Rob. O my dear father, hither am I come, To lay them all on my own. Fos. Rise, mischief, rise; away, and get thee gone. I will depart, and wish I soon may die; Wife. Sweet husband. Fos. Get you both gone; That misery takes some rest that dwells alone. Rob. Heaven can tell ; Ake but your finger, I to make it well Would cut my hand off. Fos. Hang thee, hang thee. Wife. Husband. Fos. Destruction meet thee. Turn the key there, ho. Oh, knew you, for your woes what pains I feel, Fos. Stay. feet; Rob. Good truth, Sir, I'll have none of it back, Could but one penny of it save my life. Wife. Yet stay, and hear him: Oh, unnatural strife In a hard father's bosom! Fos. I see mine error now: Oh, can there grow Thou bring'st this golden rubbish; which I spurn : Rob. Gladness o'erwhelms My heart with joy: I cannot speak. Wife. Crosses of this foolish world Did never grieve my heart with torments more With joy and comfort of this happy sight.1 [Act v., Sc. 1.] The old play-writers are distinguished by an honest boldness of exhibition, they show every thing without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune be the thing to be personified, they fairly bring us to the prison-grate and the alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is always a gentleman; he may be known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, forbids the dramatizing of Distress at all. It is never shewn in its essential properties; it appears but as the adjunct to some virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from the approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from the real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows, moral duties: whereas, if the truth of things were fairly represented, the relative duties might be safely trusted to themselves, and moral philosophy lose the name of a science. [For another extract from Rowley see p. 570. For plays by Rowley in partnership see pages 104, 145, 362, 416, 573 and 588.] 2 Guzman de Alfarache, in that good old book "The Spanish Rogue," has summed up a few of the properties of poverty:-" that poverty, which is not the daughter of the spirit, is but the mother of shame and reproach; it is a disreputation that drowns all the other good parts that are in man; it is a disposition to all kind of evil; it is man's most foe; it is a leprosy full of anguish; it is a way that leads unto hell; it is a sea wherein our patience is overwhelmed, our honor is consumed, our lives are ended, and our souls are utterly lost and cast away for ever. The poor man is a kind of money that is not current; the subject of every idle huswive's chat; the offscum of the people; the dust of the street, first trampled under foot and then thrown on the dunghill; in conclusion, the poor man is the rich man's ass. He dineth with the last, fareth of the worst, and payeth dearest: his sixpence will not go so far as a rich man's threepence; his opinion is ignorance; his discretion, foolishness; his suffrage, scorn; his stock upon the common, abused by many and abhorred of all. If he come in company, he is not heard; if any chance to meet him, they seek to shun him; if he advise, though never so wisely, they grudge and murmur at him; if he work miracles, they say he is a witch; if virtuous, that he goeth about to deceive; his venial sin is a blasphemy; his thought is made treason; his cause, be it never so just, it is not regarded; and, to have his wrongs righted, he must appeal to that other life. All men crush him; no man favoureth him; there is no man that will relieve his wants; no man that will comfort him in his miseries; nor no man that will bear him company, when he is all alone, and oppressed with grief. None help him; all hinder him; none give him, all take from him; he is debtor to none, and yet must make payment to all. O, the unfortunate and poor condition of him that is poor, to whom even the very hours are sold. which the clock striketh, and pays custom for the sunshine in August!" WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN: A TRAGEDY [PUBLISHED 1657: WRITTEN MANY YEARS BEFORE]. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON [1570 ?-1627] Livia, the Duke's creature, cajoles a poor Widow with the appearance of Hospitality and neighbourly Attentions, that she may get her Daughter-in-Law (who is left in the Mother's care in the Son's absence) into her trains, to serve the Duke's pleasure. LIVIA. WIDOW. A Gentleman, Livia's guest. Liv. Widow, come, come, I have a great quarrel to you; You make yourself so strange, never come at us, Wid. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, madam. Which I so well affect as that of yours. I know you're alone too; why should not we Experience in the world, and such kind helps, Wid. Age, madam! you speak mirth: 'tis at my door, But a long journey from your Ladyship yet. Liv. My faith, I'm nine and thirty, every stroke, wench: And 'tis a general observation 'Mongst knights; wives, or widows, we account ourselves Then old, when young men's eyes leave looking at us. Come, now I have thy company, I'll not part with it Till after supper. Wid. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam. Liv. I swear you shall stay supper; we have no strangers, woman, None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman And the young heir his ward; you know your company. Wid. Some other time I will make bold with you, madam, Liv. Faith she shall not go. Do you think I'll be forsworn? Wid. "Tis a great while Till supper-time; I'll take my leave then now, madam, Liv. In the evening! by my troth, wench, I'll keep you while I have you: you've great business sure, What pleasure you take in't. Were't to me now, Or none to chide you, if you go, or stay, Who may live merrier, ay, or more at heart's ease? Come, we'll to chess or draughts; there are a hundred tricks To drive out time till supper, never fear't, wench. (A chess-board is set.) Wid. I'll but make one step home, and return straight, madam. Liv. Come, I'll not trust you, you make more excuses To your kind friends than ever I knew any. What business can you have, if you be sure you have, You've lock'd the doors? and, that being all Or leave your own house for a month together; Wid. I were then uncivil, madam. Liv. Go to then, set your men: we'll have whole nights Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench. Wid. As good now tell her then, for she will know it; I've always found her a most friendly lady. Liv. Why, widow, where's your mind? Wid. Troth, even at home, madam. Liv. Another excuse. Wid. No, as I hope for health, madam, that's a truth; Please you to send and see. Liv. What gentlewoman? pish. Wid. Wife to my son indeed. Liv. Now I beshrew you. Could you be so unkind to her and me, To come and not bring her? faith, 'tis not friendly. (Aside.) Wid. I fear'd to be too bold. Liv. Too bold! Oh what's become Of the true hearty love was wont to be 'Mongst neighbours in old time? Wid. And she's a stranger, madam. Liv. The more should be her welcome: when is courtesy In entertaining strangers? I could chide ye in faith. Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go. Wid. Please you command one of your servants, madam. Attend the gentlewoman.1 2 [Act ii., Sc. 2.3] Brancha resists the Duke's attempt. Bran. O treachery to honor! Duke. Prithee tremble not. I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting Bran. O my extremity! Duke. Love. Bran. "Tis gone already : I have a husband. Duke. That's a single comfort; Take a friend to him. Bran. That's a double mischief; Or else there's no religion. Duke. Do not tremble At fears of thy own making. Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin, And call for strength to virtue.—— [Act ii., Sc. 2.] 1 This is one of those scenes which has the air of being an immediate transcript from life. Livia the "good neighbour" is as real a creature as one of Chaucer's characters. She is such another jolly Housewife as the Wife of Bath. [Nearly five pages omitted.] VOL. IV.-9 [Middleton, ed. Bullen, vol. vi.] |