A Select Collection of Old English Plays Part 15

ANT. Pardon me; there is a bar, that does Concern my life, forbids you as a friend To think on going to any place But to the tailor's house, which is not far.

Come: as we go, I will relate the cause.

AUR. Do, good brother.

EVAD. Go, good Sebastiano.

GIO. Sebastiano is your page, and bound to follow: Lead on.

ANT. O n.o.ble temper, I admire thee! may The world bring forth such tailors every day.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter three_ TAILORS _on a shop-board_.

1ST TAI. Come, come, let's work; for if my guesses point the right, we shan't work long.

3D TAI. I care not how soon. I have a notable stomach to bread.

2D TAI. Dost hear, I suspect that courtier my master brought in last night to be the king; which if it be, bullies, all the bread in the town shan't satisfy us, for we will eat _c.u.m privilegio_.

1ST TAI. Come, let's have a device, a thing, a song, boy.

3D TAI. Come, an air----

THE SONG.

1ST TAI. _'Tis a merry life we live, All our work is brought unto us; Still are getting, never give, For their clothes all men do woo us: Yet (unkind) they blast our names With aspersions of dishonour: For which we make bold with their dames, When we take our measure on her._

ALL TAI. _For which we, &c._

_Enter_ ANTONIO, GIOVANNO, _and the_ OLD TAILOR.

O. TAI. You see the life we live; (_To the_ TAILORS) cease.

ANT. O, 'tis a merry one.

GIO. It is no news to me, I have been us'd to't.

O. TAI. Now for discovery; the king as yet Is ignorant of your names, and shall be Till your merits beg your pardon.

My lord, you are for Machiavel; take this gown.

ANT. Pray for success.

[_Exit_ ANTONIO.

O. TAI. You, in this French disguise, for proud Philippa; This is her garment. I hear the king: begone: The Frenchman's folly sit upon your tongue.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter the_ KING, EVADNE, _and_ AURELIA.

KING. Believe me, tailor, you've outstripp'd the court, For such perfections live not everywhere; Nature was vex'd (as she's a very shrew), She made all others in an angry mood; These only she can boast for masterpieces: The rest want something or in mind or form, These are precisely made: a critic jury Of cavilling arts cannot condemn a scruple.

AUR. But that your entrance in this formal speech Betray'd you are a courtier, I had been angry At your rank flattery.

KING. Can you say so?

EVAD. Sir, she has spoke my meaning.

KING. Friend, what are those beauties call'd.

[_Aside._

O. TAI. Your grace's pardon.

KING. Are they oracle, or is the knowledge fatal?

But that I know thy faith, this denial Would conjure a suspicion in my breast; Use thy prerogative; 'tis thy own house, In which you are a king, and I your guest.

Come, ladies.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ ANTONIO _disguised like a physician_.

ANT. This habit will do well, and less suspected; Wrapp'd i' this cover lives a kingdom's plague; They kill with licence; Machi'vel's proud dame, 'Tis famed, is sick: upon my soul, howe'er Her health may be, the aguish commons cry; She's a disease they groan for: this disguise Shall sift her ebon soul, and if she be Infectious, like a megrim or rot limb, The sword of justice must divide the joint That holds her to the state-endanger'd body-- She comes.

_Enter_ MACHIAVEL, AURISTELLA _leaning on his arm, with two Servants_.

MACH. Look up, my Auristella; Better the sun forsake his course to bless With his continuing beams th' Antipodes, And we grovel for ever in eternal night, Than death eclipse thy rich and stronger light.

Seek some physician: horror to my soul!

She faints; I'd rather lose the issue of my hopes Than Auristella.

ANT. Issue of his hopes? strange!--

[_Aside._

MACH. The crown's enjoyment can yield no content Without the presence of my Auristella.

ANT. Crown's enjoyment!

O villain!

MACH. Why stir you not? fetch me some skilful man, My kingdom shall reward him; if his art Chain her departing soul unto her flesh But for a day, till she be crown'd a queen: Fly, bring him unto this walk.

ANT. Stay, Most honoured count--now for a forged link Of flattery to chain me to his love.

[_Aside._

Having with studious care gone o'er the art Folly terms magic, which more sublime souls Skill'd i' the stars know is above that mischief, I find you're born to be 'bove vulgar greatness, Even to a throne: but stay, let's fetch this lady.

MACH. All greatness without her is slavery.