A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Viii Part 7

Vain boasters, liars, makes.h.i.+fts, they are all; Men that, removed from their ink-horn terms,[113]

Bring forth no action worthy of their bread.

What should I speak of pale physicians, Who as _Fismenus non nasatus_ was (Upon a wager that his friends had laid) Hir'd to live in a privy a whole year, So are they hir'd for lucre and for gain, All their whole life to smell on excrements.

WILL SUM. Very true, for I have heard it for a proverb many a time and oft, _Hinc os faetidum_; Fah! he stinks like a physician.

WIN. Innumerable monstrous practices Hath loitering contemplation brought forth more, Which were too long particular to recite: Suffice they all conduce unto this end, To banish labour, nourish slothfulness, Pamper up l.u.s.t, devise new-fangled sins.

Nay, I will justify, there is no vice Which learning and vile knowledge brought not in, Or in whose praise some learned have not wrote.

The art of murder Machiavel hath penn'd;[114]

Wh.o.r.edom hath Ovid to uphold her throne, And Aretine of late in Italy, Whose Cortigiana teacheth[115] bawds their trade.

Gluttony Epicurus doth defend, And books of the art of cookery confirm, Of which Platina hath not writ the least.

Drunkenness of his good behaviour Hath testimonial from where he was born; That pleasant work De Arte Bibendi, A drunken Dutchman spew'd out few years since.[116]

Nor wanteth sloth, although sloth's plague be want, His paper pillars for to lean upon.[117]

The praise of nothing pleads his worthiness.[118]

Folly Erasmus sets a flourish on: For baldness a bald a.s.s I have forgot Patch'd up a pamphletary periwig.[119]

Slovenry Grobia.n.u.s magnifieth:[120]

Sodomitry a cardinal commends, And Aristotle necessary deems.

In brief, all books, divinity except, Are nought but tales of the devil's laws, Poison wrapt up in sugar'd words, Man's pride, d.a.m.nation's props, the world's abuse.

Then censure, good my lord, what bookmen are: If they be pestilent members in a state, He is unfit to sit at stern of state, That favours such as will o'erthrow his state.

Blest is that government, where no art thrives; _Vox pupuli, vox Dei_, The vulgar's voice it is the voice of G.o.d.

Yet Tully saith, _Non est concilium in vulgo, Non ratio, non discrimen, non differentia_, The vulgar have no learning, wit, nor sense.

Themistocles, having spent all his time In study of philosophy and arts, And noting well the vanity of them, Wish'd, with repentance for his folly pa.s.s'd, Some would teach him th'art of oblivion, How to forget the arts that he had learn'd.

And Cicero, whom we alleged before, (As saith Valerius), stepping into old age, Despised learning, loathed eloquence.

Naso, that could speak nothing but pure verse, And had more wit than words to utter it, And words as choice as ever poet had, Cried and exclaim'd in bitter agony, When knowledge had corrupted his chaste mind: _Discite, qui sapitis, non haec quae scimus inertes, Sed trepidas acies et fera bella sequi_.[121]

You that be wise, and ever mean to thrive, O, study not these toys we sluggards use, But follow arms, and wait on barbarous wars.

Young men, young boys, beware of schoolmasters; They will infect you, mar you, blear your eyes: They seek to lay the curse of G.o.d on you, Namely, confusion of languages, Wherewith those that the Tower of Babel built Accursed were in the world's infancy.

Latin, it was the speech of infidels; Logic hath nought to say in a true cause; Philosophy is curiosity; And Socrates was therefore put to death, Only for he was a philosopher.

Abhor, contemn, despise these d.a.m.ned snares.

WILL SUM. Out upon it! who would be a scholar? not I, I promise you: my mind always gave me this learning was such a filthy thing, which made me hate it so as I did. When I should have been at school construing, _Batte, mi fili, mi fili, mi Batte_, I was close under a hedge, or under a barn-wall, playing at span-counter or jack-in-a-box. My master beat me, my father beat me, my mother gave me bread and b.u.t.ter, yet all this would not make me a squitter-book.[122] It was my destiny; I thank her as a most courteous G.o.ddess, that she hath not cast me away upon gibridge. O, in what a mighty vein am I now against horn-books! Here, before all this company, I profess myself an open enemy to ink and paper. I'll make it good upon the accidence, body [of me,] that in speech is the devil's paternoster. Nouns and p.r.o.nouns, I p.r.o.nounce you as traitors to boys' b.u.t.tocks; syntaxis and prosodia, you are tormentors of wit, and good for nothing, but to get a schoolmaster twopence a-week.

Hang, copies! Fly out, phrase-books! let pens be turn'd to pick-tooths!

Bowls, cards, and dice, you are the true liberal sciences! I'll ne'er be a goosequill, gentlemen, while I live.

SUM. Winter, with patience unto my grief I have attended thy invective tale.

So much untruth wit never shadowed: 'Gainst her own bowels thou art's weapons turn'st.

Let none believe thee that will ever thrive.

Words have their course, the wind blows where it lists, He errs alone in error that persists.

For thou 'gainst Autumn such exceptions tak'st, I grant his overseer thou shalt be, His treasurer, protector, and his staff; He shall do nothing without thy consent: Provide thou for his weal and his content.

WIN. Thanks, gracious lord; so I'll dispose of him, As it shall not repent you of your gift.

AUT. On such conditions no crown will I take.

I challenge Winter for my enemy; A most insatiate, miserable carl, That to fill up his garners to the brim Cares not how he endamageth the earth, What poverty he makes it to endure!

He overbars the crystal streams with ice, That none but he and his may drink of them: All for a foul Backwinter he lays up.

Hard craggy ways, and uncouth slippery paths He frames, that pa.s.sengers may slide and fall.

Who quaketh not, that heareth but his name?

O, but two sons he hath worse than himself: Christmas the one, a pinchback, cutthroat churl, That keeps no open house, as he should do, Delighteth in no game or fellows.h.i.+p, Loves no good deeds, and hateth talk; But sitteth in a corner turning crabs, Or coughing o'er a warmed pot of ale.

Backwinter th'other, that's his nown[123] sweet boy, Who like his father taketh in all points.

An elf it is, compact of envious pride, A miscreant born for a plague to men; A monster that devoureth all he meets.

Were but his father dead, so he would reign, Yea, he would go good-near to deal by him As Nebuchadnezzar's ungracious son, Foul Merodach[124], by his father dealt: Who when his sire was turned to an ox Full greedily s.n.a.t.c.h'd up his sovereignty, And thought himself a king without control.

So it fell out, seven years expir'd and gone, Nebuchadnezzar came to his shape again, And dispossess'd him of the regiment;[125]

Which my young prince, no little grieving at, When that his father shortly after died, Fearing lest he should come from death again, As he came from an ox to be a man, Will'd that his body, 'spoiled of coverture, Should be cast forth into the open fields, For birds and ravens to devour at will; Thinking, if they bare, every one of them, A bill-ful of his flesh into their nests, He could not rise to trouble him in haste.

WILL SUM. A virtuous son! and I'll lay my life on't he was a cavalier and a good fellow.[126]

WIN. Pleaseth your honour, all he says is false.

For my own part, I love good husbandry, But hate dishonourable covetise.

Youth ne'er aspires to virtue's perfect growth, Till the wild oats be sown; and so the earth, Until his weeds be rotted by my frosts Is not for any seed or tillage fit.

He must be purged that hath surfeited: The fields have surfeited with summer fruits; They must be purg'd, made poor, oppress'd with snow, Ere they recover their decayed pride.

For overbarring of the streams with ice, Who locks not poison from his children's taste?

When Winter reigns, the water is so cold, That it is poison, present death, to those That wash or bathe their limbs in his cold streams.

The slipp'rier that ways are under us, The better it makes us to heed our steps, And look, ere we presume too rashly on.

If that my sons have misbehav'd themselves, A G.o.d's name, let them answer't 'fore my lord.

AUT. Now, I beseech your honour it may be so.

SUM. With all my heart. Vertumnus, go for them.

WILL SUM. This same Harry Baker[127] is such a necessary fellow to go on errands as you shall not find in a country. It is pity but he should have another silver arrow, if it be but for crossing the stage with his cap on.

SUM. To weary out the time, until they come, Sing me some doleful ditty to the lute, That may complain my near-approaching death.

_The Song.

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss; This world uncertain is.

Fond are life's l.u.s.tful joys, Death proves them all but toys.

None from his darts can fly: I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth; Gold cannot buy you health.

Physic himself must fade: All things to end are made.

The plague full swift goes by.

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower, Which wrinkles will devour: Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair.

Dust hath clos'd Helen's eye.

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops into the grave: Worms feed on Hector brave.

Swords may not fight with fate: Earth still holds ope her gate.

Come, come, the h.e.l.ls do cry.

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness Tasteth death's bitterness.

h.e.l.l's executioner Hath no ears to hear, What vain art can reply.

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!