A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Viii Part 9

BACK-WIN. More I will use, if more I may prevail.

Back-winter comes but seldom forth abroad, But when he comes, he pincheth to the proof.

Winter is mild, his son is rough and stern: Ovid could well write of my tyranny, When he was banish'd to the frozen zone.

SUM. And banish'd be thou from my fertile bounds.

Winter, imprison him in thy dark cell, Or with the winds in bellowing caves of bra.s.s Let stern Hippotades[137] lock him up safe, Ne'er to peep forth, but when thou, faint and weak, Want'st him to aid thee in thy regiment.

BACK-WIN. I will peep forth, thy kingdom to supplant.

My father I will quickly freeze to death, And then sole monarch will I sit, and think, How I may banish thee as thou dost me.

WIN. I see my downfall written in his brows.

Convey him hence to his a.s.signed h.e.l.l!

Fathers are given to love their sons too well.

[_Exit_ BACK-WINTER.

WILL SUM. No, by my troth, nor mothers neither: I am sure I could never find it. This Back-winter plays a railing part to no purpose: my small learning finds no reason for it, except as a back-winter or an after-winter is more raging, tempestuous, and violent than the beginning of winter; so he brings him in stamping and raging as if he were mad, when his father is a jolly, mild, quiet old man, and stands still and does nothing. The court accepts of your meaning. You might have written in the margin of your play-book--"Let there be a few rushes laid[138]

in the place where Back-winter shall tumble, for fear of 'raying[139]

his clothes:" or set down, "Enter Back-winter, with his boy bringing a brush after him, to take off the dust, if need require." But you will ne'er have any wardrobe-wit while you live: I pray you, hold the book well;[140] [that] we be not _non plus_ in the latter end of the play.

SUM. This is the last stroke my tongue's clock must strike.

My last will, which I will that you perform.

My crown I have dispos'd already of.

Item, I give my wither'd flowers and herbs Unto dead corses, for to deck them with.

My shady walks to great men's servitors, Who in their masters' shadows walk secure.

My pleasant open air and fragrant smells To Croydon and the grounds ab.u.t.ting round.

My heat and warmth to toiling labourers, My long days to bondmen and prisoners, My short night[s] to young [un]married souls.

My drought and thirst to drunkards' quenchless throats: My fruits to Autumn, my adopted heir: My murmuring springs, musicians of sweet sleep, To malcontents [who], with their well-tun'd ears,[141]

Channell'd in a sweet falling quatorzain, Do lull their cares[142] asleep, listening themselves.

And finally, O words, now cleanse your course Unto Eliza, that most sacred dame, Whom none but saints and angels ought to name, All my fair days remaining I bequeath To wait upon her, till she be return'd.

Autumn, I charge thee, when that I am dead, Be prest[143] and serviceable at her beck, Present her with thy goodliest ripen'd fruits; Unclothe no arbours, where she ever sat, Touch not a tree thou think'st she may pa.s.s by.

And, Winter, with thy writhen, frosty face, Smooth up thy visage, when thou look'st on her; Thou never look'st on such bright majesty.

A charmed circle draw about her court, Wherein warm days may dance, and no cold come: On seas let winds make war, not vex her rest; Quiet enclose her bed, thought fly her breast.

Ah, gracious queen! though summer pine away, Yet let thy flouris.h.i.+ng stand at a stay.

First droop this universal's aged frame, Ere any malady thy strength should tame.

Heaven raise up pillars to uphold thy hand, Peace may have still his temple in thy land.

Lo! I have said; this is the total sum.

Autumn and Winter, on your faithfulness For the performance I do firmly build.

Farewell, my friends: Summer bids you farewell!

Archers and bowlers, all my followers, Adieu, and dwell with desolation: Silence must be your master's mansion.

Slow marching, thus descend I to the fiends.

Weep, heavens!--mourn, earth! here Summer ends.

[_Here the Satyrs and wood-nymphs carry him out, singing as he came in.

The Song.

Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure; Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croydon's pleasure!

Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace: Ah! who shall hide us from the winter's face?

Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, And here we lie, G.o.d knows, with little ease.

From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us!

London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn; Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born!

The want of term is town and city's harm.[144]

Close chambers we do want to keep us warm.

Long banished must we live from our friends: This low-built house will bring us to our ends.

From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us_!

WILL SUM. How is't, how is't? you that be of the graver sort, do you think these youths worthy of a _plaudite_ for praying for the queen, and singing the litany? They are poor fellows, I must needs say, and have bestowed great labour in sewing leaves, and gra.s.s, and straw, and moss upon cast suits. You may do well to warm your hands with clapping before you go to bed, and send them to the tavern with merry hearts.

_Enter a little_ BOY _with an Epilogue_.

Here is a pretty boy comes with an Epilogue to get him audacity. I pray you, sit still a little and hear him say his lesson without book. It is a good boy: be not afraid: turn thy face to my lord. Thou and I will play at pouch to-morrow morning for breakfast. Come and sit on my knee, and I'll dance thee, if thou canst not endure to stand.

THE EPILOGUE.

Ulysses, a dwarf, and the prolocutor for the Grecians, gave me leave, that am a pigmy, to do an emba.s.sage to you from the cranes. Gentlemen (for kings are no better), certain humble animals, called our actors, commend them unto you; who, what offence they have committed I know not (except it be in purloining some hours out of Time's treasury, that might have been better employed) but by me (the agent of their imperfections) they humbly crave pardon, if haply some of their terms have trod awry, or their tongues stumbled unwittingly on any man's content. In much corn is some c.o.c.kle; in a heap of coin here and there a piece of copper: wit hath his dregs as well as wine; words their waste, ink his blots, every speech his parenthesis; poetical fury, as well crabs as sweetings for his summer fruits. _Nemo sapit omnibus horis_.

Their folly is deceased; their fear is yet living. Nothing can kill an a.s.s but cold: cold entertainment, discouraging scoffs, authorised disgraces, may kill a whole litter of young a.s.ses of them here at once, that hath travelled thus far in impudence, only in hope to sit a-sunning in your smiles. The Romans dedicated a temple to the fever quartan, thinking it some great G.o.d, because it shook them so; and another to ill-fortune in Esquiliis, a mountain in Rome, that it should not plague them at cards and dice. Your grace's frowns are to them shaking fevers; your least disfavours the greatest ill-fortune that may betide them.

They can build no temples but themselves and their best endeavours, with all prostrate reverence, they here dedicate and offer up wholly to your service. _Sis bonus, O, faelixque tuis_.[145] To make the G.o.ds merry, the celestial clown Vulcan tuned his polt foot to the measures of Apollo's lute, and danced a limping galliard in Jove's starry hall: to make you merry, that are G.o.ds of art and guides unto heaven, a number of rude Vulcans, unwieldy speakers, hammer-headed clowns (for so it pleaseth them in modesty to name themselves) have set their deformities to view, as it were in a dance here before you. Bear with their wants; lull melancholy asleep with their absurdities, and expect hereafter better fruits of their industry. Little creatures often terrify great beasts: the elephant flieth from a ram: the lion from a c.o.c.k and from fire; the crocodile from all sea-fish; the whale from the noise of parched bones. Light toys chase great cares: the great fool _Toy_ hath marr'd the play. Good night, gentlemen; I go.

[_Let him be carried away_.[146]

WILL SUM. Is't true, jackanapes? do you serve me so? As sure as this coat is too short for me, all the points of your hose for this are condemned to my pocket, if you and I e'er play at span-counter more.

_Valete, spectatores_: pay for this sport with a _plaudite_, and the next time the wind blows from this corner, we will make you ten times as merry.

_Barbarus hic ego sum, quia non intelligor ulli_.

THE DOWNFALL OF ROBERT EARL OF HUNTINGTON.

_EDITION_.

_The Downfall of Robert Earle of Huntington, afterward called Robin Hood of merrie Sherwodde; with his love to chaste Matilda, the Lord Fitzwaters Daughter, afterwarde his faire Maide Marian. Acted by the Right Honourable the Earle of Notingham, Lord high Admirall of England, his servants. Imprinted at London for William Leake_. 1601. 4to. B.L.

INTRODUCTION.

"The Downfall of Robert Earl of Huntington" and "The Death of Robert Earl of Huntington"[147] were both formerly ascribed to Thomas Heywood, on the always disputable authority of Kirkman the Bookseller. The discovery of the folio account-book of Philip Henslowe, proprietor of the Rose theatre on the Bank-side, enabled Malone to correct the error.[148] The following entries in Henslowe's MSS. contain the evidence upon the subject:--