Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

SWETNAM,
THE
VVoman-hater,
ARRAIGNED BY
WOMEN.
A new Comedie,
Acted at the Red Bull, by the late Queenes Seruants.

London,

Printed for Richard Meighen, and are to be sold at his Shops at Saint Clements Church, ouer-against Essex House, and at Westminster Hall. 1620.

Enter Loretta,
Prologvs.

The Women are all welcome; for the men,

They will be welcome: our care’s not for them.

’Tis we poore women, that must stand the brunt

Of this dayes try all: we are all accused.

How wee shall cleere our selues, there lyes the doubt.

The men, I know, will laugh, when they shall heare

Vs rayl’d at, and abused; and say, ’Tis well,

We all deserue as much. Let vm laugh on,

Lend but your kind assistance: you shall see

We will not be ore-come with Infamie,

And slanders that we neuer merited.

Be but you patient, I dare boldly say,

(If euer women pleased) weele please to day.

Vouchsafe to reade, I dare presume to say,

Yee shall be pleased; and thinke ’tis a good play.

Actorvm Nomina.

Act. I. Scen. I.

Enter Iago and Nicanor, two Noblemen of Sicilia, in private conference.

Nicanor.

Hee was a vertuous and a hopefull Prince,

And we haue iust cause to lament his death,

For had he liu’d, and Spaine made war agen,

He would ha’ prou’d a Terror to his Foe.

Iag. A greater cause of griefe was neuer knowne,

Not onely in his death, but for the losse

Of Prince Lorenzo too, his yonger brother,

Who hath beene missing almost eighteene moneths,

And none can tell whether aliue or dead.

Nic. How do’s the King beare these afflictions?

Enter another Lord.

Iag. Now you shall heare how fares his Maiestie.

Lord. Oh my good Lords, our sorrowes still increase,

A greater tide of woe is to be fear’d,

The Kings decay, with griefe for his two sonnes.

Iag. The gods forbid, let’s in and comfort him.

3. Lord. Alas, his sorrow’s such

He will not suffer vs to speake to him;

But turnes away in rage, and seemes to tread

The pace of one (if liuing) liuing dead.

Iag. See where he comes,

Lords, let vs all attend, |Enter King in black, reading.|

Vntill his grace be pleas’d to speake to vs.

Dead March.

Attic. Death is the ease of paine, and end of sorrow,

How can that be? Death gaue my sorrowes life,

For by his death my paine and griefe begun,

And in beginning, neuer will haue end: for though I die,

My losse will liue in future memorie,

I and (perhaps) will be lamented too,

And registred by some, when all shall heare

Sicilia had two sonnes, yet had no heire.

Ha! What are you?

Who dares presume to interrupt vs thus?

What meanes this sorrow? Wherefore are these signes?

Or vnto whom are these obseruances?

Nic. Vnto our King.

3. Lords. To you my Soueraigne.

Iag. Your Subiects all lament to see you sad.

Attic. You all are Traytors then, and by my life

I will account you so:

Can you not be content with State and rule,

But you must come to take away my Crowne?

For solitude is sorrowes chiefest Crowne.

Griefe hath resign’d ouer his right to mee,

And I am King of all woes Monarchie.

You powers that grant Regeneration,

What meant you first to giue him vitall breath?

And make large Kingdomes proud of such a Prince

As my Lusyppus was, so good, so vertuous:

Then, in his prime of yeares,

To take him from mee by vntimely death?

Oh! had my spirit wings, I would ascend

And fetch his soule againe from——

Oh my sad sorrowes! Whither am I driuen?

Into what maze of errors will you lead mee?

This Monster (Griefe) hath so distracted mee,

I had almost forgot mortalitie.

Iag. Deare Lord haue patience, though the heauens are pleas’d

To punish Princes for their Subiects faults,

In taking from vs such a hopefull Prince,

No doubt they will restore your yonger sonne,

Who cannot be but stay’d, and will, I hope

Be quickly heard of, to recall your ioyes.

Attic. No, I shall neuer see Lorenzo more,

This eighteene moneths I haue not heard of him,

I feare some Traytors hand had seyz’d his life:

If hee were liuing, as that cannot bee;

I sooner looke to see the dead then hee:

For I am almost spent; This heape of age,

Mixt with my sorrow, soone will end my dayes.

Nic. My Liege, take comfort, I (your Subiect) vow

To goe my selfe to seeke Lorenzo forth,

And ne’r returne vntill I find him out,

Or bring some newes what is become of him.

3. Lord. The like will I, or ne’r come backe agen.

Iag. Old as I am, I’le not be last behind,

And if my Soueraigne please to let mee goe.

Attic. I thanke your loues, but I’le restrain your wils:

If I should part from you, my dayes were done,

For I should neuer liue till your returne.

Enter Nicanor.

Nicanor my deare friend, Iago, Sforza,

One of you three, if I die issuelesse,

Must after mee be King of Sicilie,

Doe not forsake mee then.

Omnes. Long liue your grace:

And may your issue raigne eternally.

Attic. As for our daughter fayre Leonida,

Her female Sexe cannot inherit here, |Shout within.|

One must inioy both her and Sicilie.

What sudden shout was that? Some know the cause;

Can there be so much ioy left in our Land,

To raise mens voyces to so high a sound?

Enter Nicanor.

Or wast a shreeke of some new miserie?

For comfort cannot be expected here.

The newes, Nicanor. |Trumpets.|

Nic. Happie, Sir, I hope,

There is a Souldier new arriu’d at Court,

Can tell some tidings of the long lost Prince:

Sfor. Sir, shall he haue accesse?

Iag. Oh ioyfull newes!

Attic. Is it a question, Sforza? Bring him in,

As you would doe some great Ambassadour;

He is no lesse. Comes he not from a Prince?

He do’s, if from Lorenzo hee be sent.

A flourish, with Trumpets. Enter a Captaine, brought in by the Lord Scanfardoe.

Thou Man of Warre, once play the Orator,

Proue Griefe a guiltie Thiefe, condemne my feares,

And let my sorrowes suffer in these teares:

Haue I a sonne or no? Good Souldier speake.

Capt. Sir, I arriu’d by chance vpon your coast,

Yet hearing of the Proclamation

Which promis’d thousands vnto any man

That could bring newes to the Sicilian King,

Whether Lorenzo were aliue or dead.

Attic. We’le double our reward what-e’r it be,

If hee be liuing: Dead, we’le keepe our word:

Then prethee say, What is become of him?

Capt. Not for reward, but loue to that braue Prince,

Whose memorie deserues to out-liue time,

Come I to tell what I too truely know;

In the Lepanthean battel not long since,

Where he was made Commander of a Fleet,

Vnder Don Iohn the Spanish Generall,

He did demeane himselfe so manfully,

That he perfom’d wonders aboue beliefe;

For when the Nauies ioyn’d, the Cannons plaid,

And thundring clamors rang the dying knels

Of many thousand soules; He, void of feare,

Dalli’d with danger, and pursu’d the Foe

Thorow a bloudy Sea of Victorie:

Whether there slaine, or taken prisoner

By the too mercilesse misbeleeuing Turkes,

No man can tell:

That when Victorie fell to the Christians,

The conquest, and the glorie of the day

Was soone eclipst, in braue Lorenzo’s losse;

That when the battel and the fight was done,

They knew not well whether they lost or wonne.

Attic. This newes is worse then death; Happy were I

If any now could tell me he were dead;

Death is farre sweeter then captiuitie:

My deare Lorenzo! Was it thy desire

To goe to Warre, made thee forsake thy Father,

Countrie, Friends, Life, Libertie? and vndergoe

Death, or Captiuitie, or some disaster

That exceeds ’em both? Yet, howso’er,

Captaine, We thanke thy loue; giue the reward

Was promis’d in the Proclamation.

Capt. I’le not be nice in the refusall, Sir,

It is no wonder t’see a Souldier want:

All good wait on yee; may the Heauens be pleas’d

To make you happy in your long lost sonne.

Attic. My comfort is, whether aliue or dead,

He brauely fought for Heauen and Christendome;

Such battels martyr men: their death’s a life

Suruiuing all this worlds felicitie.

Lords, Where’s Leonida, Our beautious child,

She’s all the comfort we haue left Vs now;

She must not haue her libertie to match,

The Girle is wanton, coy, and fickle too:

How many Princes hath the froward Elfe

Set at debate, desiring but her loue?

What dangers may insue? But to preuent,

Nicanor, wee make you her Gardian:

Let her be Princely vs’d; but no accesse

By any to her presence, but by such

As wee shall send, or giue commandment for:

’Tis death to any other dares attempt it.

I heare, the Prince of Naples seekes her loue:

Shee shall not wed with that presumptuous Boy,

His father and Our selfe were still at oddes,

Nor shall He thinke Wee will submit to Him.

Certaine he knowes not of Lisandro’s sute,

For if he had, he would a come himselfe,

Or sent Ambassadors to speake for him.

We’le giue his answer ere to morrows Sunne

Shall retch to his Meridian, wretched state of Kings,

What end will follow where such woes begins?

Nic. Scanfardoe? |Exeunt omnes.|

Scan. My good Lord? |Manet Nic. & Scanfardoe.|

Nic. How lik’st thou this?

I am made Gardian of my owne harts blisse,

The Princesse is my Prisoner, I her Slaue,

I keepe her Body, but shee holds my Heart

Inuiron’d in a Chest of Adamant.

Scan. Is your Heart Iron?

Nic. Steele, I thinke it is;

And liue an Anuile hammerd by her words,

It sparkles fire that neuer can bee quencht,

But by the dew of her cœlestiall breath.

Oft haue I courted, bin reiected too,

Yet what of that? I’le trye her once agen.

What many Princes haue attempting fail’d,

I by accesse may purchase, that’s my hope;

The King I’me sure affects mee, nothing then

Is wanting but her loue, that once obtain’d

Sicill is ours: Scanfardoe? if we win,

Thou shalt be Lord Nicanor I the King. |Exeunt.|

Scen. II.

Enter Mysogenos solus.

Mis. By this, my thundering Booke is prest abroad,

I long to heare what a report it beares,

I know ’t will startle all our Citie Dames,

Worse then the roring Lyons, or the sound

Of a huge double Canon, Swetnams name,

Will be more terrible in womens eares,

Then euer yet in Misogenysts hath beene.

Enter Clowne.

Clow. Puffe, giue me some ayre,

I am almost stifled, puffe, Oh, my sides!

Mis. From whence comm’st thou in such a puffing heate?

Hast thou been running for a wager, Swash?

Thou art horribly imbost. Where hast thou beene?

My life, he was haunted with some Spirit.

Clow. A Spirit? I thinke all the Deuils in Hell,

Haue had a pinch at my hanches,

I haue beene among the Furies, the Furies:

A Pox on your Booke: I haue beene paid ifaith,

You haue set all the women in the Towne in an vprore.

Mis. Why, what’s the matter, Swash?

Clow. Ne’r was poore Swash, so lasht, and pasht,

And crasht and dasht, as I haue beene,

Looke to your selfe, they’re vp in armes for you.

Mis. Why, Haue they weapons, Swash?

Clow. Weapons, Sir, I, Ile be sworne they haue.

And cutting ones, I felt the smart of ’em,

From the loines to the legs, from the head to th’ hams,

From the Front to the foot, I haue not one free spot.

Oh, I can shew you, Sir, such Characters.

Mis. What dost thou mean, man, wilt shame thy selfe?

Clow. Why, here’s none but you and I, Sir, is there?

Mis. Good, good, ifaith. This was a braue Reuenge.

Clow. If’t be so good, would you had had’t for me.

Mis. And if I liue, I will make all the World

To hate, as I doe, this affliction, Woman.

Clow. But we shall be afflicted in th’ meane time.

Pray let’s leaue this Land: if we stay heere,

We shall be torne a-pieces: would we had kept

In our owne Countrey, there w’are safe enough:

You might haue writ and raild your bellifull,

And few, or none would contradict you, Sir.

Mis. Oh, but for one that writ against me, Swash,

Ide had a glorious Conquest in that Ile,

How my Bookes tooke effect! how greedily

The credulous people swallowed downe my hookes

How rife debate sprang betwixt man and wife!

The little Infant that could hardly speake,

Would call his Mother Whore. O, it was rare!

Clow. Oh, damn’d Rogue!

I stay but here, in hope, to see him hang’d,

And carrie newes to England, then I know,

The women there will neuer see me want,

For God he knowes, I loue vm with my heart,

But dare not shew it for my very eares.

What course, Sir, shall we take to hide our selues?

Mis. The same we did at Bristow, Fencing Boy;

Oh 't is a fearefull name to Females, Swash,

I haue bought Foiles alreadie, set vp Bils,

Hung vp my two-hand Sword, and chang’d my name:

Call me Mysogenos.

Enter Scanfardo.

Clow. A sodden Nose.

Mis. Mysogenos, I say. Remember, Swash, heere comes a Gentleman.

I know him well, he serues a Noble Lord.

Seignior Scanfardo, happily encountred.

Scan. Thanks, my noble Gladiator, Doctor of Defence.

Mis. A Master, Sir, of the most magnanimous Method of Cudgell-cracking.