SCENE—THE NORTH OF ENGLAND.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—A Room in FRANKFORD’S House.
ENTER MASTER FRANKFORD, MISTRESS FRANKFORD, SIR FRANCIS ACTON, SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD, MASTER MALBY, MASTER WENDOLL, AND MASTER CRANWELL.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Some music there: none lead the bride a dance?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Yes, would she dance “The Shaking of the Sheets;”[1]
But that’s the dance her husband means to lead her.
WENDOLL.
That’s not the dance that every man must dance,
According to the ballad.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Music, ho!
By your leave, sister;—by your husband’s leave,
I should have said: the hand that but this day
Was given you in the church I’ll borrow: sound!
This marriage music hoists me from the ground.
FRANKFORD.
Ay, you may caper, you are light and free:
Marriage hath yoked my heels; pray then pardon me.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
I’ll have you dance too, brother.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Master Frankford,
You are a happy man, sir; and much joy
Succeed your marriage mirth! you have a wife
So qualified, and with such ornaments
Both of the mind and body. First, her birth
Is noble, and her education such
As might become the daughter of a prince:
Her own tongue speaks all tongues, and her own hand
Can teach all strings to speak in their best grace,
From the shrillest treble to the hoarsest base.
To end her many praises in one word,
She’s beauty and perfection’s eldest daughter,
Only found by yours, though many a heart hath sought her.
FRANKFORD.
But that I know your virtues and chaste thoughts,
I should be jealous of your praise, Sir Charles.
CRANWELL.
He speaks no more than you approve.
MALBY.
Nor flatters he that gives to her her due.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
I would your praise could find a fitter theme
Than my imperfect beauties to speak on:
Such as they be, if they my husband please,
They suffice me now I am marrièd:
His sweet content is like a flattering glass,
To make my face seem fairer to mine eye;
But the least wrinkle from his stormy brow
Will blast the roses in my cheeks that grow.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
A perfect wife already, meek and patient:
How strangely the word “husband” fits your mouth,
Not married three hours since! Sister, ’tis good;
You, that begin betimes thus, must needs prove
Pliant and duteous in your husband’s love.—
Gramercies, brother, wrought her to’t already;
Sweet husband, and a curtsey, the first day!
Mark this, mark this, you that are bachelors,
And never took the grace of honest man;
Mark this, against you marry, this one phrase:
“In a good time that man both wins and woos,
That takes his wife down in her wedding shoes.”[2]
FRANKFORD.
Your sister takes not after you, Sir Francis;
All his wild blood your father spent on you:
He got her in his age, when he grew civil:
All his mad tricks were to his land entailed,
And you are heir to all; your sister, she
Hath to her dower her mother’s modesty.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Lord, sir, in what a happy state live you!
This morning, which to many seems a burden
Too heavy to bear, is unto you a pleasure.
This lady is no clog, as many are:
She doth become you like a well-made suit,
In which the tailor hath used all his art;
Not like a thick coat of unseasoned frieze,
Forced on your back in summer. She’s no chain
To tie your neck, and curb you to the yoke;
But she’s a chain of gold to adorn your neck.
You both adorn each other, and your hands,
Methinks, are matches: there’s equality
In this fair combination; you are both
Scholars, both young, both being descended nobly.
There’s music in this sympathy; it carries
Consort, and expectation of much joy,
Which God bestow on you, from this first day
Until your dissolution; that’s for aye.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
We keep you here too long, good brother
Frankford.
Into the hall; away! go cheer your guests.
What, bride and bridegroom both withdrawn at once?
If you be missed, the guests will doubt their welcome,
And charge you with unkindness.
FRANKFORD.
To prevent it,
I’ll leave you here, to see the dance within.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
And so will I.
[EXEUNT FRANKFORD AND
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
To part you, it were sin.
Now, gallants, while the town-musicians
Finger their frets[3] within; and the mad lads
And country-lasses, every mother’s child,
With nosegays and bridelaces in their hats,
Dance all their country measures, rounds, and jigs,
What shall we do? Hark, they are all on the hoigh;[4]
They toil like mill-horses, and turn as round,—
Marry, not on the toe. Ay, and they caper,
Not without cutting; you shall see, to-morrow,
The hall-floor pecked and dinted like a mill-stone,
Made with their high shoes: though their skill be small,
Yet they tread heavy where their hob-nails fall.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Well, leave them to their sports. Sir Francis Acton,
I’ll make a match with you; meet to-morrow
At Chevy-chase, I’ll fly my hawk with yours.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
For what? For what?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Why, for a hundred pound.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Pawn me some gold of that.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Here are ten angels;[5]
I’ll make them good a hundred pound to-morrow
Upon my hawk’s wing.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
’Tis a match, ’tis done.
Another hundred pound upon your dogs;
Dare ye, Sir Charles?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
I dare: were I sure to lose,
I durst do more than that: here is my hand,
The first course for a hundred pound.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
A match.
WENDOLL.
Ten angels on Sir Francis Acton’s hawk;
As much upon his dogs.
CRANWELL.
I am for Sir Charles Mountford; I have seen
His hawk and dog both tried. What, clap you hands?
Or is’t no bargain?
WENDOLL.
Yes, and stake them down:
Were they five hundred, they were all my own.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Be stirring early with the lark to-morrow;[6]
I’ll rise into my saddle ere the sun
Rise from his bed.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
If there you miss me, say
I am no gentleman: I’ll hold my day.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
It holds on all sides. Come, to-night let’s dance,
Early to-morrow let’s prepare to ride;
We had need be three hours up before the bride.
[Exeunt.
ENTER NICHOLAS, JENKIN, JACK SLIME, AND ROGER BRICKBAT, WITH COUNTRY WENCHES, AND TWO OR THREE MUSICIANS.
JENKIN.
Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver to trace withal; Jack Slime, traverse you with Cicely Milk-pail: I will take Jane Trubkin, and Roger Brickbat shall have Isbel Motley; and now that they are busy in the parlour, come, strike up; we’ll have a crash[7] here in the yard.
NICHOLAS.
My humour is not compendious; dancing I possess not, though I can foot it; yet, since I am fallen into the hands of Cicely Milk-pail, I consent.
SLIME.
Truly Nick, though we were never brought up like serving courtiers, yet we have been brought up with serving creatures, ay, and God’s creatures too; for we have been brought up to serve sheep, oxen, horses, hogs, and such like: and, though we be but country fellows, it may be in the way of dancing we can do the horse-trick as well as serving-men.
BRICKBAT.
Ay, and the cross-point too.
JENKIN.
O Slime, O Brickbat, do not you know that comparisons are odious? now we are odious ourselves too, therefore there are no comparisons to be made betwixt us.
NICHOLAS.
I am sudden, and not superfluous;
I am quarrelsome, and not seditious;
I am peaceable, and not contentious;
I am brief, and not compendious.
SLIME.
Foot it quickly: if the music overcome not my melancholy, I shall quarrel; and if they do not suddenly strike up, I shall presently strike them down.
JENKIN.
No quarrelling, for God’s sake: truly, if you do, I shall set a knave between ye.
SLIME.
I come to dance, not to quarrel. Come, what shall it be? “Rogero?”[8]
JENKIN.
“Rogero!” no; we will dance “The Beginning of the World.”
CICELY.
I love no dance so well as “John come kiss me now.”
NICHOLAS.
I, that have ere now deserved a cushion, call for the “Cushion-dance.”
BRICKBAT.
For my part, I like nothing so well as “Tom Tyler.”
JENKIN.
No; we’ll have “The Hunting of the Fox.”
SLIME.
“The Hay,” “The Hay;” there’s nothing like “The Hay.”
NICHOLAS.
I have said, I do say, and I will say again—
JENKIN.
Every man agree to have it as Nick says.
ALL.
Content.
NICHOLAS.
It hath been, it now is, and it shall be—
CICELY.
What, Master Nicholas, what?
NICHOLAS.
“Put on your smock a’ Monday.”
JENKIN.
So the dance will come cleanly off. Come, for God’s sake agree of something: if you like not that, put it to the musicians; or let me speak for all, and we’ll have “Sellenger’s round.”
ALL.
That, that, that.
NICHOLAS.
No, I am resolved, thus it shall be:
First take hands, then take ye to your heels.
JENKIN.
Why, would ye have us run away?
NICHOLAS.
No; but I would have you shake your heels.
Music, strike up!
[They dance. NICHOLAS whilst dancing speaks stately and scurvily, the rest after the country fashion.
JENKIN.
Hey! lively, my lasses! here’s a turn for thee!
[Exeunt.
HORNS WIND. ENTER SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD, SIR FRANCIS ACTON, MALBY, CRANWELL, WENDOLL, FALCONERS, AND HUNTSMEN.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
So; well cast off: aloft, aloft! well flown!
Oh, now she takes her at the sowse,[9] and strikes her
Down to the earth, like a swift thunder-clap.
WENDOLL.
She hath struck ten angels out of my way.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
A hundred pound from me.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
What, falconer!
FALCONER.
At hand, sir.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Now she hath seized the fowl, and ’gins to plume her,
Rebeck her not: rather stand still and check her.
So, seize her gets,[10] her jesses,[11] and her bells:
Away!
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
My hawk killed too.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Ay, but ’twas at the querre,[12]
Not at the mount, like mine.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Judgment, my masters.
CRANWELL.
Yours missed her at the ferre.
WENDOLL.
Ay, but our merlin[13] first had plumed the fowl,
And twice renewed her from the river too;
Her bells, Sir Francis, had not both one weight,
Nor was one semi-tune above the other:
Methinks these Milan bells do sound too full,
And spoil the mounting of your hawk.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
’Tis lost.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
I grant it not. Mine likewise seized a fowl
Within her talons; and you saw her paws
Full of the feathers: both her petty singles,
And her long singles gripped her more than other;
The terrials of her legs were stained with blood:
Not of the fowl only, she did discomfit
Some of her feathers; but she brake away.
Come, come, your hawk is but a rifler.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
How!
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Ay, and your dogs are trindle-tails and curs.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
You stir my blood.
You keep not one good hound in all your kennel,
Nor one good hawk upon your perch.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
How, knight!
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
So, knight: you will not swagger, sir?
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Why, say I did?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Why, sir,
I say you would gain as much by swaggering,
As you have got by wagers on your dogs:
You will come short in all things.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Not in this:
Now I’ll strike home.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Thou shalt to thy long home,
Or I will want my will.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
All they that love Sir Francis, follow me.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
All that affect Sir Charles, draw on my part.
CRANWELL.
On this side heaves my hand.
WENDOLL.
Here goes my heart.
[They divide themselves. Sir CHARLES MOUNTFORD, CRANWELL, Falconer, and Huntsman, fight against Sir FRANCIS ACTON, WENDOLL, his Falconer, and Huntsman; and Sir CHARLES’S side gets the better, beating the others away, and killing both of Sir FRANCIS’S men. Exeunt all except Sir CHARLES.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
My God! what have I done? what have I done?
My rage hath plunged into a sea of blood,
In which my soul lies drowned. Poor innocents,
For whom we are to answer! Well, ’tis done,
And I remain the victor. A great conquest,
When I would give this right hand, nay, this head,
To breathe in them new life whom I have slain!
Forgive me, God! ’twas in the heat of blood,
And anger quite removes me from myself:
It was not I, but rage, did this vile murder;
Yet I, and not my rage, must answer it.
Sir Francis Acton he is fled the field;
With him all those that did partake his quarrel,
And I am left alone with sorrow dumb,
And in my height of conquest overcome.
Enter SUSAN.
SUSAN.
O God! my brother wounded ’mong the dead!
Unhappy jest, that in such earnest ends:
The rumour of this fear stretched to my ears,
And I am come to know if you be wounded.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Oh! sister, sister, wounded at the heart.
SUSAN.
My God forbid!
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
In doing that thing which He forbad,
I am wounded, sister.
SUSAN.
I hope not at the heart.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Yes, at the heart.
SUSAN.
O God! a surgeon there!
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Call me a surgeon, sister, for my soul;
The sin of murder it hath pierced my heart,
And made a wide wound there: but for these scratches,
They are nothing, nothing.
SUSAN.
Charles, what have you done?
Sir Francis hath great friends, and will pursue you
Unto the utmost danger of the law.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
My conscience is become mine enemy,
And will pursue me more than Acton can.
SUSAN.
Oh, fly, sweet brother.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Shall I fly from thee?
Why, Sue, art weary of my company?
SUSAN.
Fly from your foe.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
You, sister, are my friend;
And, flying you, I shall pursue my end.
SUSAN.
Your company is as my eye-ball dear;
Being far from you, no comfort can be near;
Yet fly to save your life: what would I care
To spend my future age in black despair,
So you were safe? and yet to live one week
Without my brother Charles, through every cheek
My streaming tears would downwards run so rank,
Till they could set on either side a bank,
And in the midst a channel; so my face
For two salt-water brooks shall still find place.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Thou shalt not weep so much, for I will stay
In spite of danger’s teeth; I’ll live with thee,
Or I’ll not live at all. I will not sell
My country and my father’s patrimony,
Nor thy sweet sight, for a vain hope of life.
Enter Sheriff, with Officers.
SHERIFF.
Sir Charles, I am made the unwilling instrument
Of your attach[14] and apprehension:
I’m sorry that the blood of innocent men
Should be of you exacted. It was told me
That you were guarded with a troop of friends,
And therefore I come thus armed.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
O, Master Sheriff,
I came into the field with many friends,
But see, they all have left me: only one
Clings to my sad misfortune, my dear sister.
I know you for an honest gentleman;
I yield my weapons, and submit to you;
Convey me where you please.
SHERIFF.
To prison then,
To answer for the lives of these dead men.
SUSAN.
O God! O God!
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Sweet sister, every strain
Of sorrow from your heart augments my pain;
Your grief abounds, and hits against my breast.
SHERIFF.
Sir, will you go?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Even where it likes you best.
[Exeunt.