I strait espied the whole troop issuing on me.
I step me back, and drawing my old friend here,
Made to the midst of 'em, and all unable
To endure the shock, all rudely fell in rout,
And down the stairs they ran in such a fury,
As meeting with a troop of Lawyers there,

Mann'd by their Clients (some with ten, some with twenty,
Some five, some three; he that had least had one),
Upon the stairs, they bore them down afore them.
But such a rattling then there was amongst them,
Of ravish'd Declarations, Replications,
Rejoinders, and Petitions, all their books
And writings torn, and trod on, and some lost,
That the poor Lawyers coming to the Bar
Could say nought to the matter, but instead
Were fain to rail, and talk beside their books,
Without all order.1

[Act ii., Sc. 1.]

THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES. A COMEDY [SEE PAGE 101]. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD [AND RICHARD BROME]

A Household bewitched.

My Uncle has of late become the sole

Discourse of all the country; for of a man respected

As master of a govern'd family,

The House (as if the ridge were fix'd below,

And groundsils lifted up to make the roof)
All now's turn'd topsy-turvy,

In such a retrograde and preposterous way
As seldom hath been heard of, I think never.
The Good Man

In all obedience kneels unto his Son;

He with an austere brow commands his Father.
The Wife presumes not in the Daughter's sight
Without a prepared curtsy; the Girl she
Expects it as a duty; chides her Mother,

Who quakes and trembles at each word she speaks.

1 [For other extracts from Chapman see note to page 83.]

And what's as strange, the Maid-she domineers
O'er her young Mistress, who is awed by her.
The Son, to whom the Father creeps and bends,
Stands in as much fear of the groom his Man!
All in such rare disorder, that in some
As it breeds pity, and in others wonder,
So in the most part laughter. It is thought,
This comes by WITCHCRAFT.

[Act i., Sc. 1.]

WIT IN A CONSTABLE.

A COMEDY [PUBLISHED

1640: WRITTEN 1639]. BY HENRY GLAPTHORNE [FLOURISHED 1639]

Books.

Collegian. Did you, ere we departed from the College, O'erlook my Library?

Servant. Yes, Sir; and I find,

Altho' you tell me Learning is immortal,

The paper and the parchment 'tis contain❜d in

Savours of much mortality.

The moths have eaten more

Authentic Learning, than would richly furnish

A hundred country pedants; yet the worms
Are not one letter wiser.

[Act i., Sc. 1.1]

ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM; HIS TRUE AND LAMENTABLE TRAGEDY. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. [PUBLISHED] 1592

Alice Arden with Mosbie her Paramour conspire the murder of her husband.

Mos. How now, Alice, what sad and passionate?

Make me partaker of thy pensiveness;

Fire divided burns with lesser force.

1[Glapthorne's Plays, 1874, vol. i. See also "Facetiæ," page 566.]

Al. But I will dam that fire in my breast,

Till by the force thereof my part consume.
Ah Mosbie!

Mos. Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon's burst, Discharged against a ruinated wall,

Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces.
Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;
Thou know'st it well, and 'tis thy policy
To forge distressful looks, to wound a breast
Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad.

It is not Love that loves to anger Love.

Al. It is not Love that loves to murther Love.
Mos. How mean you that?

Al. Thou know'st how dearly Arden loved me.
Mos. And then-

Al. And then-conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad,
Lest that my words be carried to the wind,
And publish'd in the world to both our shames.
I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither;
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.
Forget, I pray thee, what has past betwixt us:
For now I blush and tremble at the thoughts.
Mos. What, are you changed?

Al. Aye, to my former happy life again;
From title of an odious strumpet's name
To honest Arden's wife, not Árden's honest wife-
Ha Mosbie! 'tis thou hast rifled me of that,
And made me slanderous to all my kin.
Even in my forehead is thy name engraven,
A mean Artificer, that low-born name!

I was bewitcht; woe-worth the hapless hour
And all the causes that enchanted me.

Mos. Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth; And if you stand so nicely at your fame,

Let me repent the credit I have lost.

I have neglected matters of import,

That would have 'stated me above thy state;

For slow'd advantages, and spurn'd at time;

Aye, Fortune's right hand Mosbie hath forsook,

To take a wanton giglot by the left.

I left the marriage of an honest maid,

Whose dowry would have weigh'd down all thy wealth;

Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee.

This certain good I lost for changing bad,

And wrapt my credit in thy company.

I was bewitcht; that is no theme of thine :
And thou unhallow'd hast enchanted me.
But I will break thy spells and exorcisms
And put another sight upon these eyes,
That show'd my heart a raven for a dove.
Thou art not fair; I view'd thee not till now:
Thou art not kind; till now I knew thee not:
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt,
Thy worthless copper shews thee counterfeit.
It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;
I am too good to be thy favourite.

Al. Aye, now I see, and too soon find it true,
Which often hath been told me by my friends,
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth;
Which too incredulous I ne'er believed.
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two;
I'll bite my tongue if I speak bitterly.
Look on me, Mosbie, or else I'll kill myself.
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look;
If thou cry War, there is no peace for me.
I will do penance for offending thee;
And burn this Prayer Book, which I here use,
The Holy word that has converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
And all the leaves; and in this golden Cover
Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell,
And thereon will I chiefly meditate,

And hold no other sect but such devotion.

Wilt thou not look? is all thy Love o'erwhelm'd?
Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thy ears?

Why speak'st thou not? what silence ties thy tongue ?
Thou hast been sighted as the Eagle is,

And heard as quickly as the fearful Hare,
And spoke as smoothly as an Orator,

When I have bid thee hear, or see, or speak :
And art thou sensible in none of these ?

Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,
And I deserve not Mosbie's muddy looks.
A fence of trouble is not thicken'd still;
Be clear again; I'll ne'er more trouble thee.
Mos. O fie, no; I'm a base artificer;
My wings are feather'd for a lowly flight.
Mosbie, fie, no; not for a thousand pound

THE CITY NIGHT-CAP. A TRAGI-COMEDY [PUBLISHED 1661: LICENSED 1624]. BY ROBERT DAVENPORT

Lorenzo Medico suborns three Slaves to swear falsely to an adultery between his virtuous Wife Abstemia, and his Friend Philippo. They give their testimony before the Duke of Verona, and the Senators.

Phil. -how soon

Two souls, more precious than a pair of worlds,
Are levell❜d below death!

Abst. Oh hark! did you not hear it?

Sen. What, Lady?

Abst. This hour a pair of glorious towers is fallen.

Two godly buildings beaten with a breath

Beneath the grave you all have seen this day
A pair of souls both cast and kiss'd away.
Sen. What censure gives your Grace?
Duke. In that I am kinsman

To the accuser, that I might not appear
Partial in judgment, let it seem no wonder,
If unto your Gravities I leave

The following sentence: but as Lorenzo stands
A kinsman to Verona, so forget not,
Abstemia still is sister unto Venice.

Phil. Misery of goodness!

Abst. Oh Lorenzo Medico,

Abstemia's Lover once, when he did vow,

And when I did believe; then when Abstemia

Denied so many princes for Lorenzo,

Then when you swore :-Oh maids, how men can weep,

Print protestations on their breasts, and sigh,

And look so truly, and then weep again,

And then protest again, and again dissemble!

When once enjoy'd, like strange sights, we grow stale;
And find our comforts, like their wonder, fail.
Phil. Oh Lorenzo !

Look upon tears, each one of which well-valued
Is worth the pity of a king; but thou
Art harder far than rocks, and canst not prize
The precious waters of truth's injured eyes.

Lor. Please your Grace, proceed to censure.

Duke. Thus 'tis decreed, as these Lords have set down, Against all contradiction: Signor Philippo,