this nights depth,

For the more cleare avoiding of all note215

Of your presumed presence. And with this

(To cleare her hands of such a lovers blood)

She will so kindly thank and entertaine you

(Me thinks I see how), I, and ten to one,

Shew you the confirmation in his blood,220

Lest you should think report and she did faine,

That you shall so have circumstantiall meanes

To come to the direct, which must be used:

For the direct is crooked; love comes flying;

The height of love is still wonne with denying.225

Buss. Thanks, honoured father.

Fri. Shee must never know

That you know any thing of any love

Sustain'd on her part: for, learne this of me,

In any thing a woman does alone,

If she dissemble, she thinks tis not done;230

If not dissemble, nor a little chide,

Give her her wish, she is not satisfi'd;

To have a man think that she never seekes

Does her more good than to have all she likes:

This frailty sticks in them beyond their sex,235

Which to reforme, reason is too perplex:

Urge reason to them, it will doe no good;

Humour (that is the charriot of our food

In every body) must in them be fed,

To carrie their affections by it bred.240

Stand close!

Enter Tamyra with a book.

Tam. Alas, I fear my strangenesse will retire him.

If he goe back, I die; I must prevent it,

And cheare his onset with my sight at least,

And that's the most; though every step he takes245

Goes to my heart. Ile rather die than seeme

Not to be strange to that I most esteeme.

Fri. Madam!

Tam. Ah!

Fri. You will pardon me, I hope,

That so beyond your expectation,

(And at a time for visitants so unfit)250

I (with my noble friend here) visit you:

You know that my accesse at any time

Hath ever beene admitted; and that friend,

That my care will presume to bring with me,

Shall have all circumstance of worth in him255

To merit as free welcome as myselfe.

Tam. O father, but at this suspicious houre

You know how apt best men are to suspect us

In any cause that makes suspicious shadow

No greater than the shadow of a haire;260

And y'are to blame. What though my lord and husband

Lie forth to night, and since I cannot sleepe

When he is absent I sit up to night;

Though all the dores are sure, and all our servants

As sure bound with their sleepes; yet there is One265

That wakes above, whose eye no sleepe can binde:

He sees through dores, and darknesse, and our thoughts;

And therefore as we should avoid with feare

To think amisse our selves before his search,

So should we be as curious to shunne270

All cause that other think not ill of us.

Buss. Madam, 'tis farre from that: I only heard

By this my honour'd father that your conscience

Made some deepe scruple with a false report

That Barrisors blood should something touch your honour,275

Since he imagin'd I was courting you

When I was bold to change words with the Duchesse,

And therefore made his quarrell, his long love

And service, as I heare, beeing deepely vowed

To your perfections; which my ready presence,280

Presum'd on with my father at this season

For the more care of your so curious honour,

Can well resolve your conscience is most false.

Tam. And is it therefore that you come, good sir?

Then crave I now your pardon and my fathers,285

And sweare your presence does me so much good

That all I have it bindes to your requitall.

Indeed sir, 'tis most true that a report

Is spread, alleadging that his love to me

Was reason of your quarrell; and because290

You shall not think I faine it for my glory

That he importun'd me for his Court service,

I'le shew you his own hand, set down in blood,

To that vaine purpose: good sir, then come in.

Father, I thank you now a thousand fold.295

Exit Tamyra and D'Amb[ois].

Fri. May it be worth it to you, honour'd daughter! Descendit Fryar.

Finis Actus Secundi.

LINENOTES:

1-49 He will . . . bloud. These lines and the direction, Montsur . . . Pyrha, are found in A only.

50 B, which begins the scene with this line, inserts before it: Enter Monsieur, Tamyra, and Pero with a booke.

71 joyning a lose. A, weighing a dissolute.

76 common. A, solemne.

135 honour. A, profit.

146 In . . . another. A omits.

147 wane. Emend., Dilke; Qq, wave.

158 yee. A, the.

172 which. A, that.

173 For life's . . . me. A, For love is hatefull without love againe.

The Vault opens. B places this after 173; A omits.

177-181 See . . . in. Instead of these lines, A has:—

See, see the gulfe is opening that will swallow Me and my fame forever; I will in.

with a book. A omits.

266 wakes. A, sits.

274 Made some deepe scruple. A, Was something troubled.

275 honour. A, hand.

278-280 his long love . . . perfections. A omits.

280 ready. A omits.

286 good. A, comfort.

Actus Tertii Scena Prima.

[A Room in Montsurry's House.]

Enter D'Ambois, Tamyra, with a chaine of pearle.

Bussy. Sweet mistresse, cease! your conscience is too nice,

And bites too hotly of the Puritane spice.

Tamyra. O, my deare servant, in thy close embraces

I have set open all the dores of danger

To my encompast honour, and my life:5

Before I was secure against death and hell;

But now am subject to the heartlesse feare

Of every shadow, and of every breath,

And would change firmnesse with an aspen leafe:

So confident a spotlesse conscience is,10

So weake a guilty. O, the dangerous siege

Sinne layes about us, and the tyrannie

He exercises when he hath expugn'd!

Like to the horror of a winter's thunder,

Mixt with a gushing storme, that suffer nothing15

To stirre abroad on earth but their own rages,

Is sinne, when it hath gathered head above us;

No roofe, no shelter can secure us so,

But he will drowne our cheeks in feare or woe.

Buss. Sin is a coward, madam, and insults20

But on our weaknesse, in his truest valour:

And so our ignorance tames us, that we let

His shadowes fright us: and like empty clouds

In which our faulty apprehensions forge

The formes of dragons, lions, elephants,25

When they hold no proportion, the slie charmes

Of the witch policy makes him like a monster

Kept onely to shew men for servile money:

That false hagge often paints him in her cloth

Ten times more monstrous than he is in troth.30

In three of us the secret of our meeting

Is onely guarded, and three friends as one

Have ever beene esteem'd, as our three powers

That in our one soule are as one united:

Why should we feare then? for my selfe, I sweare,35

Sooner shall torture be the sire to pleasure,

And health be grievous to one long time sick,

Than the deare jewell of your fame in me

Be made an out-cast to your infamy;

Nor shall my value (sacred to your vertues)40

Onely give free course to it from my selfe,

But make it flie out of the mouths of Kings

In golden vapours, and with awfull wings.

Tam. It rests as all Kings seales were set in thee.

Now let us call my father, whom I sweare45

I could extreamly chide, but that I feare

To make him so suspicious of my love,

Of which (sweet servant) doe not let him know

For all the world.

Buss. Alas! he will not think it.

Tam. Come then—ho! Father, ope and take your friend.50

Ascendit Frier.

Fri. Now, honour'd daughter, is your doubt resolv'd?

Tam. I, father, but you went away too soone.

Fri. Too soone!

Tam. Indeed you did; you should have stayed;

Had not your worthy friend beene of your bringing,

And that containes all lawes to temper me,55

Not all the fearefull danger that besieged us

Had aw'd my throat from exclamation.

Fri. I know your serious disposition well.

Come, sonne, the morne comes on.

Buss. Now, honour'd mistresse,

Till farther service call, all blisse supply you!60

Tam. And you this chaine of pearle, and my love onely! Descendit Frier and D'Amb[ois].

It is not I, but urgent destiny

That (as great states-men for their generall end

In politique justice make poore men offend)

Enforceth my offence to make it just.65

What shall weak dames doe, when th' whole work of Nature

Hath a strong finger in each one of us?

Needs must that sweep away the silly cobweb

Of our still-undone labours, that layes still

Our powers to it, as to the line, the stone,70

Not to the stone, the line should be oppos'd.

We cannot keepe our constant course in vertue:

What is alike at all parts? every day

Differs from other, every houre and minute;

I, every thought in our false clock of life75

Oft times inverts the whole circumference:

We must be sometimes one, sometimes another.

Our bodies are but thick clouds to our soules,

Through which they cannot shine when they desire.

When all the starres, and even the sunne himselfe,80

Must stay the vapours times that he exhales

Before he can make good his beames to us,

O how can we, that are but motes to him,

Wandring at random in his ordered rayes,

Disperse our passions fumes, with our weak labours,85

That are more thick and black than all earths vapours?

Enter Mont[surry].

Mont. Good day, my love! what, up and ready too!

Tam. Both (my deare lord): not all this night made I

My selfe unready, or could sleep a wink.

Mont. Alas, what troubled my true love, my peace,90

From being at peace within her better selfe?

Or how could sleepe forbeare to seize thine eyes,

When he might challenge them as his just prise?

Tam. I am in no powre earthly, but in yours.

To what end should I goe to bed, my lord,95

That wholly mist the comfort of my bed?

Or how should sleepe possesse my faculties,

Wanting the proper closer of mine eyes?

Mont. Then will I never more sleepe night from thee:

All mine owne businesse, all the Kings affaires,100

Shall take the day to serve them; every night

Ile ever dedicate to thy delight.

Tam. Nay, good my lord, esteeme not my desires

Such doters on their humours that my judgement

Cannot subdue them to your worthier pleasure:105

A wives pleas'd husband must her object be

In all her acts, not her sooth'd fantasie.

Mont. Then come, my love, now pay those rites to sleepe

Thy faire eyes owe him: shall we now to bed?

Tam. O no, my lord! your holy frier sayes110

All couplings in the day that touch the bed

Adulterous are, even in the married;

Whose grave and worthy doctrine, well I know,

Your faith in him will liberally allow.

Mont. Hee's a most learned and religious man.115

Come to the Presence then, and see great D'Ambois

(Fortunes proud mushrome shot up in a night)

Stand like an Atlas under our Kings arme;

Which greatnesse with him Monsieur now envies

As bitterly and deadly as the Guise.120

Tam. What! he that was but yesterday his maker,

His raiser, and preserver?

Mont. Even the same.

Each naturall agent works but to this end,

To render that it works on like it selfe;

Which since the Monsieur in his act on D'Ambois125

Cannot to his ambitious end effect,

But that (quite opposite) the King hath power

(In his love borne to D'Ambois) to convert

The point of Monsieurs aime on his owne breast,

He turnes his outward love to inward hate:130

A princes love is like the lightnings fume,

Which no man can embrace, but must consume. Exeunt.

LINENOTES:

Enter D'Ambois . . . pearle. A, Bucy, Tamyra.

1-2 Sweet . . . spice. A omits.

28 servile. A, Goddesse.

34 our one. So in A: B omits our.

35 selfe. A, truth.

37 one. A, men.

45-61 Now let . . . Descendit Frier and D'Amb[ois]. A omits.

92 thine eies. A, thy beauties.

118 under our Kings arme. A, underneath the King.

[Actus Tertii Scena Secunda.

A room in the Court.]

Henry, D'Ambois, Monsieur, Guise, Dutches, Annabell, Charlot, Attendants.

Henry. Speak home, my Bussy! thy impartiall words

Are like brave faulcons that dare trusse a fowle

Much greater than themselves; flatterers are kites

That check at sparrowes; thou shalt be my eagle,

And beare my thunder underneath thy wings:5

Truths words like jewels hang in th'eares of kings.

Bussy. Would I might live to see no Jewes hang there

In steed of jewels—sycophants, I meane,

Who use Truth like the Devill, his true foe,

Cast by the angell to the pit of feares,10

And bound in chaines; Truth seldome decks kings eares.

Slave flattery (like a rippiers legs rowl'd up

In boots of hay-ropes) with kings soothed guts

Swadled and strappl'd, now lives onely free.

O, tis a subtle knave; how like the plague15

Unfelt he strikes into the braine of man,

And rageth in his entrailes when he can,

Worse than the poison of a red hair'd man.

Henr. Fly at him and his brood! I cast thee off,

And once more give thee surname of mine eagle.20

Buss. Ile make you sport enough, then. Let me have

My lucerns too, or dogs inur'd to hunt

Beasts of most rapine, but to put them up,

And if I trusse not, let me not be trusted.

Shew me a great man (by the peoples voice,25

Which is the voice of God) that by his greatnesse

Bumbasts his private roofes with publique riches;

That affects royaltie, rising from a clapdish;

That rules so much more than his suffering King,

That he makes kings of his subordinate slaves:30

Himselfe and them graduate like woodmongers

Piling a stack of billets from the earth,

Raising each other into steeples heights;

Let him convey this on the turning props

Of Protean law, and (his owne counsell keeping)35

Keepe all upright—let me but hawlk at him,

Ile play the vulture, and so thump his liver

That (like a huge unlading Argosea)

He shall confesse all, and you then may hang him.

Shew me a clergie man that is in voice40

A lark of heaven, in heart a mowle of earth;

That hath good living, and a wicked life;

A temperate look, and a luxurious gut;

Turning the rents of his superfluous cures

Into your phesants and your partriches;45

Venting their quintessence as men read Hebrew—

Let me but hawlk at him, and like the other,

He shall confesse all, and you then may hang him.

Shew me a lawyer that turnes sacred law

(The equall rendrer of each man his owne,50

The scourge of rapine and extortion,

The sanctuary and impregnable defence

Of retir'd learning and besieged vertue)

Into a Harpy, that eates all but's owne,

Into the damned sinnes it punisheth,55

Into the synagogue of theeves and atheists;

Blood into gold, and justice into lust:—

Let me but hawlk at him, as at the rest,

He shall confesse all, and you then may hang him.

Enter Mont-surrey, Tamira and Pero.

Gui. Where will you find such game as you would hawlk at?60

Buss. Ile hawlk about your house for one of them.

Gui. Come, y'are a glorious ruffin and runne proud

Of the Kings headlong graces; hold your breath,

Or, by that poyson'd vapour, not the King

Shall back your murtherous valour against me.65

Buss. I would the King would make his presence free

But for one bout betwixt us: by the reverence

Due to the sacred space twixt kings and subjects,

Here would I make thee cast that popular purple

In which thy proud soule sits and braves thy soveraigne.70

Mons. Peace, peace, I pray thee, peace!

Buss. Let him peace first

That made the first warre.

Mons. He's the better man.

Buss. And, therefore, may doe worst?

Mons. He has more titles.

Buss. So Hydra had more heads.

Mons. He's greater knowne.

Buss. His greatnesse is the peoples, mine's mine owne.75

Mons. He's noblier borne.

Buss. He is not; I am noble,

And noblesse in his blood hath no gradation,

But in his merit.

Gui. Th'art not nobly borne,

But bastard to the Cardinall of Ambois.

Buss. Thou liest, proud Guiserd; let me flie, my Lord!80

Henr. Not in my face, my eagle! violence flies

The sanctuaries of a princes eyes.

Buss. Still shall we chide, and fome upon this bit?

Is the Guise onely great in faction?

Stands he not by himselfe? Proves he th'opinion85

That mens soules are without them? Be a duke,

And lead me to the field.

Guis. Come, follow me.

Henr. Stay them! stay, D'Ambois! Cosen Guise, I wonder

Your honour'd disposition brooks so ill

A man so good that only would uphold90

Man in his native noblesse, from whose fall

All our dissentions rise; that in himselfe

(Without the outward patches of our frailty,

Riches and honour) knowes he comprehends

Worth with the greatest. Kings had never borne95

Such boundlesse empire over other men,

Had all maintain'd the spirit and state of D'Ambois;

Nor had the full impartiall hand of Nature,

That all things gave in her originall

Without these definite terms of Mine and Thine,100

Beene turn'd unjustly to the hand of Fortune,

Had all preserv'd her in her prime like D'Ambois;

No envie, no disjunction had dissolv'd,

Or pluck'd one stick out of the golden faggot

In which the world of Saturne bound our lifes,105

Had all beene held together with the nerves,

The genius, and th'ingenious soule of D'Ambois.

Let my hand therefore be the Hermean rod

To part and reconcile, and so conserve you,

As my combin'd embracers and supporters.110

Buss. Tis our Kings motion, and we shall not seeme

To worst eies womanish, though we change thus soone

Never so great grudge for his greater pleasure.

Gui. I seale to that, and so the manly freedome,

That you so much professe, hereafter prove not115

A bold and glorious licence to deprave,

To me his hand shall hold the Hermean vertue

His grace affects, in which submissive signe

On this his sacred right hand I lay mine.

Buss. Tis well, my lord, and so your worthy greatnesse120

Decline not to the greater insolence,

Nor make you think it a prerogative

To rack mens freedomes with the ruder wrongs,

My hand (stuck full of lawrell, in true signe

Tis wholly dedicate to righteous peace)125

In all submission kisseth th'other side.

Henr. Thanks to ye both: and kindly I invite ye

Both to a banquet where weele sacrifice

Full cups to confirmation of your loves;

At which (faire ladies) I entreat your presence;130

And hope you, madam, will take one carowse

For reconcilement of your lord and servant.

Duchess. If I should faile, my lord, some other lady

Would be found there to doe that for my servant.

Mons. Any of these here?

Duch. Nay, I know not that.135

Buss. Think your thoughts like my mistresse, honour'd lady?

Tamyra. I think not on you, sir; y'are one I know not.

Buss. Cry you mercy, madam!

Montsurry. Oh sir, has she met you? Exeunt Henry, D'Amb[ois], Ladies.

Mons. What had my bounty drunk when it rais'd him?

Gui. Y'ave stuck us up a very worthy flag,140

That takes more winde than we with all our sailes.

Mons. O, so he spreds and flourishes.

Gui. He must downe;

Upstarts should never perch too neere a crowne.

Mons. Tis true, my lord; and as this doting hand

Even out of earth (like Juno) struck this giant,145

So Joves great ordinance shall be here implide

To strike him under th'Ætna of his pride.

To which work lend your hands, and let us cast

Where we may set snares for his ranging greatnes.

I think it best, amongst our greatest women:150

For there is no such trap to catch an upstart

As a loose downfall; for, you know, their falls

Are th'ends of all mens rising. If great men

And wise make scapes to please advantage,

Tis with a woman—women that woorst may155

Still hold mens candels: they direct and know

All things amisse in all men, and their women

All things amisse in them; through whose charm'd mouthes

We may see all the close scapes of the Court.

When the most royall beast of chase, the hart,160

Being old, and cunning in his layres and haunts,

Can never be discovered to the bow,

The peece, or hound—yet where, behind some queich,

He breaks his gall, and rutteth with his hinde,

The place is markt, and by his venery165

He still is taken. Shall we then attempt

The chiefest meane to that discovery here,

And court our greatest ladies chiefest women

With shewes of love, and liberall promises?

Tis but our breath. If something given in hand170

Sharpen their hopes of more, 'twill be well ventur'd.

Gui. No doubt of that: and 'tis the cunningst point

Of our devis'd investigation.

Mons. I have broken

The yce to it already with the woman

Of your chast lady, and conceive good hope175

I shall wade thorow to some wished shore

At our next meeting.

Mont. Nay, there's small hope there.

Gui. Take say of her, my lord, she comes most fitly.

Mons. Starting back?

Enter Charlot, Anable, Pero.

Gui. Y'are ingag'd indeed.180

Annable. Nay pray, my lord, forbeare.

Mont. What, skittish, servant?

An. No, my lord, I am not so fit for your service.

Charlotte. Nay, pardon me now, my lord; my lady expects me.185

Gui. Ile satisfie her expectation, as far as an unkle may.

Mons. Well said! a spirit of courtship of all

hands. Now, mine owne Pero, hast thou remembred190

me for the discovery I entreated thee

to make of thy mistresse? Speak boldly, and be

sure of all things I have sworne to thee.

Pero. Building on that assurance (my lord) I

may speak; and much the rather because my195

lady hath not trusted me with that I can tell

you; for now I cannot be said to betray her.

Mons. That's all one, so wee reach our

objects: forth, I beseech thee.

Per. To tell you truth, my lord, I have made200

a strange discovery.

Mons. Excellent Pero, thou reviv'st me; may I

sink quick to perdition if my tongue discover it!

Per. Tis thus, then: this last night my lord

lay forth, and I, watching my ladies sitting up,205

stole up at midnight from my pallat, and (having

before made a hole both through the wall and

arras to her inmost chamber) I saw D'Ambois

and her selfe reading a letter!

Mons. D'Ambois!210

Per. Even he, my lord.

Mons. Do'st thou not dreame, wench?

Per. I sweare he is the man.

Mons. The devill he is, and thy lady his dam!

Why this was the happiest shot that ever flewe;215

the just plague of hypocrisie level'd it. Oh, the

infinite regions betwixt a womans tongue and

her heart! is this our Goddesse of chastity? I

thought I could not be so sleighted, if she had

not her fraught besides, and therefore plotted this220

with her woman, never dreaming of D'Amboys.

Deare Pero, I will advance thee for ever: but

tell me now—Gods pretious, it transformes mee

with admiration—sweet Pero, whom should she

trust with this conveyance? Or, all the dores225

being made sure, how should his conveyance be

made?

Per. Nay, my lord, that amazes me: I cannot

by any study so much as guesse at it.

Mons. Well, let's favour our apprehensions230

with forbearing that a little; for, if my heart

were not hoopt with adamant, the conceipt of

this would have burst it: but heark thee. Whispers.

Mont. I pray thee, resolve mee: the Duke

will never imagine that I am busie about's wife:235

hath D'Ambois any privy accesse to her?

An. No, my lord, D'Ambois neglects her (as

shee takes it) and is therefore suspicious that

either your lady, or the lady Beaupre, hath

closely entertain'd him.240

Mont. Ber lady, a likely suspition, and very

neere the life—especially of my wife.

Mons. Come, we'l disguise all with seeming

onely to have courted.—Away, dry palm! sh'as

a livor as dry as a bisket; a man may goe a245

whole voyage with her, and get nothing but

tempests from her windpipe.

Gui. Here's one (I think) has swallowed a

porcupine, shee casts pricks from her tongue so.

Mont. And here's a peacock seemes to have250

devour'd one of the Alpes, she has so swelling

a spirit, & is so cold of her kindnes.

Char. We are no windfalls, my lord; ye must

gather us with the ladder of matrimony, or we'l

hang till we be rotten.255

Mons. Indeed, that's the way to make ye right

openarses. But, alas, ye have no portions fit for

such husbands as we wish you.

Per. Portions, my lord! yes, and such portions

as your principality cannot purchase.260

Mons. What, woman, what are those portions?

Per. Riddle my riddle, my lord.

Mons. I, marry, wench, I think thy portion

is a right riddle; a man shall never finde it out:

but let's heare it.265

Per. You shall, my lord.

What's that, that being most rar's most cheap?

That when you sow, you never reap?

That when it growes most, most you [th]in it,

And still you lose it, when you win it?270

That when tis commonest, tis dearest,

And when tis farthest off, 'tis neerest?

Mons. Is this your great portion?

Per. Even this, my lord.

Mons. Beleeve me, I cannot riddle it.275

Per. No, my lord; tis my chastity, which you

shall neither riddle nor fiddle.

Mons. Your chastity! Let me begin with the

end of it; how is a womans chastity neerest

man, when tis furthest off?280

Per. Why, my lord, when you cannot get it,

it goes to th'heart on you; and that I think comes

most neere you: and I am sure it shall be farre

enough off. And so wee leave you to our mercies. Exeunt Women.

Mons. Farewell, riddle.285

Gui. Farewell, medlar.

Mont. Farewell, winter plum.

Mons. Now, my lords, what fruit of our inquisition?

feele you nothing budding yet? Speak,

good my lord Montsurry.290

Mont. Nothing but this: D'Ambois is thought

negligent in observing the Duchesse, and therefore

she is suspicious that your neece or my wife

closely entertaines him.

Mons. Your wife, my lord! Think you that295

possible?

Mont. Alas, I know she flies him like her

last houre.

Mons. Her last houre? Why that comes upon

her the more she flies it. Does D'Ambois so,300

think you?

Mont. That's not worth the answering. Tis

miraculous to think with what monsters womens

imaginations engrosse them when they are once

enamour'd, and what wonders they will work305

for their satisfaction. They will make a sheepe

valiant, a lion fearefull.

Mons. And an asse confident. Well, my lord,

more will come forth shortly; get you to the

banquet.310

Gui. Come, my lord, I have the blind side of

one of them. Exit Guise cum Mont[surry].

Mons. O the unsounded sea of womens bloods,

That when tis calmest, is most dangerous!

Not any wrinkle creaming in their faces,315

When in their hearts are Scylla and Caribdis,

Which still are hid in dark and standing foggs,

Where never day shines, nothing ever growes

But weeds and poysons that no states-man knowes;

Nor Cerberus ever saw the damned nookes320

Hid with the veiles of womens vertuous lookes.

But what a cloud of sulphur have I drawne

Up to my bosome in this dangerous secret!

Which if my hast with any spark should light

Ere D'Ambois were engag'd in some sure plot,325

I were blowne up; he would be, sure, my death.

Would I had never knowne it, for before

I shall perswade th'importance to Montsurry,

And make him with some studied stratagem

Train D'Ambois to his wreak, his maid may tell it;330

Or I (out of my fiery thirst to play

With the fell tyger up in darknesse tyed,

And give it some light) make it quite break loose.

I feare it, afore heaven, and will not see

D'Ambois againe, till I have told Montsurry,335

And set a snare with him to free my feares.

Whose there?

Enter Maffe.

Maffe. My lord?

Mons. Goe, call the Count Montsurry,

And make the dores fast; I will speak with none

Till he come to me.

Maf. Well, my lord. Exiturus.

Mons. Or else

Send you some other, and see all the dores340

Made safe your selfe, I pray; hast, flie about it.

Maf. You'l speak with none but with the Count Montsurry?

Mons. With none but hee, except it be the Guise.

Maf. See, even by this there's one exception more;

Your Grace must be more firme in the command,345

Or else shall I as weakly execute.

The Guise shall speak with you?

Mons. He shall, I say.

Maf. And Count Montsurry?

Mons. I, and Count Montsurry.

Maf. Your Grace must pardon me, that I am bold

To urge the cleare and full sence of your pleasure;350

Which when so ever I have knowne, I hope

Your Grace will say I hit it to a haire.

Mons. You have.

Maf. I hope so, or I would be glad—

Mons. I pray thee, get thee gone; thou art so tedious

In the strick't forme of all thy services355

That I had better have one negligent.

You hit my pleasure well, when D'Ambois hit you;

Did you not, think you?

Maf. D'Ambois! why, my lord—

Mons. I pray thee, talk no more, but shut the dores:

Doe what I charge thee.

Maf. I will my lord, and yet 360

I would be glad the wrong I had of D'Ambois—

Mons. Precious! then it is a fate that plagues me

In this mans foolery; I may be murthered,

While he stands on protection of his folly.

Avant, about thy charge!

Maf. I goe, my lord.—365

I had my head broke in his faithfull service;

I had no suit the more, nor any thanks,

And yet my teeth must still be hit with D'Ambois.

D'Ambois, my lord, shall know—

Mons. The devill and D'Ambois! Exit Maffe.

How am I tortur'd with this trusty foole!370

Never was any curious in his place

To doe things justly, but he was an asse:

We cannot finde one trusty that is witty,

And therefore beare their disproportion.

Grant, thou great starre, and angell of my life,375

A sure lease of it but for some few dayes,

That I may cleare my bosome of the snake

I cherisht there, and I will then defie

All check to it but Natures; and her altars

Shall crack with vessels crown'd with ev'ry liquor380

Drawn from her highest and most bloudy humors.

I feare him strangely; his advanced valour

Is like a spirit rais'd without a circle,

Endangering him that ignorantly rais'd him,

And for whose fury he hath learnt no limit.385

Enter Maffe hastily.

Maf. I cannot help it; what should I do more?

As I was gathering a fit guard to make

My passage to the dores, and the dores sure,

The man of bloud is enter'd.

Mons. Rage of death!

If I had told the secret, and he knew it,390

Thus had I bin endanger'd.

Enter D'Ambois.

My sweet heart!

How now? what leap'st thou at?

Bussy. O royall object!

Mons. Thou dream'st awake: object in th'empty aire!

Buss. Worthy the browes of Titan, worth his chaire.

Mons. Pray thee, what mean'st thou?

Buss. See you not a crowne 395

Empalethe forehead of the great King Monsieur?

Mons. O, fie upon thee!

Buss. Prince, that is the subject

Of all these your retir'd and sole discourses.

Mons. Wilt thou not leave that wrongfull supposition?

Buss. Why wrongfull to suppose the doubtlesse right400

To the succession worth the thinking on?

Mons. Well, leave these jests! how I am over-joyed

With thy wish'd presence, and how fit thou com'st,

For, of mine honour, I was sending for thee.

Buss. To what end?

Mons. Onely for thy company, 405

Which I have still in thought; but that's no payment

On thy part made with personall appearance.

Thy absence so long suffered oftentimes

Put me in some little doubt thou do'st not love me.

Wilt thou doe one thing therefore now sincerely?410

Buss. I, any thing—but killing of the King.

Mons. Still in that discord, and ill taken note?

How most unseasonable thou playest the cucko,

In this thy fall of friendship!

Buss. Then doe not doubt

That there is any act within my nerves,415

But killing of the King, that is not yours.

Mons. I will not then; to prove which, by my love

Shewne to thy vertues, and by all fruits else

Already sprung from that still flourishing tree,

With whatsoever may hereafter spring,420

I charge thee utter (even with all the freedome

Both of thy noble nature and thy friendship)

The full and plaine state of me in thy thoughts.

Buss. What, utter plainly what I think of you?

Mons. Plaine as truth.425

Buss. Why this swims quite against the stream of greatnes:

Great men would rather heare their flatteries,

And if they be not made fooles, are not wise.

Mons. I am no such great foole, and therefore charge thee

Even from the root of thy free heart display mee.430

Buss. Since you affect it in such serious termes,

If your selfe first will tell me what you think

As freely and as heartily of me,

I'le be as open in my thoughts of you.

Mons. A bargain, of mine honour! and make this,435

That prove we in our full dissection

Never so foule, live still the sounder friends.

Buss. What else, sir? come, pay me home, ile bide it bravely.

Mons. I will, I sweare. I think thee, then, a man

That dares as much as a wilde horse or tyger,440

As headstrong and as bloody; and to feed

The ravenous wolfe of thy most caniball valour

(Rather than not employ it) thou would'st turne

Hackster to any whore, slave to a Jew,

Or English usurer, to force possessions445

(And cut mens throats) of morgaged estates;

Or thou would'st tire thee like a tinkers strumpet,

And murther market folks; quarrell with sheepe,

And runne as mad as Ajax; serve a butcher;

Doe any thing but killing of the King.450

That in thy valour th'art like other naturalls

That have strange gifts in nature, but no soule

Diffus'd quite through, to make them of a peece,

But stop at humours, that are more absurd,

Childish and villanous than that hackster, whore,455

Slave, cut-throat, tinkers bitch, compar'd before;

And in those humours would'st envie, betray,

Slander, blaspheme, change each houre a religion,

Doe any thing, but killing of the King:

That in thy valour (which is still the dunghill,460

To which hath reference all filth in thy house)

Th'art more ridiculous and vaine-glorious

Than any mountibank, and impudent

Than any painted bawd; which not to sooth,

And glorifie thee like a Jupiter Hammon,465

Thou eat'st thy heart in vinegar, and thy gall

Turns all thy blood to poyson, which is cause

Of that toad-poole that stands in thy complexion,

And makes thee with a cold and earthy moisture,

(Which is the damme of putrifaction)470

As plague to thy damn'd pride, rot as thou liv'st:

To study calumnies and treacheries;

To thy friends slaughters like a scrich-owle sing,

And to all mischiefes—but to kill the King.

Buss. So! have you said?

Mons. How thinkest thou? Doe I flatter? 475

Speak I not like a trusty friend to thee?

Buss. That ever any man was blest withall.

So here's for me! I think you are (at worst)

No devill, since y'are like to be no King;

Of which with any friend of yours Ile lay480

This poore stillado here gainst all the starres,

I, and 'gainst all your treacheries, which are more:

That you did never good, but to doe ill,

But ill of all sorts, free and for it selfe:

That (like a murthering peece making lanes in armies,485

The first man of a rank, the whole rank falling)

If you have wrong'd one man, you are so farre

From making him amends that all his race,

Friends, and associates fall into your chace:

That y'are for perjuries the very prince490

Of all intelligencers; and your voice

Is like an easterne winde, that, where it flies,

Knits nets of catterpillars, with which you catch

The prime of all the fruits the kingdome yeelds:

That your politicall head is the curst fount495

Of all the violence, rapine, cruelty,

Tyrannie, & atheisme flowing through the realme:

That y'ave a tongue so scandalous, 'twill cut

The purest christall, and a breath that will

Kill to that wall a spider; you will jest500

With God, and your soule to the Devill tender

For lust; kisse horror, and with death engender:

That your foule body is a Lernean fenne

Of all the maladies breeding in all men:

That you are utterly without a soule;505

And for your life, the thred of that was spunne

When Clotho slept, and let her breathing rock

Fall in the durt; and Lachesis still drawes it,

Dipping her twisting fingers in a boule

Defil'd, and crown'd with vertues forced soule:510

And lastly (which I must for gratitude

Ever remember) that of all my height

And dearest life you are the onely spring,

Onely in royall hope to kill the King.

Mons. Why, now I see thou lov'st me! come to the banquet! Exeunt. 515

Finis Actus Tertii.

LINENOTES:

Henry . . . Attendants. A, Henry, D'Ambois, Monsieur, Guise, Mont., Elenor, Tam., Pero.

1 my. A; B omits.

4 sparrowes. A, nothing.

16 man. A, truth.

29 than. So in A; B, by.

53 besieged. A, oppressed.

58 the rest. A, the tother.

67 bout. A, charge.

71-72 Three lines in Qq, i.e. Peace . . . thee peace | Let . . . warre | He's . . . man.

76 noblier. Emend. ed. Qq, nobly; see note, p. 154.

88 Stay . . . D'Ambois. B, Stay them, stay D'Ambois.

89 honour'd. A, equall.

96 empire. A, eminence.

104 one stick out. A, out one sticke.

105 bound our lifes. A, was compris'd.

107 ingenious. A, ingenuous.

117 hold. A, proove. vertue. A, rodde.

121 Decline not to. A, Engender not.

131-138 And hope . . . D'Amb[ois], Ladies. Omitted in A, which after 130 has: Exeunt Henry, D'Amb., Ely, Ta.

140 worthy. A, proper.

149 ranging. A, gadding.

153 for, you know. A, and indeed.

160-161 the hart, Being old, and cunning in his. A, being old, And cunning in his choice of.

163-164 where . . . his hinde. A has:—

Where his custome is To beat his vault, and he ruts with his hinde.

168 chiefest. A, greatest.

172 the cunningst. A, an excellent.

173-177 I have broken . . . hope there. A has:—

I have already broke the ice, my lord, With the most trusted woman of your Countesse, And hope I shall wade through to our discovery.

178 Gui. A, Mont. omitting the speech Nay . . . there.

179 Starting back. Omitted in A, which instead continues Montsurry's speech with: And we will to the other.

180 indeed. A omits.

185 Nay. A, Pray.

189-193 Well said . . . to thee. Printed in doggerel form in Qq, the lines ending with hands, me, mistresse, thee.

192 of. A, concerning.

193 sworne to thee. A, promised.

194 that assurance. A, that you have sworne.

198-199 so wee reach our objects. A, so it bee not to one that will betray thee.

202 Excellent . . . me. So punctuated by ed.; A, Excellent Pero thou reviv'st me; B, Excellent! Pero thou reviv'st me.

203 to perdition. A, into earth heere.

205 watching. A, wondring.

206 stole up. A, stole.

209 her selfe reading a letter. A, she set close at a banquet.

213 I sweare. A, No, my lord.

215-216 Why this . . . Oh, the. A omits, possibly by mistake.

220 fraught. A, freight.

221 never dreaming of D'Amboys. A omits.

225 this. A, his.

226 should. A, could.

227 made. A, performed.

Whispers. A omits.

233 Between this line and l. 234 A inserts:—

Char. I sweare to your Grace, all that I can conjecture touching my
lady, your neece, is a strong affection she beares to the English Mylor.

Gui. All, quod you? tis enough I assure you; but tell me.

242 life—: between this word and especially A inserts: if she marks it.

243 disguise. A, put off.

247 from. A, at.

253 are. A, be.

269 [th]in. Emend. ed; Qq, in.

273 great. A omits.

279 it. A, you.

284 wee. A, I. our mercies. A, my mercy.

303 miraculous. A, horrible.

308 Well, my lord. A, My lord, tis true, and.

311-312 Come . . . of them. A omits.

317 dark and standing foggs. A, monster-formed cloudes.

322-336 But what . . . feares. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

I will conceale all yet, and give more time To D'Ambois triall, now upon my hooke; He awes my throat; else, like Sybillas cave, It should breath oracles; I feare him strangely, And may resemble his advanced valour Unto a spirit rais'd without a circle, Endangering him that ignorantly rais'd him, And for whose furie he hath learn'd no limit.

337-391 Whose there . . . sweet heart! A omits, though 382-5, with some variations, appear as 326 (half-line)—330 in B. Cf. preceding note.

358 D'Ambois . . . lord. So punctuated by ed.; B has: D'Ambois! why my lord?

394 browes. A, head.

397 Prince. A, Sir.

400-408 Why wrongfull . . . oftentimes. A omits.

409 Put me in some little doubt. A, This still hath made me doubt.

410 therefore now. A, for me then.

413-414 How . . . friendship. A omits.

414-416 Then . . . not yours. Omitted in A, which has instead: Come, doe not doubt me, and command mee all things.

417 to prove which, by. A, and now by all.

419 still flourishing tree. A, affection.

420 With . . . spring. A omits.

425 Plaine as truth. A omits.

438 pay me home, ile bide it bravely. A, begin, and speake me simply.

447 strumpet. A, wife.

460 thy. A, that. the. A, my.

461 hath reference. A, I carrie.

499 The purest. A, A perfect.

Actus Quarti Scena Prima.

[The Banquetting-Hall in the Court.]

Henry, Monsieur with a letter, Guise, Montsurry, Bussy, Elynor, Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero, Charlotte, Anable, Pyrha, with foure Pages.

Henry. Ladies, ye have not done our banquet right,

Nor lookt upon it with those cheereful rayes

That lately turn'd your breaths to flouds of gold;

Your looks, me thinks, are not drawne out with thoughts

So cleare and free as heretofore, but foule5

As if the thick complexions of men

Govern'd within them.

Bussy. 'Tis not like, my lord,

That men in women rule, but contrary;

For as the moone, of all things God created

Not only is the most appropriate image10

Or glasse to shew them how they wax and wane,

But in her height and motion likewise beares

Imperiall influences that command

In all their powers, and make them wax and wane:

So women, that, of all things made of nothing,15

Are the most perfect idols of the moone,

Or still-unwean'd sweet moon-calves with white faces,

Not only are paterns of change to men,

But as the tender moon-shine of their beauties

Cleares or is cloudy, make men glad or sad.20

So then they rule in men, not men in them.

Monsieur. But here the moons are chang'd (as the King notes)

And either men rule in them, or some power

Beyond their voluntary faculty,

For nothing can recover their lost faces.25

Montsurry. None can be alwayes one: our griefes and joyes

Hold severall scepters in us, and have times

For their divided empires: which griefe now in them

Doth prove as proper to his diadem.

Buss. And griefe's a naturall sicknesse of the bloud,30

That time to part asks, as his comming had;

Onely sleight fooles griev'd suddenly are glad.

A man may say t'a dead man, "be reviv'd,"

As well as to one sorrowfull, "be not griev'd."

And therefore (princely mistresse) in all warres35

Against these base foes that insult on weaknesse,

And still fight hous'd behind the shield of Nature,

Of priviledge law, treachery, or beastly need,

Your servant cannot help; authority here

Goes with corruption, something like some states40

That back woorst men; valour to them must creepe

That to themselves left would feare him asleepe.

Duchess. Ye all take that for granted that doth rest

Yet to be prov'd; we all are as we were,

As merry and as free in thought as ever.45

Guise. And why then can ye not disclose your thoughts?

Tamyra. Me thinks the man hath answer'd for us well.

Mons. The man! why, madam, d'ee not know his name?

Tam. Man is a name of honour for a King:

Additions take away from each chiefe thing.50

The schoole of modesty not to learne learnes dames:

They sit in high formes there that know mens names.

Mons. [to Bussy.] Heark, sweet heart, here's a bar set to your valour!

It cannot enter here, no, not to notice

Of what your name is; your great eagles beak55

(Should you flie at her) had as good encounter

An Albion cliffe as her more craggy liver.

Buss. Ile not attempt her, sir; her sight and name

(By which I onely know her) doth deter me.

Henr. So doe they all men else.

Mons. You would say so, 60

If you knew all.

Tam. Knew all, my lord? what meane you?

Mons. All that I know, madam.

Tam. That you know! Speak it.

Mons. No, tis enough I feele it.

Henr. But me thinks

Her courtship is more pure then heretofore.

True courtiers should be modest, and not nice;65

Bold, but not impudent; pleasure love, not vice.

Mons. Sweet heart, come hither! what if one should make

Horns at Mountsurry, would it not strike him jealous

Through all the proofes of his chaste ladies vertues?

Buss. If he be wise, not.70

Mons. What, not if I should name the gardener

That I would have him think hath grafted him?

Buss. So the large licence that your greatnesse uses

To jest at all men may be taught indeed

To make a difference of the grounds you play on,75

Both in the men you scandall and the matter.

Mons. As how, as how?

Buss. Perhaps led with a traine

Where you may have your nose made lesse and slit,

Your eyes thrust out.

Mons. Peace, peace, I pray thee, peace!

Who dares doe that? the brother of his King!80

Buss. Were your King brother in you; all your powers

(Stretcht in the armes of great men and their bawds)

Set close downe by you; all your stormy lawes

Spouted with lawyers mouthes, and gushing bloud,

Like to so many torrents; all your glories85

Making you terrible, like enchanted flames,

Fed with bare cockscombs and with crooked hammes,

All your prerogatives, your shames, and tortures,

All daring heaven and opening hell about you—

Were I the man ye wrong'd so and provok'd,90

(Though ne're so much beneath you) like a box tree

I would out of the roughnesse of my root

Ramme hardnesse in my lownesse, and, like death

Mounted on earthquakes, I would trot through all

Honors and horrors, thorow foule and faire,95

And from your whole strength tosse you into the aire.

Mons. Goe, th'art a devill! such another spirit

Could not be still'd from all th'Armenian dragons.

O, my loves glory! heire to all I have

(That's all I can say, and that all I sweare)100

If thou out-live me, as I know thou must,

Or else hath Nature no proportion'd end

To her great labours; she hath breath'd a minde

Into thy entrails, of desert to swell

Into another great Augustus Cæsar;105

Organs and faculties fitted to her greatnesse;

And should that perish like a common spirit,

Nature's a courtier and regards no merit.

Henr. Here's nought but whispering with us; like a calme

Before a tempest, when the silent ayre110

Layes her soft eare close to the earth to hearken

For that she feares steales on to ravish her;

Some fate doth joyne our eares to heare it comming.

Come, my brave eagle, let's to covert flie!

I see almighty Æther in the smoak115

Of all his clowds descending, and the skie

Hid in the dim ostents of tragedy. Exit Henr[y] with D'Amb[ois] & Ladies.

Guis. Now stirre the humour, and begin the brawle.

Mont. The King and D'Ambois now are growne all one.

Mons. Nay, they are two, my lord.

Mont. How's that?

Mons. No more. 120

Mont. I must have more, my lord.

Mons. What, more than two?

Mont. How monstrous is this!

Mons. Why?

Mont. You make me horns.

Mons. Not I, it is a work without my power,

Married mens ensignes are not made with fingers;

Of divine fabrique they are, not mens hands:125

Your wife, you know, is a meere Cynthia,

And she must fashion hornes out of her nature.

Mont. But doth she? dare you charge her? speak, false prince.

Mons. I must not speak, my lord; but if you'l use

The learning of a noble man, and read,130

Here's something to those points. Soft, you must pawne

Your honour, having read it, to return it.

Enter Tamira, Pero.

Mont. Not I:—I pawne mine honour for a paper!

Mons. You must not buy it under. Exeunt Guise and Monsieur.

Mont. Keepe it then,

And keepe fire in your bosome!

Tam. What sayes he? 135

Mont. You must make good the rest.

Tam. How fares my lord?

Takes my love any thing to heart he sayes?

Mont. Come, y'are a—

Tam. What, my lord?

Mont. The plague of Herod

Feast in his rotten entrailes!

Tam. Will you wreak

Your angers just cause given by him on me?140

Mont. By him?

Tam. By him, my lord. I have admir'd

You could all this time be at concord with him,

That still hath plaid such discords on your honour.

Mont. Perhaps tis with some proud string of my wives.

Tam. How's that, my lord?

Mont. Your tongue will still admire, 145

Till my head be the miracle of the world.

Tam. O woe is me! She seemes to sound.

Pero. What does your lordship meane?

Madam, be comforted; my lord but tries you.

Madam! Help, good my lord, are you not mov'd?

Doe your set looks print in your words your thoughts?150

Sweet lord, cleare up those eyes,

Unbend that masking forehead. Whence is it

You rush upon her with these Irish warres,

More full of sound then hurt? But it is enough;

You have shot home, your words are in her heart;155

She has not liv'd to beare a triall now.

Mont. Look up, my love, and by this kisse receive

My soule amongst thy spirits, for supply

To thine chac'd with my fury.

Tam. O, my lord,

I have too long liv'd to heare this from you.160

Mont. 'Twas from my troubled bloud, and not from me.

I know not how I fare; a sudden night

Flowes through my entrailes, and a headlong chaos

Murmurs within me, which I must digest,

And not drowne her in my confusions,165

That was my lives joy, being best inform'd.

Sweet, you must needs forgive me, that my love

(Like to a fire disdaining his suppression)

Rag'd being discouraged; my whole heart is wounded

When any least thought in you is but touch't,170

And shall be till I know your former merits,

Your name and memory, altogether crave

In just oblivion their eternall grave;

And then, you must heare from me, there's no meane

In any passion I shall feele for you.175

Love is a rasor, cleansing, being well us'd,

But fetcheth blood still, being the least abus'd.

To tell you briefly all—the man that left me

When you appear'd, did turne me worse than woman,

And stab'd me to the heart, thus, with his fingers.180

Tam. O happy woman! comes my stain from him,

It is my beauty, and that innocence proves

That slew Chymæra, rescued Peleus

From all the savage beasts in Peleon,

And rais'd the chaste Athenian prince from hell:185

All suffering with me, they for womens lusts,

I for a mans, that the Egean stable

Of his foule sinne would empty in my lap.

How his guilt shunn'd me! Sacred innocence

That, where thou fear'st, are dreadfull, and his face190

Turn'd in flight from thee that had thee in chace!

Come, bring me to him. I will tell the serpent

Even to his venom'd teeth (from whose curst seed

A pitcht field starts up 'twixt my lord and me)

That his throat lies, and he shall curse his fingers195

For being so govern'd by his filthy soule.

Mont. I know not if himselfe will vaunt t'have beene

The princely author of the slavish sinne,

Or any other; he would have resolv'd me,

Had you not come, not by his word, but writing,200

Would I have sworne to give it him againe,

And pawn'd mine honour to him for a paper.

Tam. See, how he flies me still! tis a foule heart

That feares his owne hand. Good my lord, make haste

To see the dangerous paper: papers hold205

Oft-times the formes and copies of our soules,

And (though the world despise them) are the prizes

Of all our honors; make your honour then

A hostage for it, and with it conferre

My neerest woman here in all she knowes;210

Who (if the sunne or Cerberus could have seene

Any staine in me) might as well as they.

And, Pero, here I charge thee, by my love,

And all proofes of it (which I might call bounties);

By all that thou hast seene seeme good in mee,215

And all the ill which thou shouldst spit from thee;

By pity of the wound this touch hath given me,

Not as thy mistresse now, but a poore woman

To death given over, rid me of my paines;

Powre on thy powder; cleare thy breast of me.220

My lord is only here: here speak thy worst;

Thy best will doe me mischiefe; if thou spar'st me,

Never shine good thought on thy memory!

Resolve my lord, and leave me desperate.

Per. My lord!—my lord hath plaid a prodigals part,225

To break his stock for nothing, and an insolent,

To cut a Gordian when he could not loose it.

What violence is this, to put true fire

To a false train; to blow up long crown'd peace

With sudden outrage; and beleeve a man,230

Sworne to the shame of women, 'gainst a woman

Borne to their honours? But I will to him.

Tam. No, I will write (for I shall never more

Meet with the fugitive) where I will defie him,

Were he ten times the brother of my King.235

To him, my lord,—and ile to cursing him. Exeunt.

LINENOTES:

with a letter. A omits.

5 foule. A, fare.

16 idols. A, images.

21 So then . . . in them. A omits.

24 faculty. A, motions.

26-29 None . . . diadem. A assigns these lines to Bussy.

28 divided empires. A, predominance.

29 prove. A, claime.

38 priviledge. A, tyrannous.

65 and. A, but.

70-78 If he . . . and slit. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

Buss. No, I thinke not.

Mons. Not if I nam'd the man

With whom I would make him suspicious

His wife hath arm'd his forehead!

Buss. So you might

Have your great nose made lesse indeede, and slit.

77-79 In B four lines, broken at (second) how, have, out, thee peace.

92 roughnesse. A, toughnesse.

96 the. A omits.

103 minde. A, spirit.

104 desert. A, effect.

112 steales on to ravish. A, is comming to afflict.

Enter . . . Pero, placed in A after under in 134.

Exeunt . . . Monsieur. A omits.

She seemes to sound. A omits.

151-154 Sweet . . . enough. A has instead:—

Sweete lord, cleare up those eies, for shame of noblesse: Mercilesse creature; but it is enough.

B has three lines broken at forehead, warres, enough.

180 fingers. A, hand.

181 comes . . . him. Punctuated by ed.; Qq, comes my stain from him?

193 Even . . . curst seed. A, Even to his teeth, whence, in mine honors soile.

205-209 papers hold . . . for it. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

Be not nice For any trifle, jeweld with your honour, To pawne your honor.

212 well. A, much.

217 this touch. A, my lord.

232 But I will to him. A, Ile attend your lordship.

234 Meet. A, Speake.

236 To him . . . him. A omits.

[Actus Quarti Scena Secunda.

A Room in Montsurry's House.]

Enter D'Ambois and Frier.

Bussy. I am suspitious, my most honour'd father,

By some of Monsieurs cunning passages,

That his still ranging and contentious nose-thrils

To scent the haunts of mischiefe have so us'd

The vicious vertue of his busie sence5

That he trails hotly of him, and will rowze him,

Driving him all enrag'd and foming on us;

And therefore have entreated your deepe skill

In the command of good aeriall spirits,

To assume these magick rites, and call up one,10

To know if any have reveal'd unto him

Any thing touching my deare love and me.

Friar. Good sonne, you have amaz'd me but to make

The least doubt of it, it concernes so neerely

The faith and reverence of my name and order.15

Yet will I justifie upon my soule

All I have done;

If any spirit i'th[e] earth or aire

Can give you the resolve, doe not despaire.

Musick: and Tamira enters with Pero, her maid, bearing a letter.

Tamyra. Away, deliver it. Exit Pero.

O may my lines, 20

Fill'd with the poyson of a womans hate,

When he shall open them, shrink up his curst eyes

With torturous darknesse, such as stands in hell,

Stuck full of inward horrors, never lighted;

With which are all things to be fear'd, affrighted.25

Buss. How is it with my honour'd mistresse?

Tam. O, servant, help, and save me from the gripes

Of shame and infamy. Our love is knowne;

Your Monsieur hath a paper where is writ

Some secret tokens that decipher it.30

Buss. What cold dull Northern brain, what foole but he,

Durst take into his Epimethean breast

A box of such plagues as the danger yeelds

Incur'd in this discovery? He had better

Ventur'd his breast in the consuming reach35

Of the hot surfets cast out of the clouds,

Or stood the bullets that (to wreak the skie)

The Cyclops ramme in Joves artillerie.

Fri. We soone will take the darknesse from his face

That did that deed of darknesse; we will know40

What now the Monsieur and your husband doe;

What is contain'd within the secret paper

Offer'd by Monsieur, and your loves events.

To which ends (honour'd daughter) at your motion

I have put on these exorcising rites,45

And, by my power of learned holinesse

Vouchsaft me from above, I will command

Our resolution of a raised spirit.

Tam. Good father, raise him in some beauteous forme,

That with least terror I may brook his sight.50

Fri. Stand sure together, then, what ere you see,

And stir not, as ye tender all our lives. He puts on his robes.

Occidentalium legionum spiritualium imperator

(magnus ille Behemoth) veni, veni, comitatus cum

Asaroth locotenente invicto. Adjuro te, per Stygis55

inscrutabilia arcana, per ipsos irremeabiles anfractus

Averni: adesto ô Behemoth, tu cui pervia sunt

Magnatum scrinia; veni, per Noctis & tenebrarum

abdita profundissima; per labentia sydera; per ipsos

motus horarum furtivos, Hecatesq[ue] altum silentium!60

Appare in forma spiritali, lucente, splendida,

& amabili!

Thunder. Ascendit [Behemoth with Cartophylax and other spirits].

Behemoth. What would the holy frier?

Fri. I would see

What now the Monsieur and Mountsurrie doe,

And see the secret paper that the Monsieur65

Offer'd to Count Montsurry; longing much

To know on what events the secret loves

Of these two honour'd persons shall arrive.

Beh. Why calledst thou me to this accursed light,

To these light purposes? I am Emperor70

Of that inscrutable darknesse, where are hid

All deepest truths, and secrets never seene,

All which I know; and command legions

Of knowing spirits that can doe more then these.

Any of this my guard that circle me75

In these blew fires, and out of whose dim fumes

Vast murmurs use to break, and from their sounds

Articulat voyces, can doe ten parts more

Than open such sleight truths as you require.

Fri. From the last nights black depth I call'd up one80

Of the inferiour ablest ministers,

And he could not resolve mee. Send one, then,

Out of thine owne command to fetch the paper

That Monsieur hath to shew to Count Montsurry.

Beh. I will. Cartophylax! thou that properly85

Hast in thy power all papers so inscrib'd,

Glide through all barres to it, and fetch that paper.

Cartophylax. I will. A torch removes.

Fri. Till he returnes (great prince of darknesse)

Tell me if Monsieur and the Count Montsurry90

Are yet encounter'd.

Beh. Both them and the Guise

Are now together.

Fri. Show us all their persons,

And represent the place, with all their actions.

Beh. The spirit will strait return, and then Ile shew thee.

See, he is come. Why brought'st thou not the paper?95

Car. He hath prevented me, and got a spirit

Rais'd by another, great in our command,

To take the guard of it before I came.

Beh. This is your slacknesse, not t'invoke our powers

When first your acts set forth to their effects.100

Yet shall you see it and themselves. Behold

They come here, & the Earle now holds the paper.

Ent[er] Mons[ieur], Gui[se], Mont[surry], with a paper.

Buss. May we not heare them?

[Fri.] No, be still and see.

Buss. I will goe fetch the paper.

Fri. Doe not stirre.

There's too much distance, and too many locks105

Twixt you and them (how neere so e're they seeme)

For any man to interrupt their secrets.

Tam. O honour'd spirit, flie into the fancie

Of my offended lord; and doe not let him

Beleeve what there the wicked man hath written.110

Beh. Perswasion hath already enter'd him

Beyond reflection; peace, till their departure!

Monsieur. There is a glasse of ink where you may see

How to make ready black fac'd tragedy:

You now discerne, I hope, through all her paintings,115

Her gasping wrinkles and fames sepulchres.

Guise. Think you he faines, my lord? what hold you now?

Doe we maligne your wife, or honour you?

Mons. What, stricken dumb! Nay fie, lord, be not danted:

Your case is common; were it ne're so rare,120

Beare it as rarely! Now to laugh were manly.

A worthy man should imitate the weather,

That sings in tempests, and being cleare, is silent.

Gui. Goe home, my lord, and force your wife to write

Such loving lines to D'Ambois as she us'd125

When she desir'd his presence.

Mons. Doe, my lord,

And make her name her conceal'd messenger,

That close and most inennerable pander,

That passeth all our studies to exquire:

By whom convay the letter to her love;130

And so you shall be sure to have him come

Within the thirsty reach of your revenge.

Before which, lodge an ambush in her chamber,

Behind the arras, of your stoutest men

All close and soundly arm'd; and let them share135

A spirit amongst them that would serve a thousand.

Enter Pero with a letter.

Gui. Yet, stay a little: see, she sends for you.

Mons. Poore, loving lady, she'le make all good yet;

Think you not so, my lord? Mont[surry] stabs Pero, and exit.

Gui. Alas, poore soule!

Mons. This was cruelly done, y'faith.

Pero. T'was nobly done; 140

And I forgive his lordship from my soule.

Mons. Then much good doo't thee, Pero! hast a letter?

Per. I hope it rather be a bitter volume

Of worthy curses for your perjury.

Gui. To you, my lord.

Mons. To me? Now out upon her! 145

Gui. Let me see, my lord.

Mons. You shall presently: how fares my Pero? Enter Servant.

Who's there? Take in this maid, sh'as caught a clap,

And fetch my surgeon to her. Come, my lord,

We'l now peruse our letter. Exeunt Mons[ieur], Guise. Lead her out.

Per. Furies rise 150

Out of the black lines, and torment his soule!

Tam. Hath my lord slaine my woman?

Beh. No, she lives.

Fri. What shall become of us?

Beh. All I can say,

Being call'd thus late, is briefe, and darkly this:—

If D'Ambois mistresse die not her white hand155

In her forc'd bloud, he shall remaine untoucht:

So, father, shall your selfe, but by your selfe.

To make this augurie plainer, when the voyce

Of D'Amboys shall invoke me, I will rise

Shining in greater light, and shew him all160

That will betide ye all. Meane time be wise,

And curb his valour with your policies. Descendit cum suis.

Buss. Will he appeare to me when I invoke him?

Fri. He will, be sure.

Buss. It must be shortly, then,

For his dark words have tyed my thoughts on knots165

Till he dissolve and free them.

Tam. In meane time,

Deare servant, till your powerfull voice revoke him,

Be sure to use the policy he advis'd;

Lest fury in your too quick knowledge taken

Of our abuse, and your defence of me,170

Accuse me more than any enemy.

And, father, you must on my lord impose

Your holiest charges, and the Churches power,

To temper his hot spirit, and disperse

The cruelty and the bloud I know his hand175

Will showre upon our heads, if you put not

Your finger to the storme, and hold it up,

As my deare servant here must doe with Monsieur.

Buss. Ile sooth his plots, and strow my hate with smiles,

Till all at once the close mines of my heart180

Rise at full date, and rush into his bloud:

Ile bind his arme in silk, and rub his flesh

To make the veine swell, that his soule may gush

Into some kennell where it longs to lie;

And policy shall be flanckt with policy.185

Yet shall the feeling Center where we meet

Groane with the wait of my approaching feet:

Ile make th'inspired threshals of his Court

Sweat with the weather of my horrid steps,

Before I enter: yet will I appeare190

Like calme security before a ruine.

A politician must, like lightning, melt

The very marrow, and not taint the skin:

His wayes must not be seene; the superficies

Of the greene Center must not taste his feet,195

When hell is plow'd up with his wounding tracts,

And all his harvest reap't by hellish facts. Exeunt.

Finis Actus Quarti.

LINENOTES:

Enter D'Ambois and Frier and 1-19 I am . . . despaire. A omits.

18 th[e]. Emend, ed.; B, th.

Tamira enters. A, she enters. Pero, her maid. Emend. Dilke; A, her maid; B, Pero and her maid.

22 curst. A omits.

25 After this line A has Father, followed by stage direction: Ascendit Bussy with Comolet.

28-31 Our love is knowne; . . . but he. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

Buss. What insensate stocke,

Or rude inanimate vapour without fashion.

He puts on his robes. A omits.

Thunder. A omits.

78 Articulat. In some copies of B this is printed: Articular.

80 one. A; B, on.

103 [Fri.] Emend, ed.; Qq, Monsieur.

113 where you may. A, wherein you.

Enter . . . letter. A omits.

Mont[surry] . . . exit. Emend. ed.; A, Exit Mont., which it places after y'faith in l. 140; B, Exit Mont. and stabs Pero.

143 rather be a bitter. A, be, at least, if not a.

145 To you . . . me? A omits. Enter servant. A omits.

155 die. A, stay.

156 In. A, With. her. Emend. Dilke; Qq, his. See note, p. 159.

162 And curb . . . policies. A, And let him curb his rage with policy.

193 taint. A, print.

197 by. A, from.

Actus Quinti Scena Prima.

[A Room in Montsurry's House.]

Montsurry bare, unbrac't, pulling Tamyra in by the haire; Frier; One bearing light, a standish, and paper, which sets a table.

Tamyra. O, help me, father!

Friar. Impious earle, forbeare;

Take violent hand from her, or, by mine order,

The King shall force thee.

Montsurry. Tis not violent;

Come you not willingly?

Tam. Yes, good my lord.

Fri. My lord, remember that your soule must seek5

Her peace as well as your revengefull bloud.

You ever to this houre have prov'd your selfe

A noble, zealous, and obedient sonne

T'our holy mother: be not an apostate.

Your wives offence serves not (were it the worst10

You can imagine) without greater proofes

To sever your eternall bonds and hearts;

Much lesse to touch her with a bloudy hand.

Nor is it manly (much lesse husbandly)

To expiate any frailty in your wife15

With churlish strokes, or beastly ods of strength.

The stony birth of clowds will touch no lawrell,

Nor any sleeper: your wife is your lawrell,

And sweetest sleeper; doe not touch her, then;

Be not more rude than the wild seed of vapour20

To her that is more gentle than that rude;

In whom kind nature suffer'd one offence

But to set off her other excellence.

Mont. Good father, leave us: interrupt no more

The course I must runne for mine honour sake.25

Rely on my love to her, which her fault

Cannot extinguish. Will she but disclose

Who was the secret minister of her love,

And through what maze he serv'd it, we are friends.

Fri. It is a damn'd work to pursue those secrets30

That would ope more sinne, and prove springs of slaughter;

Nor is't a path for Christian feet to tread,

But out of all way to the health of soules;

A sinne impossible to be forgiven,

Which he that dares commit—

Mont. Good father, cease your terrors. 35

Tempt not a man distracted; I am apt

To outrages that I shall ever rue:

I will not passe the verge that bounds a Christian,

Nor break the limits of a man nor husband.

Fri. Then Heaven inspire you both with thoughts and deeds40

Worthy his high respect, and your owne soules!

Tam. Father!

Fri. I warrant thee, my dearest daughter,

He will not touch thee; think'st thou him a pagan?

His honor and his soule lies for thy safety. Exit.

Mont. Who shall remove the mountaine from my brest,45

Stand [in] the opening furnace of my thoughts,

And set fit out-cries for a soule in hell? Mont[surry] turnes a key.

For now it nothing fits my woes to speak,

But thunder, or to take into my throat

The trump of Heaven, with whose determinate blasts50

The windes shall burst and the devouring seas

Be drunk up in his sounds, that my hot woes

(Vented enough) I might convert to vapour

Ascending from my infamie unseene;

Shorten the world, preventing the last breath55

That kils the living, and regenerates death.

Tam. My lord, my fault (as you may censure it

With too strong arguments) is past your pardon.

But how the circumstances may excuse mee,

Heaven knowes, and your more temperate minde hereafter60

May let my penitent miseries make you know.

Mont. Hereafter! tis a suppos'd infinite

That from this point will rise eternally.

Fame growes in going; in the scapes of vertue

Excuses damne her: they be fires in cities65

Enrag'd with those winds that lesse lights extinguish.

Come syren, sing, and dash against my rocks

Thy ruffin gally rig'd with quench for lust:

Sing, and put all the nets into thy voice

With which thou drew'st into thy strumpets lap70

The spawne of Venus, and in which ye danc'd;

That, in thy laps steed, I may digge his tombe,

And quit his manhood with a womans sleight,

Who never is deceiv'd in her deceit.

Sing (that is, write); and then take from mine eyes75

The mists that hide the most inscrutable pander

That ever lapt up an adulterous vomit,

That I may see the devill, and survive

To be a devill, and then learne to wive!

That I may hang him, and then cut him downe,80

Then cut him up, and with my soules beams search

The cranks and cavernes of his braine, and study

The errant wildernesse of a womans face,

Where men cannot get out, for all the comets

That have beene lighted at it. Though they know85

That adders lie a sunning in their smiles,

That basilisks drink their poyson from their eyes,

And no way there to coast out to their hearts,

Yet still they wander there, and are not stay'd

Till they be fetter'd, nor secure before90

All cares devoure them, nor in humane consort

Till they embrace within their wives two breasts

All Pelion and Cythæron with their beasts.—

Why write you not?

Tam. O, good my lord, forbeare

In wreak of great faults to engender greater,95

And make my loves corruption generate murther.

Mont. It followes needfully as childe and parent;

The chaine-shot of thy lust is yet aloft,

And it must murther; tis thine owne deare twinne.

No man can adde height to a womans sinne.100

Vice never doth her just hate so provoke,

As when she rageth under vertues cloake.

Write! for it must be—by this ruthlesse steele,

By this impartiall torture, and the death

Thy tyrannies have invented in my entrails,105

To quicken life in dying, and hold up

The spirits in fainting, teaching to preserve

Torments in ashes that will ever last.

Speak: will you write?

Tam. Sweet lord, enjoyne my sinne

Some other penance than what makes it worse:110

Hide in some gloomie dungeon my loth'd face,

And let condemned murtherers let me downe

(Stopping their noses) my abhorred food:

Hang me in chaines, and let me eat these armes

That have offended: binde me face to face115

To some dead woman, taken from the cart

Of execution?—till death and time

In graines of dust dissolve me, Ile endure;

Or any torture that your wraths invention

Can fright all pitie from the world withall.120

But to betray a friend with shew of friendship,

That is too common for the rare revenge

Your rage affecteth; here then are my breasts,

Last night your pillowes; here my wretched armes,

As late the wished confines of your life:125

Now break them, as you please, and all the bounds

Of manhood, noblesse, and religion.

Mont. Where all these have bin broken, they are kept

In doing their justice there with any shew

Of the like cruell cruelty: thine armes have lost130

Their priviledge in lust, and in their torture

Thus they must pay it. Stabs her.

Tam. O lord—

Mont. Till thou writ'st,

Ile write in wounds (my wrongs fit characters)

Thy right of sufferance. Write!

Tam. O kill me, kill me!

Deare husband, be not crueller than death!135

You have beheld some Gorgon: feele, O feele

How you are turn'd to stone. With my heart blood

Dissolve your selfe againe, or you will grow

Into the image of all tyrannie.

Mont. As thou art of adultry; I will ever140

Prove thee my parallel, being most a monster.

Thus I expresse thee yet. Stabs her againe.

Tam. And yet I live.

Mont. I, for thy monstrous idoll is not done yet.

This toole hath wrought enough. Now, Torture, use Ent[er] Servants.

This other engine on th'habituate powers145

Of her thrice damn'd and whorish fortitude:

Use the most madding paines in her that ever

Thy venoms sok'd through, making most of death,

That she may weigh her wrongs with them—and then

Stand, vengeance, on thy steepest rock, a victor!150

Tam. O who is turn'd into my lord and husband?

Husband! my lord! None but my lord and husband!

Heaven, I ask thee remission of my sinnes,

Not of my paines: husband, O help me, husband!

Ascendit Frier with a sword drawne.

Fri. What rape of honour and religion!155

O wrack of nature! Falls and dies.

Tam. Poore man! O, my father!

Father, look up! O, let me downe, my lord,

And I will write.

Mont. Author of prodigies!

What new flame breakes out of the firmament

That turnes up counsels never knowne before?160

Now is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still;

Even heaven it selfe must see and suffer ill.

The too huge bias of the world hath sway'd

Her back-part upwards, and with that she braves

This hemisphere that long her mouth hath mockt:165

The gravity of her religious face

(Now growne too waighty with her sacriledge,

And here discern'd sophisticate enough)

Turnes to th'Antipodes; and all the formes

That her illusions have imprest in her170

Have eaten through her back; and now all see

How she is riveted with hypocrisie.

Was this the way? was he the mean betwixt you?

Tam. He was, he was, kind worthy man, he was.

Mont. Write, write a word or two.

Tam. I will, I will. 175

Ile write, but with my bloud, that he may see

These lines come from my wounds & not from me. Writes.

Mont. Well might he die for thought: methinks the frame

And shaken joynts of the whole world should crack

To see her parts so disproportionate;180

And that his generall beauty cannot stand

Without these staines in the particular man.

Why wander I so farre? here, here was she

That was a whole world without spot to me,

Though now a world of spots. Oh what a lightning185

Is mans delight in women! What a bubble

He builds his state, fame, life on, when he marries!

Since all earths pleasures are so short and small,

The way t'enjoy it is t'abjure it all.

Enough! I must be messenger my selfe,190

Disguis'd like this strange creature. In, Ile after,

To see what guilty light gives this cave eyes,

And to the world sing new impieties.

He puts the Frier in the vault and follows. She raps her self in the arras.

Exeunt [Servants].

LINENOTES:

by the haire. A omits.

1-4 O, help . . . my lord. A omits.

21 than that. A, than it.

28 secret. A, hateful.

32 tread. A, touch.

35 your terrors. A omits.

35-6 Good . . . distracted. B punctuates:—

Good father cease: your terrors Tempt not a man distracted.

40 Heaven. A, God. you. A, ye.

42-4 Father . . . safety. A omits.

45 brest. A, heart.

46 Stand [in] the opening. Emend, ed.; A, Ope the seven-times heat; B, Stand the opening.

48 woes. A, cares.

51 devouring. A, enraged.

60 Heaven. A, God.

68 rig'd with quench for. A, laden for thy.

91 devoure. A, distract. consort. A, state.

95 faults. A, sins.

129 with any shew . . . cruelty. A omits.

140 ever. A, still.

141 parallel. A, like in ill.

Enter Servants. A omits.

with a sword drawne. A omits.

Falls and dies. A omits.

174 worthy. A, innocent.

He . . . arras. Exeunt. A omits; B places He . . . arras after Exeunt.

[Scena Secunda.

A Room in Montsurry's House.]

Enter Monsieur and Guise.

Monsieur. Now shall we see that Nature hath no end

In her great works responsive to their worths;

That she, that makes so many eyes and soules

To see and fore-see, is stark blind her selfe;

And as illiterate men say Latine prayers5

By rote of heart and dayly iteration,

Not knowing what they say, so Nature layes

A deale of stuffe together, and by use,

Or by the meere necessity of matter,

Ends such a work, fills it, or leaves it empty10

Of strength, or vertue, error, or cleare truth,

Not knowing what she does; but usually

Gives that which we call merit to a man,

And beliefe must arrive him on huge riches,

Honour and happinesse, that effects his ruine.15

Even as in ships of warre whole lasts of powder

Are laid, me thinks, to make them last, and gard them,

When a disorder'd spark, that powder taking,

Blowes up, with sodaine violence and horror,

Ships that (kept empty) had sayl'd long, with terror.20

Guise. He that observes but like a worldly man

That which doth oft succeed and by th'events

Values the worth of things, will think it true

That Nature works at random, just with you:

But with as much proportion she may make25

A thing that from the feet up to the throat

Hath all the wondrous fabrique man should have,

And leave it headlesse, for a perfect man,

As give a full man valour, vertue, learning,

Without an end more excellent then those30

On whom she no such worthy part bestowes.

Mons. Yet shall you see it here; here will be one

Young, learned, valiant, vertuous, and full mann'd;

One on whom Nature spent so rich a hand

That with an ominous eye she wept to see35

So much consum'd her vertuous treasurie.

Yet as the winds sing through a hollow tree,

And (since it lets them passe through) let's it stand;

But a tree solid (since it gives no way

To their wild rage) they rend up by the root:40

So this whole man

(That will not wind with every crooked way

Trod by the servile world) shall reele and fall

Before the frantick puffes of blind borne chance,

That pipes through empty men and makes them dance.45

Not so the sea raves on the Libian sands,

Tumbling her billowes in each others neck:

Not so the surges of the Euxian Sea

(Neere to the frosty pole, where free Bootes

From those dark deep waves turnes his radiant teame)50

Swell, being enrag'd even from their inmost drop,

As fortune swings about the restlesse state

Of vertue now throwne into all mens hate.

Enter Montsurry disguis'd, with the murtherers.

Away, my lord; you are perfectly disguis'd;

Leave us to lodge your ambush.

Montsurry. Speed me, vengeance! 55

Exit.

Mons. Resolve, my masters, you shall meet with one

Will try what proofes your privy coats are made on:

When he is entred, and you heare us stamp,

Approach, and make all sure.

Murderers. We will, my lord. Exeunt.

LINENOTES:

1-59 Now shall . . . we will my lord. These lines are placed in A at the beginning of Scena Quarta.]

3 that makes. A, who makes.

7 Not knowing what they say. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

In whose hot zeale a man would thinke they knew What they ranne so away with, and were sure To have rewards proportion'd to their labours; Yet may implore their owne confusions For anything they know, which oftentimes It fals out they incurre.

8 deale. A, masse.

13 we call. A; B, she calls.

14 must. A, should.

16 Even. A, Right.

17 me thinks. men thinke. gard them. A; B, guard.

25 proportion. A, decorum.

28 a perfect. A, an absolute.

29 full. A, whole.

32 Yet shall you. A, Why you shall.

38 let's. A, let.

40 rage. A, rages.

41-43 So this . . . and fall. A has instead: So this full creature now shall reele and fall.

44 blind borne. A, purblinde.

Enter Montsurry . . . murtherers, and 54-59, Away . . . will, my lord. Omitted in A.

[Scena Tertia.

A Room in Bussy's House.]

D'Ambois, with two Pages with tapers.

Bussy. Sit up to night, and watch: Ile speak with none

But the old Frier, who bring to me.

Pages. We will, sir. Exeunt.

Buss. What violent heat is this? me thinks the fire

Of twenty lives doth on a suddaine flash

Through all my faculties: the ayre goes high5

In this close chamber and the frighted earth Thunder.

Trembles and shrinks beneath me; the whole house

Nods with his shaken burthen.

Enter Umb[ra] Frier.

Blesse me, heaven!

Umb[ra Friar]. Note what I want, deare sonne, and be fore-warn'd.

O there are bloudy deeds past and to come.10

I cannot stay; a fate doth ravish me;

Ile meet thee in the chamber of thy love. Exit.

Buss. What dismall change is here! the good old Frier

Is murther'd, being made knowne to serve my love;

And now his restlesse spirit would fore-warne me15

Of some plot dangerous, and imminent.

Note what he wants! He wants his upper weed,

He wants his life, and body: which of these

Should be the want he meanes, and may supply me

With any fit fore-warning? This strange vision,20

(Together with the dark prediction

Us'd by the Prince of Darknesse that was rais'd

By this embodied shadow) stirre my thoughts

With reminiscion of the Spirits promise,

Who told me that by any invocation25

I should have power to raise him, though it wanted

The powerfull words and decent rites of art.

Never had my set braine such need of spirit

T'instruct and cheere it; now then I will claime

Performance of his free and gentle vow30

T'appeare in greater light, and make more plain

His rugged oracle. I long to know

How my deare mistresse fares, and be inform'd

What hand she now holds on the troubled bloud

Of her incensed lord: me thought the Spirit35

(When he had utter'd his perplext presage)

Threw his chang'd countenance headlong into clouds;

His forehead bent, as it would hide his face,

He knockt his chin against his darkned breast,

And struck a churlish silence through his pow'rs.40

Terror of darknesse! O, thou King of flames!

That with thy musique-footed horse dost strike

The cleare light out of chrystall on dark earth,

And hurlst instructive fire about the world,

Wake, wake, the drowsie and enchanted night45

That sleepes with dead eyes in this heavy riddle!

Or thou great Prince of Shades, where never sunne

Stickes his far-darted beames, whose eyes are made

To shine in darknesse, and see ever best

Where men are blindest, open now the heart50

Of thy abashed oracle, that, for feare

Of some ill it includes, would faine lie hid,

And rise thou with it in thy greater light!

Thunders. Surgit Spiritus cum suis.

Behemoth. Thus, to observe my vow of apparition

In greater light, and explicate thy fate,55

I come; and tell thee that, if thou obey

The summons that thy mistresse next will send thee,

Her hand shall be thy death.

Buss. When will she send?

Beh. Soone as I set againe, where late I rose.

Buss. Is the old Frier slaine?

Beh. No, and yet lives not. 60

Buss. Died he a naturall death?

Beh. He did.

Buss. Who then

Will my deare mistresse send?

Beh. I must not tell thee.

Buss. Who lets thee?

Beh. Fate.

Buss. Who are Fates ministers?

Beh. The Guise and Monsieur.

Buss. A fit paire of sheeres

To cut the threds of kings and kingly spirits,65

And consorts fit to sound forth harmony

Set to the fals of kingdomes. Shall the hand

Of my kind mistresse kill me?

Beh. If thou yeeld

To her next summons. Y'are faire warn'd; farewell! Thunders. Exit.

Buss. I must fare well, how ever, though I die,70

My death consenting with his augurie.

Should not my powers obay when she commands,

My motion must be rebell to my will,

My will to life; if, when I have obay'd,

Her hand should so reward me, they must arme it,75

Binde me, or force it; or, I lay my life,

She rather would convert it many times

On her owne bosome, even to many deaths.

But were there danger of such violence,

I know 'tis farre from her intent to send:80

And who she should send is as farre from thought,

Since he is dead whose only mean she us'd. Knocks.

Whose there? Look to the dore, and let him in,

Though politick Monsieur, or the violent Guise.

Enter Montsurry like the Frier, with a letter written in bloud.

Mont. Haile to my worthy sonne!

Buss. O lying Spirit, 85

To say the Frier was dead! Ile now beleeve

Nothing of all his forg'd predictions.

My kinde and honour'd father, well reviv'd!

I have beene frighted with your death and mine,

And told my mistresse hand should be my death,90

If I obeyed this summons.

Mont. I beleev'd

Your love had bin much clearer then to give

Any such doubt a thought, for she is cleare,

And having freed her husbands jealousie

(Of which her much abus'd hand here is witnesse)95

She prayes, for urgent cause, your instant presence.

Buss. Why, then, your Prince of Spirits may be call'd

The Prince of lyers.

Mont. Holy Writ so calls him.

Buss. What! writ in bloud!

Mont. I, 'tis the ink of lovers.

Buss. O, 'tis a sacred witnesse of her love.100

So much elixer of her bloud as this,

Dropt in the lightest dame, would make her firme

As heat to fire; and, like to all the signes,

Commands the life confinde in all my veines.

O, how it multiplies my bloud with spirit,105

And makes me apt t'encounter death and hell.

But come, kinde father; you fetch me to heaven,

And to that end your holy weed was given. Exeunt.

LINENOTES:

with tapers. A omits.

Thunder. A omits.

8 Nods. A, Crackes.

Enter . . . Frier. Placed after heaven in Qq.

9 deare. A, my.

15-16 and now . . . imminent. A omits.

17 upper. A, utmost.

49 shine. A, see.

50 men are. A, sense is.

Thunders A omits

Thunders. A omits.

76 or. A, and.

with a letter written in bloud. A omits.

85-98 O lying Spirit . . . calls him. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

Buss. O lying Spirit: welcome, loved father,

How fares my dearest mistresse?

Mont. Well as ever,

Being well as ever thought on by her lord:

Wherof she sends this witnesse in her hand,

And praies, for urgent cause, your speediest presence.

91-92 I beleeved . . . give. One line in B.

[Scena Quarta.

A Room in Montsurry's House.]

Thunder. Intrat Umbra Frier and discovers Tamyra.

[Umbra] Friar. Up with these stupid thoughts, still loved daughter,

And strike away this heartlesse trance of anguish:

Be like the sunne, and labour in eclipses.

Look to the end of woes: oh, can you sit

Mustering the horrors of your servants slaughter5

Before your contemplation, and not study

How to prevent it? Watch when he shall rise,

And, with a suddaine out-crie of his murther,

Blow his retreat before he be revenged.

Tamyra. O father, have my dumb woes wak'd your death?10

When will our humane griefes be at their height?

Man is a tree that hath no top in cares,

No root in comforts; all his power to live

Is given to no end but t'have power to grieve.

Umb. Fri. It is the misery of our creation.15

Your true friend,

Led by your husband, shadowed in my weed,

Now enters the dark vault.

Tam. But, my dearest father,

Why will not you appeare to him your selfe,

And see that none of these deceits annoy him?20

Umb. Fri. My power is limited; alas! I cannot;

All that I can doe—See! the cave opens. Exit.

D'Amboys at the gulfe.

Tam. Away (my love) away! thou wilt be murther'd.

Enter Monsieur and Guise above.

Bussy. Murther'd! I know not what that Hebrew means:

That word had ne're bin nam'd had all bin D'Ambois.25

Murther'd! By heaven, he is my murtherer

That shewes me not a murtherer: what such bugge

Abhorreth not the very sleepe of D'Amboys?

Murther'd! Who dares give all the room I see

To D'Ambois reach? or look with any odds30

His fight i'th' face, upon whose hand sits death,

Whose sword hath wings, and every feather pierceth?

If I scape Monsieurs pothecarie shops,

Foutir for Guises shambles! 'Twas ill plotted;

They should have mall'd me here35

When I was rising. I am up and ready.

Let in my politique visitants, let them in,

Though entring like so many moving armours.

Fate is more strong than arms and slie than treason,

And I at all parts buckl'd in my fate.40

Mons. }

Guise. } Why enter not the coward villains?

Buss. Dare they not come?

Enter Murtherers, with [Umbra] Frier at the other dore.

Tam. They come.

First Murderer. Come, all at once!

[Umbra] Friar. Back, coward murtherers, back!

Omnes. Defend us heaven! Exeunt all but the first.

First Murd. Come ye not on?

Buss. No, slave! nor goest thou off.

Stand you so firme?

[Strikes at him with his sword.]

Will it not enter here? 45

You have a face yet. So! in thy lifes flame

I burne the first rites to my mistresse fame.

Umb. Fri. Breath thee, brave sonne, against the other charge.

Buss. O is it true, then, that my sense first told me?

Is my kind father dead?

Tam. He is, my love; 50

'Twas the Earle, my husband, in his weed that brought thee.

Buss. That was a speeding sleight, and well resembled.

Where is that angry Earle? My lord! come forth,

And shew your owne face in your owne affaire;

Take not into your noble veines the blood55

Of these base villaines, nor the light reports

Of blister'd tongues for cleare and weighty truth:

But me against the world, in pure defence

Of your rare lady, to whose spotlesse name

I stand here as a bulwark, and project60

A life to her renowne that ever yet

Hath been untainted, even in envies eye,

And, where it would protect, a sanctuarie.

Brave Earle, come forth, and keep your scandall in!

'Tis not our fault, if you enforce the spot;65

Nor the wreak yours, if you performe it not.

Enter Mont[surry] with all the murtherers.

Montsurry. Cowards! a fiend or spirit beat ye off!

They are your owne faint spirits that have forg'd

The fearefull shadowes that your eyes deluded:

The fiend was in you; cast him out, then, thus!70

[Montsurry fights with D'Ambois.] D'Ambois hath Montsurry downe.

Tam. Favour my lord, my love, O, favour him!

Buss. I will not touch him. Take your life, my lord,

And be appeas'd. Pistolls shot within.

O then the coward Fates

Have maim'd themselves, and ever lost their honour!

Umb. Fri. What have ye done, slaves! irreligious lord!75

Buss. Forbeare them, father; 'tis enough for me

That Guise and Monsieur, death and destinie,

Come behind D'Ambois. Is my body, then,

But penetrable flesh, and must my mind

Follow my blood? Can my divine part adde80

No ayd to th'earthly in extremity?

Then these divines are but for forme, not fact;

Man is of two sweet courtly friends compact,

A mistresse and a servant. Let my death

Define life nothing but a courtiers breath.85

Nothing is made of nought, of all things made

Their abstract being a dreame but of a shade.

Ile not complaine to earth yet, but to heaven,

And (like a man) look upwards even in death.

And if Vespasian thought in majestie90

An Emperour might die standing, why not I? She offers to help him.

Nay, without help, in which I will exceed him;

For he died splinted with his chamber groomes.

Prop me, true sword, as thou hast ever done!

The equall thought I beare of life and death95

Shall make me faint on no side; I am up.

Here, like a Roman statue, I will stand

Till death hath made me marble. O my fame

Live in despight of murther! take thy wings

And haste thee where the gray-ey'd morn perfumes100

Her rosie chariot with Sabæan spices!

Fly where the evening from th'Iberean vales

Takes on her swarthy shoulders Heccate

Crown'd with a grove of oakes! flie where men feele

The burning axeltree; and those that suffer105

Beneath the chariot of the snowy Beare:

And tell them all that D'Ambois now is hasting

To the eternall dwellers; that a thunder

Of all their sighes together (for their frailties

Beheld in me) may quit my worthlesse fall110

With a fit volley for my funerall.

Umb. Fri. Forgive thy murtherers.

Buss. I forgive them all;

And you, my lord, their fautor; for true signe

Of which unfain'd remission, take my sword;

Take it, and onely give it motion,115

And it shall finde the way to victory

By his owne brightnesse, and th'inherent valour

My fight hath still'd into't with charmes of spirit.

Now let me pray you that my weighty bloud,

Laid in one scale of your impertiall spleene,120

May sway the forfeit of my worthy love

Waid in the other: and be reconcil'd

With all forgivenesse to your matchlesse wife.

Tam. Forgive thou me, deare servant, and this hand

That lead thy life to this unworthy end;125

Forgive it for the bloud with which 'tis stain'd,

In which I writ the summons of thy death—

The forced summons—by this bleeding wound,

By this here in my bosome, and by this

That makes me hold up both my hands embrew'd130

For thy deare pardon.

Buss. O, my heart is broken.

Fate nor these murtherers, Monsieur nor the Guise,

Have any glory in my death, but this,

This killing spectacle, this prodigie.

My sunne is turn'd to blood, in whose red beams135

Pindus and Ossa (hid in drifts of snow

Laid on my heart and liver), from their veines

Melt, like two hungry torrents eating rocks,

Into the ocean of all humane life,

And make it bitter, only with my bloud.140

O fraile condition of strength, valour, vertue

In me (like warning fire upon the top

Of some steepe beacon, on a steeper hill)

Made to expresse it: like a falling starre

Silently glanc't, that like a thunderbolt145

Look't to have struck, and shook the firmament! Moritur.

Umb. Fri. Farewell! brave reliques of a compleat man,

Look up, and see thy spirit made a starre.

Joine flames with Hercules, and when thou set'st

Thy radiant forehead in the firmament,150

Make the vast chrystall crack with thy receipt;

Spread to a world of fire, and the aged skie

Cheere with new sparks of old humanity.

[To Montsurry.] Son of the earth, whom my unrested soule

Rues t'have begotten in the faith of heaven,155

Assay to gratulate and pacifie

The soule fled from this worthy by performing

The Christian reconcilement he besought

Betwixt thee and thy lady; let her wounds,

Manlessly digg'd in her, be eas'd and cur'd160

With balme of thine owne teares; or be assur'd

Never to rest free from my haunt and horror.

Mont. See how she merits this, still kneeling by,

And mourning his fall, more than her own fault!

Umb. Fri. Remove, deare daughter, and content thy husband:165

So piety wills thee, and thy servants peace.

Tam. O wretched piety, that art so distract

In thine owne constancie, and in thy right

Must be unrighteous. If I right my friend,

I wrong my husband; if his wrong I shunne,170

The duty of my friend I leave undone.

Ill playes on both sides; here and there it riseth;

No place, no good, so good, but ill compriseth.

O had I never married but for forme;

Never vow'd faith but purpos'd to deceive;175

Never made conscience of any sinne,

But clok't it privately and made it common;

Nor never honour'd beene in bloud or mind;

Happy had I beene then, as others are

Of the like licence; I had then beene honour'd,180

Liv'd without envie; custome had benumb'd

All sense of scruple and all note of frailty;

My fame had beene untouch'd, my heart unbroken:

But (shunning all) I strike on all offence.

O husband! deare friend! O my conscience!185

Mons. Come, let's away; my sences are not proofe

Against those plaints.

Exeunt Guise, Mon[sieur above]. D'Ambois is borne off.

Mont. I must not yeeld to pity, nor to love

So servile and so trayterous: cease, my bloud,

To wrastle with my honour, fame, and judgement.190

Away! forsake my house; forbeare complaints

Where thou hast bred them: here all things [are] full

Of their owne shame and sorrow—leave my house.

Tam. Sweet lord, forgive me, and I will be gone;

And till these wounds (that never balme shall close195

Till death hath enterd at them, so I love them,

Being opened by your hands) by death be cur'd,

I never more will grieve you with my sight;

Never endure that any roofe shall part

Mine eyes and heaven; but to the open deserts200

(Like to a hunted tygres) I will flie,

Eating my heart, shunning the steps of men,

And look on no side till I be arriv'd.

Mont. I doe forgive thee, and upon my knees

(With hands held up to heaven) wish that mine honour205

Would suffer reconcilement to my love:

But, since it will not, honour never serve

My love with flourishing object, till it sterve!

And as this taper, though it upwards look,

Downwards must needs consume, so let our love!210

As, having lost his hony, the sweet taste

Runnes into savour, and will needs retaine

A spice of his first parents, till (like life)

It sees and dies, so let our love! and, lastly,

As when the flame is suffer'd to look up215

It keepes his luster, but being thus turn'd downe

(His naturall course of usefull light inverted)

His owne stuffe puts it out, so let our love!

Now turne from me, as here I turne from thee;

And may both points of heavens strait axeltree220

Conjoyne in one, before thy selfe and me! Exeunt severally.

Finis Actus Quinti & Ultimi.

LINENOTES:

Thunder . . . Tamyra. A has: Intrat umbra Comolet to the Countesse, wrapt in a canapie.

1-6 Up . . . not study. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

Revive those stupid thoughts, and sit not thus, Gathering the horrors of your servants slaughter (So urg'd by your hand, and so imminent) Into an idle fancie; but devise.

9 revenged. A, engaged.

14 t'have. A; B, have.

15-22 It is . . . opens. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

Umb. Tis the just curse of our abus'd creation, Which wee must suffer heere, and scape heereafter: He hath the great mind that submits to all He sees inevitable; he the small That carps at earth, and her foundation shaker, And rather than himselfe, will mend his maker.

16 Your . . . friend. In B ends preceding line.

Enter . . . above. A omits.

30 To. Some copies of B have T.

33-36 If I . . . and ready. A omits.

41 Why . . . villains? A omits.

Enter . . . dore. A omits.

all but the first. A omits.

53 Qq punctuate wrongly:—Where is that angry Earle my lord? Come forth.

all the murtherers. A, others.

D'Ambois . . . downe. A omits.

Pistolls shot within. Inserted before 72 in B; A omits.

90-93 And if . . . groomes. A omits.

She offers to help him. Inserted before 95 in B. A omits.

119 Now. A, And.

135 in. A, gainst.

136 drifts of. A, endless.

146 struck. Emend. ed.; Qq, stuck.

Moritur. A omits.

147-153 Farewell . . . humanity. These lines are placed by A at the close of the Scene, and are preceded by three lines which B omits:—

My terrors are strook inward, and no more My pennance will allow they shall enforce Earthly afflictions but upon my selfe.

147 reliques. A, relicts.

149 Joine flames with Hercules. So in A; B, Jove flames with her rules.

151 chrystall. A, continent.

154 Son . . . soule. Before this line B has Frier.

155 Rues . . . heaven. After this line A inserts:—

Since thy revengefull spirit hath rejected The charitie it commands, and the remission To serve and worship the blind rage of bloud.

163 kneeling. A, sitting.

173 No place . . . compriseth. After this line A inserts:—

My soule more scruple breeds than my bloud sinne, Vertue imposeth more than any stepdame.

186-187 Come . . . plaints. A omits.

192 [are]. Added by Dilke; Qq omit.

196 enterd. A; B, enterr'd.

201 a. A omits.

EPILOGUE

With many hands you have seene D'Ambois slaine;

Yet by your grace he may revive againe,

And every day grow stronger in his skill

To please, as we presume he is in will.

The best deserving actors of the time5

Had their ascents, and by degrees did clime

To their full height, a place to studie due.

To make him tread in their path lies in you;

Hee'le not forget his makers, but still prove

His thankfulnesse, as you encrease your love.10

FINIS.

LINENOTES:

Epilogue Not found in A.

Notes To Bussy D'Ambois

For the meaning of single words see the Glossary.

Prologue. The allusions in these lines can be only partially explained. The play had evidently been performed, not long before 1641, by a company which had not possessed original acting rights in it. The performance had been successful (cf. ll. 3-4 "the grace of late It did receive"), and the "King's men," while not claiming a monopoly in it, nor seeking to detract from their rivals' merits, felt bound to revive the play on their own account, lest they should seem to be letting their claim go by default. It is possible that in ll. 11-12, they refer to a performance that in vindication of this claim they had given at Court, while, as further evidence of their priority of interest, they remind the audience of the actors belonging to the company who had appeared in the title-rôle. Nathaniel Field (l. 15), born in 1587, had as a boy been one of the "Children of the Queen's Revels," and had performed in Jonson's Cynthia's Revels, 1600, and Poetaster, 1601. He seems to have joined the King's players soon after 1614, and his name appears in the list of "the principall actors in all these playes" prefixed to the first Shakespearean Folio of 1623. Not long after this period, Field, who by his Woman is a Weathercock (1612) and his Amends for Ladies (1618) had made a reputation as a dramatist as well as an actor, is believed to have retired from the stage, though he lived till 1633. If, however, he did not appear as Bussy till after 1614, when the play had already been at least seven years, perhaps considerably longer, on the boards, it can scarcely be said with truth that his "action first did give it name" (l. 16). His successor in the part, whom the "gray beard" (l. 18) of advancing years had now disqualified, cannot be identified; but the "third man" (l. 21) is probably Ilyard Swanston, who, according to Fleay (Biog. Chron. of Drama, vol. i, p. 60), was one of the "King's men" from 1625 to 1642. His impersonation of Bussy is favourably referred to by Edmund Gayton in his Festivous Notes upon Don Quixote (1654), p. 25 and his previous rôle of "Richard" (l. 23) may have been that of Ricardo in Massinger's Picture, which he had played in 1629 (cf. Phelps, Geo. Chap. p. 125). The earlier editors thought that Charles Hart was here alluded to, but Wright in his Historia Histrionica states it was the part of the Duchess in Shirley's Cardinal, licensed 1641, that first gave him any reputation. Hence he cannot at this date have performed Bussy; his fame in the part was made after the Restoration (cf. Introduction, p. xxv).

5-6, 1-33. Fortune . . . port. This opening speech of Bussy illustrates the difficult compression of Chapman's style and the diversion of his thought from strictly logical sequence by his excessive use of simile. He begins (ll. 1-4) by emphasising the paradoxical character of human affairs, in which only those escape poverty who are abnormal, while it is among the necessitous that worthily typical representatives of the race must be sought. The former class, under the designation of "great men," are then (after a parenthetical comparison with cedars waxing amidst tempests) likened to statuaries who are satisfied if the exterior of the Colossus they are creating is sufficiently imposing; they are then (by an awkward transition of the imagery) likened to the statues themselves (l. 15) "heroique" in form but "morter, flint, and lead" within. Chapman's meaning is here obvious enough, but it is a singular canon of æsthetics that estimates the worth of a statue by the materials out of which it is made. In l. 18 a new thought is started, that of the transitoriness of life, and the perishable nature of its gifts, and as the ocean-voyager needs a stay-at-home pilot to steer him safely into port, so the adventurer in "the waves of glassie glory" (ll. 29-30) is bidden look to "vertue" for guidance to his desired haven—not exactly the conclusion to be expected from the opening lines of the speech.

6, 23. To put a girdle . . . world. The editors all compare Mid. Night's Dream, i, 1, 175, which Chapman probably had in mind.

7, 34. in numerous state. A play of words, apparently, on two senses of the phrase: (1) the series of numbers, (2) a populous kingdom.

8, 59. gurmundist. The N. E. D. quotes no other example of the form "gurmundist" for "gurmond" = "gourmand."

9, 86-87. set my looks In an eternall brake: keep my countenance perpetually immoveable. A "brake" is a piece of framework for holding something steady.

15, 187. I am a poet. This is historically true. A poem of some length, Stances faictes par M. de Bussy, is quoted by Joubert in his Bussy D'Amboise, pp. 205-09.

15, 194-95. chaine And velvet jacket: the symbols of a steward's office.

16, 207. his woodden dagger. The Elizabethan jester carried the wooden dagger or sword, which was often one of the properties of the "Vice" in the later Moralities and the Interludes.

17, Pyra. Though this character is mentioned here and elsewhere among the Dramatis Personæ, she takes no part in the dialogue.

17, 2. that English virgin: apparently Annable, who is the Duchess of Guise's lady-in-waiting (cf. iii, 2, 234-40).

18, 15. what's that to: what has that to do with.

18, 16-27. Assure you . . . confusion to it. With this encomium on Elizabeth and her Court compare Crequi's account of Byron's compliments to the Queen (Byron's Conspiracie, iv, 1).

19, 36. Which we must not affect: which change, however, we must not desire to take place.

19, 39-43. No question . . . as they. The travelled Englishman's affectation of foreign attire is a stock theme of Elizabethan satire. Cf. (e. g.) Merch. of Ven. i, 2, 78-81.

19, 44. travell. A pun on the two senses, (1) journey, (2) labour, the latter of which is now distinguished by the spelling "travail."

21, 85. Tis leape yeare. F. G. Fleay (Biog. Chron. i, 59) considers that this refers "to the date of production, as Bussy's introduction at Court was in 1569, not a Leap Year," and that it "fixes the time of representation to 1604." See Introduction.

22, 110. the groome-porters. Chapman here transfers to the French Court an official peculiar to the English Royal Household till his abolition under George III. The function of the groom-porter was to furnish cards and dice for all gaming at Court, and to decide disputes arising at play.

23, 123. the guiserd. The play on words here is not clear; "guiserd" may be a variant of "gizzard," in which case it would mean the Duke's throat. This is more probable than a "jingling allusion . . . to goose-herd or gozzard," which Dilke suggests.

23, 124. are you blind of that side: unguarded and assailable in that direction.

23, 130. Accius Nævius: the augur who cut a whetstone in pieces in presence of Tarquinius Priscus.

23, 133. mate: either match or put down, overcome. The latter sense is more probable, with a punning allusion to the use of the word in chess, at which Guise seems to be engaged with the King. Cf. l. 184.

23, 135-36. of the new edition: of the recent creation. An allusion to the lavish creation of knights by James, shortly after his accession.

24, 141-42. y'ave cut too many throats. An allusion to Guise's share in the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. Contrast the references to the episode in The Revenge, ii, 1, 198-234.

24, 149. the Knights ward. Dilke thought that the allusion here was to the "poor knights of Windsor," but it really refers to a part of the "Counter" prison in London. Cf. Eastward Hoe, v, 2, 54, where Wolf says of Sir Petronel Flash, "The knight will i' the Knights-Ward, doe what we can, sir." (See Schelling's note.)

24, 163-64. out a th' presence: outside the presence of the Sovereign.

25, 168. like a rush. An allusion to the custom, still prevalent in Chapman's time, of strewing floors with rushes.

25, 178-79. of the place The divers frames. An obscure expression, which may mean: the varied character in different places of the bed of the sea.

25, 180-83. Bristled . . . fome. The imagery in these lines also presents difficulty. D'Ambois's heart is likened to the sea, which, once swollen into billows, will not sink into its original calm till it is overspread by the crown or sheet of foam which the waves, after their subsidence, leave behind.

25, 184. You have the mate. Cf. textual note on i, 1, 153, and note on 23, 133, p. 148.

26, 208. a blanquet. To toss D'Ambois in, as is plain from l. 212.

26, 211. carrie it cleane: comes off easily superior.

27, 237-38. Your descants . . . this ground. There is a complicated play on words here. Descant in music is the melodious accompaniment to a simple theme, the plainsong or ground. Hence arises the derived meaning, a variation on any theme, a comment, often of a censorious kind. This, as well as the original meaning, is implied here, while ground has, of course, its usual as well as its technical sense.

28, 243-44. Ile be your ghost to haunt you. May this be an early reference to Banquo's ghost? Macbeth was probably produced in 1606, the year before Bussy D'Ambois was printed.

28, 261. musk-cats: civet-cats, and hence, scented persons, fops.

28, 262. this priviledge. The royal presence-chamber, though the King has left it, is still regarded as inviolable.

29. Henry, Guise, Montsurry and Attendants. The Qq of 1607 and 1608, instead of Montsurry and Attendants, read Beaumond, Nuncius. Nuncius is a mistake, as he does not enter till after l. 24. Beaumond is evidently a courtier, who speaks ll. 105-107 (Such a life . . . of men), and who goes out with the King after l. 206. In 1641 and later Qq it was apparently thought desirable to leave out this "single-speech" character and transfer his words to Montsurry; but by an oversight Beau. was left prefixed to the second half of l. 105, and the S. D., Exit Rex cum Beau., was retained after l. 206. The editor has therefore substituted Mont. for Beau. in either case. Montsurry being thus present at the pardon of Bussy, the 1641 and later Qq leave out ll. 1-50 of the next Scene wherein inter alia Montsurry speaks of the pardon as yet undecided, and Guise enters to announce it to him.

Dilke in his edition in 1814 thought Beaumond a misprint for Beaupre, who appears in other scenes, and whom he took to be a man, instead of a woman. Hence he reads Montsurry, Beaupre and Attendants both here and after l. 206. The other editors have not realized that there is any discrepancy to be explained.

29, 12-13. bruits it . . . healthfull: proclaims it through the world to be sound and wholesome.

31, 51-52. Pyrrho's opinion . . . are one. A sweeping generalisation, which cannot be accepted as an interpretation of the doctrines of the sceptical philosopher of Elis.

31, 54-58. As Hector . . . speak. The reference is to Iliad, vii, 54 ff., though Hector is there described as keeping back the Trojans with his spear.

32, 60. Ript up the quarrell: explained the cause and origin of the quarrel (Dilke).

32, 63-64. conclude The others dangers: might put an end to the risks of their companions by making their single combat cover the whole quarrel. Conclude here unites the Elizabethan sense include with the ordinary meaning finish.

32, 77-80. And then . . . never kill. An anticipation, as Lamb and others have pointed out, of Milton's description of angelic wounds, Par. Lost, vi, 344-49.

33, 84-87. Thrice pluckt . . . scap't. The accumulation of personal pronouns makes the interpretation somewhat difficult: thrice D'Ambois plucked at it, and thrice drew on thrusts from Barrisor who darted hither and thither like flame, and continued thrusting as D'Ambois plucked; yet, incredible to relate, the latter escaped injury.

33, 90. only made more horrid with his wound: Barrisor being only rendered fiercer by his wound. The construction is loose, as grammatically the words should qualify D'Ambois.

33, 92. redoubled in his danger: thrusting himself into danger for the second time. For this peculiar use of redoubled cf. l. 190, "on my knees redoubled," and note.

33, 94. Arden. Probably to be no more identified here with the Warwickshire district of this name than in As You Like It. Ardennes would be more appropriate on a Frenchman's lips, but the district belongs to the realm of fancy as much as Armenia in l. 117.

33, 97. he gan to nodde. An anacoluthon. The construction should be "begin to nodde" after "I have seene an oke" in l. 94, but the intervening participial clauses produce irregularity. Similarily in l. 101 "he fell" should be "fall" and "hid" should be "hide."

33, 103-104. Of ten set. . . Navarre. The war between Henry III and Henry of Navarre continued from 1587 to 1589, but the "ten set battles" are without historical foundation.

34, 105. [Montsurry.] See note on stage direction at beginning of the scene.

34, 108. felt report: probably, account related with feeling.

34, 121. the treasure of his brow: his horn.

34, 122. shelter of a tree. Unicorns were supposed to be worsted in encounters by their adversaries sheltering behind trees, in which they impaled themselves. Spenser, F. Q. ii, 5, 10, describes how a lion defeats a unicorn by this stratagem. Cf. Jul. Cæs. ii, 1, 303-04.