A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Ix Part 40

Must we be practis'd to those leaden spouts, That nought down vent but what they do receive?

Some fatal fire hath scorch'd our fortune's wing, And still we fall, as we do upward spring?

As we strive upward on the vaulted sky, We fall, and feel our hateful destiny.

STUDIOSO.

Wonder it is, sweet friend, thy pleading breath, So like the sweet blast of the south-west wind, Melts not those rocks of ice, those mounts of snow,[126]

Congeal'd in frozen hearts of men below.

PHILOMUSUS.

Wonder, as well thou may'st, why 'mongst the waves-- 'Mongst the tempestuous waves on raging sea, The wailing merchant can no pity crave.

What cares the wind and weather for their pains?

One strikes the sail, another turns the same; He shakes the main, another takes the oar, Another laboureth and taketh pain To pump the sea into the sea again: Still they take pains, still the loud winds do blow, Till the ship's prouder mast be laid below.

STUDIOSO.

Fond world, that ne'er think'st on that aged man-- That Ariosto's old swift-paced man, Whose name is Time, who never lins to run, Loaden with bundles of decayed names, The which in Lethe's lake he doth entomb, Save only those which swan-like scholars take, And do deliver from that greedy lake.

Inglorious may they live, inglorious die, That suffer learning live in misery.

PHILOMUSUS.

What caren they what fame their ashes have, When once they're coop'd up in the silent grave?

STUDIOSO.

If for fair fame they hope not when they die.

Yet let them fear grave's staining infamy.

PHILOMUSUS.

Their spendthrift heirs will those firebrands quench, Swaggering full moistly on a tavern's bench.

STUDIOSO.

No shamed sire, for all his glosing heir, Must long be talk'd of in the empty air.

Believe me, thou that art my second self, My vexed soul is not disquieted, For that I miss is gaudy-painted state, Whereat my fortunes fairly aim'd of late: For what am I, the mean'st of many mo, That, earning profit, are repaid with woe.

But this it is that doth my soul torment: To think so many activable wits, That might contend with proudest bards[127] of Po, Sit now immur'd within their private cells, Drinking a long lank watching candle's smoke, Spending the marrow of their flow'ring age In fruitless poring on some worm-eat leaf: When their deserts shall seem of due to claim A cheerful crop of fruitful swelling sheaf; c.o.c.kle their harvest is, and weeds their grain, Contempt their portion, their possession, pain.

Scholars must frame to live at a low sail.

PHILOMUSUS.

Ill-sailing, where there blows no happy gale!

STUDIOSO.

Our ship is ruin'd, all her tackling rent.

PHILOMUSUS.

And all her gaudy furniture is spent.

STUDIOSO.

Tears be the waves whereon her ruins bide.

PHILOMUSUS.

And sighs the winds that waste her broken side.

STUDIOSO.

Mischief the pilot is the ship to steer.

PHILOMUSUS.

And woe the pa.s.senger this ship doth bear.

STUDIOSO.

Come, Philomusus, let us break this chat.

PHILOMUSUS.

And break, my heart! O, would I could break that!

STUDIOSO.

Let's learn to act that tragic part we have.

PHILOMUSUS.

Would I were silent actor in my grave!

ACTUS V., SCAENA 1.

PHILOMUSUS _and_ STUDIOSO _become fiddlers: with their concert_.

PHILOMUSUS.

And tune, fellow-fiddlers; Studioso and I are ready.

[_They tune_.

STUDIOSO, _going aside, sayeth_, Fair fell good Orpheus, that would rather be King of a molehill than a keisar's slave: Better it is 'mongst fiddlers to be chief, Than at [a] player's trencher beg relief.

But is't not strange, this mimic ape should prize Unhappy scholars at a hireling rate?

Vile world, that lifts them up to high degree, And treads us down in groveling misery.

England affords those glorious vagabonds, That carried erst their fardles on their backs, Coursers to ride on through the gazing streets, Sweeping[128] it in their glaring satin suits, And pages to attend their masterships: With mouthing words that better wits have framed, They purchase lands, and now esquires are made.[129]

PHILOMUSUS.

Whate'er they seem, being ev'n at the best, They are but sporting fortune's scornful jest.

STUDIOSO.

So merry fortune's wont from rags to take Some ragged groom, and him a[130] gallant make.

PHILOMUSUS.

The world and fortune hath play'd on us too long.

STUDIOSO.

Now to the world we fiddle must a song.

PHILOMUSUS.

Our life is a plain-song with cunning penn'd, Whose highest pitch in lowest base doth end.

But see, our fellows unto play are bent; If not our minds, let's tune our instrument.