THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF ROBERT GREENE

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

BY

THOMAS H. DICKINSON

THE MERMAID SERIES

LONDON AND NEW YORK

[1909]

ROBERT GREENE.
From John Dickenson's "Greene in Conceipt" (1598).

CONTENTS

[INTRODUCTION]

"Why should art answer for the infirmities of manners?" asks Thomas Nash in defending the memory of his dead comrade, Robert Greene, against the attacks of Gabriel Harvey. Some such consideration as this has been needed to rescue Greene's fame from the uncritical hostility of later times. It has been the misfortune of the man to be remembered by posterity chiefly through adverse personal documents. The assaults of a frustrate and dying man on a successful rival like curses soon turned home to roost. Gabriel Harvey, the Kenrick of his day, crowned the dead poet with bays more pathetic than the sordid wreath placed by Isam's hand. And to complete the tale of disfavour Greene himself tells his own story with a morbid self-consciousness only exceeding Bunyan's, and a thrifty purpose to turn even his sins to pence. Though during Greene's life and after his death circumstances were unmeet to dispassionate biography, it may promote the calmer mood of a later age to inquire into the conditions of his disordered career and the sources of his unique genius. "Debt and deadly sin, who is not subject to?" cries Nash. "With any notorious crime I never knew him tainted." Nash refers Greene back to human nature. With Nash, at the best but lukewarm, and with Symonds, no partisan of Greene's, one believes that circumstances as well as natural frailty made Greene what he came to be. And of truth he must be represented as no isolated figure, but as a man of his times, frail, no doubt, but frail with Marlowe and Peele, versatile with Sidney and Raleigh, reflective with Spenser, and lusty with Shakespeare.

Robert Greene represents the Elizabethan age at its best and its worst. What was best in it he helped to consummate. Of the worst he was the victim as well as the exemplar. Greene's life comprises and almost defines the greatest era of expansion known in English drama. Shakespeare's debt to his predecessors is great not only on account of direct literary influences. The best things his forerunners had done for him were to free the drama from the regulations of a didactic art, to provide the dramatist a cultivated audience at home in the great popular play-houses of the metropolis, and somewhat to relieve the stage from the awful stigma that had rested on the callings of the actor and the playwright. When Greene was at preparatory school and at Cambridge didactic purpose still dominated popular plays. In The Conflict of Conscience (1560), King Darius (1565), The Life and Repentance of Mary Magdalene (1566), and Jacob and Esau (1568) moral drama was late represented. Even in tragedy, and serious drama on secular subjects, the didactic element persisted in Preston's Cambises (1569), and in Edward's Damon and Pithias (1571). Only in Gascoigne did pure art speak for itself. He indeed "broke the ice" for the greater poets who followed him, but he was a translator, and not an original dramatist. The most promising writer before 1586 was Robert Wilson. Critics have seen in his The Three Ladies of London (1584) the mingling of the old morality and the new art, yet Wilson shows his subserviency to the demands of his time by making this "a perfect pattern for all estates to look into," and by presenting the allegory of three abstractions—Lucre, Love and Conscience. Six years later his continuation of this play was frankly called a "Moral." Greene himself shows the same motive in A Looking-Glass for London and England and in James IV.; and the late appearance of such plays as A Warning for Fair Women (1599), and A Larum for London (1602) testifies to the vitality of the didactic element in drama long after the exponents of a new art had arisen.

It is not strange, perhaps, that it was university men who served to free the drama to the better purposes of art. Themselves trained in the classics, and in the essentials of Italian culture, they were able to bring to bear on drama the force of the influence of Seneca, the pastoral, and the masque, and thereby greatly to increase the range of inspiration and the instruments of effective expression open to the playwrights. The fact is, however, worthy of remark that it is to the university playwrights that we have to credit the transference of the patronage of the drama out of the hands of the court into the hands of the people. Lyly had been the first great university dramatist. His plays, of which Campaspe and Sapho and Phao must have been composed before 1581, were written for court production. But Lyly's own melancholy story shows clearly enough that if dramatists were to flourish at all they needed means of support supplementary to the uncertain pension of a noble. It was for the sake of this further support that the playwrights and the actors proceeded to perform their court plays before the people, first in the inn-yards of the Cross Keys, the Bull and the Bell Savage, and finally in the Theatre and the Curtain, erected in 1576 and 1577 in Finsbury Fields. As an indication of the movement to transfer the support of the drama from the court to the public it is recorded that in 1575 "Her Majesty's poor players" were petitioning the Lord Mayor, through the Privy Council, for permission to play within the city, assigning as reasons the fact that they needed rehearsal properly to prepare for their court appearances, and that they needed to earn their livings. The answer of the city authorities, that plays should be presented by way of recreation by men with other means of subsistence, was manifestly an avoidance of the implications of the situation at hand.

It was not until after the plague of 1586, and the return of the companies from the provinces, that the university playwrights rose to a commanding place in the life of the time. And then, though their plays were still performed at court, it was to the people that the dramatists made their appeal. Marlowe, and Greene, and Peele and Lodge now constituted the group of the university wits. The support that the court had before either withheld, or but fitfully given, was now vouchsafed liberally at the Theatre and the Curtain. The university dramatists knew well what was demanded of them. Dismissing the topics treated by Lyly, and by Peele in his early play, The Arraignment of Paris (1584), and discarding by degrees the allegorical and didactic as found in the popular drama of the preceding time, they began to dramatise the spirit of contemporary life in the form of stories built from legend and romance, and instinct with the leonine spirit of awakening England. Marlowe's Tamburlaine is as true to Elizabethan England as is Dekker's more realistic Shoemaker's Holiday; and Peele's Old Wives' Tale and Greene's Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay are both native in England's soil. In the years between 1584 and 1593 the number of companies greatly increased. Fleay mentions nine companies as performing at court between these dates. Besides the Queen's players, who comprised, perhaps, two or more companies, there were companies of my Lord Admiral, Pembroke, Sussex and other lords. Normally the playwrights wrote only for the company to which they were attached. It is believed that at one time Lodge, Peele, Marlowe and Greene were together as playwrights for the Queen's men playing at the Theatre. Later the first three went over to the support of the Admiral's men, and thereafter often changed their allegiance, but Greene probably wrote only for the Queen's players until his death. Soon other dramatists aligned themselves with the movements of the new drama, and out of the jealous rivalry aroused by the entrance into the field of dramatic authorship of such non-university playwrights as Kyd and Shakespeare there developed the maze of controversy and vituperation that has made the Elizabethan age famous as an era of personal pamphleteering.

But though the drama was occupying an increasingly prominent place in the life of the time the professional actors and playwrights were in decided ill-repute. With the managers and with the actors the returns from the stage were sufficient to salve the hurt of the odium under which their profession rested. Richard Burbage died a rich man, and Alleyn, who played in at least one of Greene's plays, became so wealthy that he could found a college. So also, as we learn from the slighting references to them by the dramatists, the actors were well able to line their pockets with the returns of their calling. But the pamphlet literature of the time reveals the extraordinary hostility with which all connected with the theatre were viewed. Gosson's School of Abuse (1579), A Second and Third Blast of Retrait from Plays and Theatres (1580), Stubb's Anatomy of Abuses (1583), and Babington's Exposition of the Commandments (1583) contain vigorous attacks on the stage as an institution and on all who follow its fortunes. Distrust and jealousy were common within the ranks of the actors and playwrights. So Chettle does not know Marlowe and does not wish to know him; Nash, though he defends Greene against Harvey, expressly disclaims any intimacy; and we shall learn that Greene was jealous of Marlowe during a large portion of his period of dramatic authorship. But the playwrights abominated the actors even more than they distrusted each other. Frequently they refer to actors as puppets and apes dressed up in another's feathers. Greene, in Never too Late, calls the actor "Esop's crow," and in A Groatsworth of Wit, in the famous passage referring to Shakespeare, he calls the actors "burrs," "puppets that speak from our mouths," and "antics garnished in our colours." The author of The Return from Parnassus (1602) calls them "mimic apes," and Florio, in his preface to Montaigne's Essays (translated 1603) refers to actors as "base rascals, vagabond abjects, and porterly hirelings." Though proud of their calling as literary men the dramatists looked with shame on their writing for the stage. Lodge, who in 1580 had defended poetry and plays against Gosson, in Scillæ's Metamorphosis of 1589 declared his determination "to write no more of that whence shame doth grow." If Greene refers to plays at all he calls them "vanities"; connects their composition with the basest efforts of life, and arraigns dependence on "so mean a stay." Even Shakespeare "in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes" beweeps alone his "outcast state" (Sonnet XXIX), and exclaims "For I am shamed by that which I bring forth" (Sonnet LXXII). Conditions like these are not likely to bring the better social adjustments into play, or to call into a profession those who value name and fame supremely. Schelling[1] calls attention to the fact that playwriting took a higher position at the beginning of the seventeenth century than it had taken at the end of the previous century, and compares Marlowe, Shakespeare, Greene and Jonson, the sons of low life, with Beaumont, Fletcher, Chapman, Middleton and Marston, the sons of gentlemen. By the time the sons of gentlemen were ready to take to playwriting the path had been made ready for them by their predecessors. Society of the times in which Greene lived was not ready to treat either a playwright or an actor as a good citizen. And a son of a nobleman, entering the ranks of the pioneers, would have given his life as a sacrifice just as did Marlowe and Greene. Lodge was the son of a Lord Mayor, Peele's father was a man of some education, and Lyly had influential connections at court; yet the only man of the entire school of "university wits" who escaped a life of misery and a death of want was Lodge, and he in 1596 deserted literature for medicine. We cannot consider Greene's "memory a blot"[2] on a time that is truly represented as well by the tragical as the heroic outlines of his character and history.

The sources of our knowledge and deduction concerning Greene's life are of four classes—records, autobiographical pamphlets and allusions, contemporary references, legends. To the indubitable records belong the university registers, the stationers' registers, and the title pages to his printed books. From the first we learn that Greene was entered as a sizar at St John's College, Cambridge, 26th November 1575, that he was admitted to the degree of B.A. some time in 1578, that he proceeded to the degree of M.A., after residence at Clare Hall, Cambridge, in 1583; from the second we learn that his first book was the first part of Mamillia, entered for publication 3rd October 1580, though not published until 1583, and other facts concerning the time of publication of his successive books and plays; from the signature to the Maiden's Dream, "R. Greene, Nordericensis," and to the address to Lodge's Euphues Shadow, "Robert Greene Norfolciensis," we learn that Greene was born in Norfolk. Of a lower order of certainty as to their application to Greene, yet still satisfying the closest scrutiny, is the record in the parish register of St Leonard's, Shoreditch, of the burial of Greene's illegitimate child, Fortunatus Greene, 12th August 1593; and the record in the register of St George, Tombland, uncovered and interpreted by Collins, indicating that the dramatist himself was the second child of Robert Greene, a saddler, and Jane his wife, and was baptised the 11th of July 1558.

To the second class of biographical materials belong Greene's own prose works, the Mourning Garment, Never too Late, with the second part, Francesco's Fortunes, the Groatsworth of Wit, all partly autobiographical; and The Repentance of Robert Greene, confessedly autobiographical, but, until lately, of questioned authenticity. The biographical material in these works is ample, but its value is discounted by certain considerations involved in the motives of Greene's pamphlet composition. When Greene began to write, art was not yet strong enough to command a popular hearing without the assistance of a didactive motive. Adapting himself to the conditions with a tact that made him the most broadly read writer of his time, Greene made edification the end of his writing from the first. His second work to be entered on the Stationers' Register, March 1581, had a distinct moral purpose: "Youth, seeing all his ways so troublesome, abandoning virtue and leaning to vice, recalleth his former follies with an inward repentance." In choosing topics for popular pamphlets Greene tells such a story as that derived from Ælian in Planetomachia (1585), or he tells over the story of the prodigal son as in the Mourning Garment. And throughout his life moral purpose remained a factor in his prose and drama. He turned from romances to the composition of the conny-catching pamphlets, in the trust "that those discourses will do great good, and be very beneficial to the commonwealth of England." A Looking-Glass for London and England is a pure moral interlude. Often he moralises when it is unnecessary to do so, or when he has to change his original to introduce a didactic motive. Even the Palmer who tells the tale of Never too Late is himself penitent for his past sins. In Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay the jolly friar of Brazen-nose is made at the end to surrender his calling through motives of remorse as far as possible from the spirit of his life, and James IV. ends with a penitent sovereign begging forgiveness for his sins. These facts show, if they show anything, that the motive of repentance was a conventional thing with Greene, and that however faithful it may have been to his own experience not the least advantage in its use lay in its popularity. That it was a popular motive is shown by the vogue of such books as Tarlton's News out of Purgatory (1590), and by the fact that T. Newman, in a dedication to Greene's Vision (1592), asserts that "many have published repentances in his name." That much of Greene's autobiographical material is veracious we have corroborative evidence to prove; we should, however, not be justified in accepting it all without question. There is a bland shamelessness in the confession of sins that is itself one of the best signs of health. When Greene says, "I saw and practised such villainy as is abominable to declare," he is expressing in phrase strikingly similar to Hamlet's words to Ophelia, "I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me," a characteristic moral attitude of the times.

What do we learn from the romances concerning Greene's life? The Mourning Garment is a modernised version of the prodigal son story, and its relation to Greene's own history may be slight or even factitious. The story of Never too Late touches Greene more closely. In this there is recounted the fortunes of "a gentleman of an ancient house, called Francesco; a man whose parentage though it were worshipful, yet it was not indued with much wealth; insomuch that his learning was better than his revenues, and his wit more beneficial than his substance." This Francesco, "casting his eye on a gentleman's daughter that dwelt not far from Caerbranck," named Isabel, fell in love with her, and married her against the opposition of Fregoso, her father. For five years "they laboured to maintain their loves, being as busy as bees, and as true as turtles, as desirous to satisfy the world with their desert as to feed the humours of their own desires." At the end of this time they were reconciled with Fregoso, and "they counted this smile of fortune able to countervail all the contrary storms that the adverse planets had inflicted upon them." Now after two years "it so chanced that Francesco had necessary business to dispatch certain his urgent affairs at the chief city of that island, called Troynovant: thither, with leave of his father, and farewell to his wife, he departed after they were married seven years." In the city he surrendered to the lures of a courtesan, Infida, and "seated in her beauty, he lived a long while, forgetting his return to Caerbranck." For three years the two lovers "securely slumbered in the sweetness of their pleasures," ignoring the womanly complaints of Isabel and neglectful of the passage of time. Then finding that "all his corn was on the floor, that his sheep were dipt, and the wool sold," Infida turned him out of doors. Francesco laments his hard fortune in an invective against courtesans that stings with the passion of the author's personal feeling. In his "perplexity he passed over three or four days till his purse was clean empty" and he was compelled "to carry his apparel to the brokers, and with great loss to make money to pay for his diet." "In this humour he fell in amongst a company of players, who persuaded him to try his wit in writing of comedies, tragedies, or pastorals, and if he could perform anything worth the stage, then they would largely reward him for his pains. Francesco, glad of this motion, seeing a means to mitigate the extremity of his want, thought it no dishonour to make gain of his wit or to get profit by his pen: and therefore, getting him home to his chamber, writ a comedy; which so generally pleased all the audience that happy were those actors in short time that could get any of his works, he grew so exquisite in that faculty." The remainder of the story relates Isabel's repulse of the seductions of an admirer, Infida's unsuccessful efforts at reconciliation with the now prosperous Francesco, and the latter's penitent return to his faithful wife.

The story told in A Groatsworth of Wit quite closely resembles that of Never too Late and is clearly autobiographical. To this fact Greene bears witness when, near the end of the story, he writes: "Here, gentlemen, break I off Roberto's speech, whose life in most part agreeing with mine, found one self punishment as I have done. Hereafter suppose me the said Roberto, and I will go on with that he promised." In this story, "an old new-made gentleman" named Gorinius, living in an island city "made rich by merchandise, and populous by long space," had two sons, the one a scholar, named Roberto, married and but little regarded, the other named Lucanio, the heir-apparent of his father's ill-gathered goods. On his death-bed Gorinius bequeathed his entire property to Lucanio: "only I reserve for Roberto, thy well-read brother, an old groat (being the stock I first began with), wherewith I wish him to buy a groatsworth of wit." Upon the death of Gorinius, and the distribution of the property according to will, Roberto "grew into an inward contempt of his father's unequal legacy, and determinate resolution to work Lucanio all possible injury." As Lucanio "was of a condition simple, shamefast, and flexible to any counsel," Roberto seemed on a fair way to success, until Lamilia, a courtesan with whom he had plotted for Lucanio's undoing, repudiated the understanding and informed the heir of the plot against his gold. Forbidden the house, "Roberto, in an extreme ecstasy, rent his hair, curst his destiny, blamed his treachery, but most of all exclaimed against Lamilia, and in her against all enticing courtesans." ... "With this he laid his head on his hand, and leant his elbow on the ground, sighing out sadly, 'Heu patior telis vulnera facta meis!'" Roberto's lamentations were overheard by one sitting on the other side of the hedge, who, getting over, offered such comfort as his ability would yield, doing so "the rather," as he said, "for that I suppose you are a scholar, and pity it is men of learning should live in lack." Greatly wondering Roberto asked how he might be employed. "'Why, easily,' quoth he, 'and greatly to your benefit; for men of my profession get by scholars their whole living.' 'What is your profession?' said Roberto. 'Truly, sir,' said he, 'I am a player.' 'A player!' quoth Roberto; 'I took you rather for a gentleman of great living; for if by outward habit men should be censured, I tell you, you would be taken for a substantial man.' 'So am I where I dwell,' quoth the player, 'reputed able at my proper cost to build a windmill.'" Roberto now again asked how he was to be used. "'Why, sir, in making plays,' said the other; 'for which you shall be well paid, if you will take the pains.' Roberto, perceiving no remedy, thought it best to respect his present necessity, (and), to try his wit, went with him willingly." As Roberto's fortunes improved Lucanio's drooped, until finally "Roberto hearing of his brother's beggary, albeit he had little remorse of his miserable state, yet did he seek him out, to use him as a property; whereby Lucanio was somewhat provided for." The character and miserable end of Roberto as a result of the profession he had assumed may be given in Greene's own words: "For now when the number of deceits caused Roberto to be hateful almost to all men, his immeasurable drinking had made him the perfect image of the dropsy, and the loathsome scourge of lust tyrannised in his bones. Living in extreme poverty, and having nothing to pay but chalk, which now his host accepted not for current, this miserable man lay comfortlessly languishing, having but one groat left (the just proportion of his father's legacy), which looking on, he cried, 'O, now it is too late, too late to buy wit with thee; and therefore will I see if I can sell to careless youth what I negligently forgot to buy.'"

To a somewhat different class of testimony belongs The Repentance of Robert Greene, probably an authentic exemplar of that very popular class of deathbed repentance that was multiplied by other hands after Greene's death. Little can be found in this work but admonitions to a higher life and caveats against lust. Such details as are given are presented with no chronology. Of his early life Greene tells us that "being at the University of Cambridge, I light amongst wags as lewd as myself, with whom I consumed the flower of my youth; who drew me to travel into Italy and Spain, in which places I saw and practised such villainy as is abominable to declare.... At my return into England, I ruffled out in my silks, in the habit of malcontent, and seemed so discontent that no place would please me to abide in, nor no vocation cause me to stay myself in: but after I had by degrees proceeded Master of Arts, I left the university and away to London; where (after I had continued some short time, and driven myself out of credit with sundry of my friends) I became an author of plays, and a penner of love-pamphlets, so that I soon grew famous in that quality, that who for that trade grown so ordinary about London as Robin Greene?" Once, Greene tells us, he felt a terror of God's judgment. This followed a lecture by a "godly learned man" in St Andrew's Church in the city of Norwich. But when his companions fell upon him, in a jesting manner calling him Puritan and precisian, and wished he might have a pulpit, what he had learned went quite out of his remembrance. "Soon after I married a gentleman's daughter of good account, with whom I lived for a while; but ... after I had a child by her, I cast her off, having spent up the marriage money which I had obtained by her.

"Then left I her at six or seven, who went into Lincolnshire, and I to London; where in short space I fell into favour with such as were of honourable and good calling." But though he knew how to get a friend he "had not the gift or reason how to keep a friend." Further he tells us that he had wholly betaken himself to the planning of plays, that "these vanities and other trifling pamphlets I penned of love and vain fantasies was my chiefest stay of living," and that he had refrained his wife's company for six years.

What may be the value of the third class of biographical material, that derived from contemporary references, is, perhaps, best revealed by reviewing the history of the controversy with Gabriel Harvey. In 1590 Richard Harvey, the second of three brothers, attacked all poets and writers, and Lyly and Nash particularly, in a pamphlet entitled The Lamb of God, terming them "piperly make-plays and make-bates," and comparing them with Martin. Though not himself attacked, Greene, because "he writ more than four others," retorted in defence of his brother dramatists in A Quip for an Upstart Courtier (1592), making a satirical thrust at the Harveys as the sons of a rope-maker. At the request of Greene's physician the most offensive lines were expunged from all except possibly the first edition. But the harm had been done. Greene died before the Harveys could or would make answer. Then, in Gabriel Harvey's Four Letters (1592), the memory of Greene was attacked in one of the most venomous pamphlets known to the literature of vilification. Harvey's four epistles were followed by Nash's Strange News, and other controversial pamphlets, in which Nash attempts, rather light-heartedly, to defend Greene's memory. Other writers who take occasion to speak a good word for Greene, after his death, are Chettle in A Kind Hart's Dream (1593), a certain R. B., author of Greene's Funerals (1594), and Meres in Palladis Tamia (1598). Strange as it may seem it is impossible to decide that Harvey seriously wronged Greene in his accounts of fact. Like Greene, Harvey has been too much abused on account of his unfortunate quarrels with men whom history was to discover were his superiors. His pedantry, his egotism, and the very virulence of his hatred seem to nullify the effect of his assault, without greatly militating against the truth of the account he gives. Nash, who is vigorous in his expressions of respect for his friend, is notably weak in his rebuttals of fact. With the exception of some manifest exaggerations, Harvey's account of Greene's death-bed, of his association with Cutting Ball and his sister, and of his son Fortunatus, must be accepted as substantially a true one. Harvey's account will not be given here but it is epitomised when "we come to finish up his life."

There remain for consideration, and in most part for dismissal, a few traditions that have grown up about the name of Greene. Early biographers, among whom was Dyce, attempted to show that Greene had at one time been a minister. This opinion was partly based upon the two manuscript notes on a copy of George-a-Greene: "Written by ... a minister who acted the piner's pt in it himselfe. Teste W. Shakespeare," and "Ed. Juby saith that ye play was made by Ro. Greene." Aside from the fact that these notes are not shown to have any authority, and may, in fact, contradict each other, the probabilities are all against the hypothesis that Greene was ever a minister. Nowhere in his singularly open personal revelations does he suggest that he ever acted as such. Indeed, his expressions are inconsistent with such an idea. "In all my life I never did any good," he writes in his Repentance, and in the same tract he tells of that incipient conversion that was nipped in the bud by the ridicule of his fellows. Surely this account does not sound like the confession of an ex-minister, and these same copesmates would certainly not have maintained silence had they known that Greene had held a living. Considerations of time make it impossible that Greene should have been the Robert Greene who, in 1576, was one of the Queen's chaplains, for at this time he could not have been more than eighteen years old; nor is it at all likely that he is the Greene who, in 1584-5, was vicar of Tollesbury in Essex, for in these years he was engaged in the unclerical exercise of preparing for printing The Mirror of Modesty, Morando The Tritameron of Love, The Card of Fancy, and Planetomachia. The theory that Greene was an actor is traced back to the manuscript notes already quoted, and to some ambiguous remarks by Harvey in his Four Letters. Fleay's ingenious conjecture that Greene is identical with that Rupert Persten who accompanied Leicester's company to Saxony and Denmark in 1585-87, and that this name is equivalent to "Robert the Parson," is discredited on philological grounds as well as for its general lack of weight. That Greene may have now and then assumed a part upon the stage is quite possible; but that he never associated himself with the actor's calling is made quite clear from his contemptuous treatment of actors in the passages already quoted. It is perhaps not entirely necessary to dismiss the theory, based on the entry on the title-page of Planetomachia, "By Robert Greene, Master of Arts and student in physic," that Greene had intended to study medicine, and was hindered from pursuing his purpose by his success in literature. It is likely, however, that Greene here uses the term "physic" in the sense of "natural philosophy," as it was used by Chaucer and Gower, and that he had particular desire to defend his ability to treat an astronomical topic such as that of Planetomachia.

We have, in a disjointed manner, no doubt, presented Greene's life under the heads of the sources from which our information is gained, rather than in regular chronological sequence, in order that due discrimination may be used in constructing the finished scheme of his life's activities. To the imaginative reader there is material enough and to spare, but to the exact scientist there is a bare modicum. Without rash assumptions it seems safe to imagine that Greene's father, like Rabbi Bilessi and Gorinius, was well-to-do; that with the exception of the duration of his domestic life, Greene's married life is substantially represented by the story of Isabel and Francesco; that as a playwright Greene experienced the vicissitudes suggested in Never too Late and A Groatsworth of Wit; and that his death is substantially represented by Harvey in Four Letters. Attempting a bare outline of Greene's life one would feel safe in assuming that he was born not earlier than 1558; that he took his bachelor's degree at St John's College, Cambridge, in 1578; thereafter toured the continent, probably after the 3rd of October 1580, at which date the first part of Mamillia was registered; that returning he took his M.A. at Clare Hall in 1583, and immediately began the composition of love pamphlets and comedies, the latter being now lost; that he married not later than 1585, lived with his wife until after the birth of a child, in 1586 deserted her, and went to London never to return. There undertaking the composition of serious plays, the first extant play is produced in 1587 or 1588, he is incorporated Master of Arts at Oxford in July 1588, and continues "that high and loose course of living which poets generally follow" (Anthony Wood), writing love pamphlets until about 1590, and then, in obedience to a promise repeatedly made by himself, pressing forward the exposure of the devices used by cozeners and conny-catchers, until his untimely death on 3rd September 1592.

During the last twelve years of a short but varied and active life Greene was more or less prominently before the public eye. For much of this time he was easily the most widely read of English writers. His literary activities were scattered over a broad range of topics and styles. In his work there are represented the wit, the romance, the bombast, the Euphuism, the Arcadianism, and no less the new naturalism of his time. He expressed himself in novellas, in pamphlets, in controversial broadsides, in comedies, in serious plays, and in Italianate verse. He was in fact the first litterateur[3] of England, and his prose fiction represents what Herford has called "for English-speaking contemporaries the most considerable body of English narrative which the language yet contained." Twenty-seven romances and prose tracts were published during Greene's lifetime, excluding The Defence of Conny-catching, which cannot with certainty be ascribed to him; and nine tracts and plays, including the doubtful George-a-Greene, were published after his death.

Aside from Greene's remarkable versatility and rapidity of workmanship,[4] his most striking characteristic as an author is his ability immediately to adapt himself to the changing literary demands of the hour. This will be seen to have particular significance in connection with the question of the chronology of his plays, yet it is pertinent here as pointing the dividing line between his earlier and later interests in composition. At the end of Never too Late (1590) Greene says, "And therefore as soon as may be, gentlemen, look for Francesco's further fortunes, and after that my Farewell to Folly, and then adieu to all amorous pamphlets." And in the dedication of Francesco's Fortunes (Part II. of Never too Late) he advised his gentlemen readers to look for "more deeper matters." So also at the end of his Mourning Garment (1590) Greene announces that he will write no more love pamphlets. This work must serve as the first-fruits of his new labours and the last farewell to his fond desires. Again, in the dedicatory epistle to Farewell to Folly, licensed in 1587 but not published until 1591, about which time it is reasonable to suppose the epistle was written, he says this is "the last I mean ever to publish of such superficial labours." That he is sincere in this promise is clear from the fact that, while he published Philomela in 1592, he is careful in doing so to explain that it had been hatched long ago and was now given his name at the solicitation of his printer. We have here fixed a point about the year 1590 for the beginning of new and more serious work. Two theories have been advanced to explain the nature of this work. The one theory, which has among its adherents Collins, the latest editor of Greene's complete plays, supposes that Greene must refer to the beginning of his play-writing. Against this theory there are the strong objections that Greene must have written plays before he made any promise to engage in more serious writing, the strong circumstantial and internal evidence that several of the extant plays ante-date such a promise, and the no less significant fact that Greene had no pride in his work as a playwright and no respect for the calling as a serious occupation. The second theory is that Greene had long contemplated the exposure of the arts and devices of the under-world of prey, and that the year 1590 represents approximately the time at which he ceased the composition of romantic and mythologising pamphlets, which associated him with Lyly and Sidney and the more affected of the university writers, and began the composition of realistic studies in the rogue society of his own time. There is no reason to suppose that Greene was not sincere in his desire to present an edifying picture of the dangers surrounding London youth and the weaknesses and vanities in English society.[5]

The first pamphlet, A Notable Discovery of Cosenage, was printed in 1591, and was "written for the general benefit of all gentlemen, citizens, apprentices, country farmers and yeomen." Thereafter followed The Second Part of Conny-catching, The Third and Last Part of Conny-catching, A Disputation Between a He Conny-catcher and a She Conny-catcher, and others of the same type, of equal or less authenticity. All of these are very far from the old romance in content, in method and in language; Greene is now bold, slashing and fearless, and wields something of the scorpion whip of Nash in his taunting cruelty of assault. Changing his attitude he now stands very near his subject; he writes from among the society he castigates. There is some unusual significance in this new attitude of Greene's, particularly for drama. We shall find, it is believed, the same distinction between Greene's earlier and later plays, not as clearly marked as the change in prose, but definite enough to establish within the dramatic work of Greene a line of cleavage separating the mythology-loaded language and unnatural incident of the Tamburlaine and Spanish Tragedy type of play from the plays of simple poetry and homely rural atmosphere that were to prepare the way for the domestic drama of Heywood and Dekker and Munday and Chettle, and to have a real influence on the dramaturgy of Shakespeare.

Upon the question of the chronology of Greene's plays no editor can afford to be dogmatic. Yet so carefully have the varied spiritual forces of Greene's life been studied in connection with the manifest literary influences of his time, and so painstaking have been the deductions from those facts with which we are provided, that one feels safe in laying down, upon the researches of such scholars as Dyce, Fleay, Storojenko, Gayley and Collins,[6] an almost certain scheme of succession and chronology of Greene's extant dramas. A point of departure is provided by the theory of Collins, often vigorously insisted upon, that Greene did not begin to write plays until about 1590. In this belief Collins is joined by C. H. Hart,[7] who adduces the passage from Greene's Farewell to Folly, quoted two pages above, as a reason for thinking Greene took up playwriting near the end of his life. Against any such theory there are strong specific as well as important general objections. It would require that all of Greene's plays, in addition to half a dozen pamphlets, should have been written between the opening of 1591 and the time of Greene's death in 1592. In A Groatsworth of Wit Greene all but certainly refers to himself as an "arch play-making poet," and in The Repentance of Robert Greene he says, "I became an author of plays and a penner of love pamphlets." Certainly that total dissolution that follows the practices of his calling could not have taken place in two years, nor would one who thus joins the composition of plays and poems have waited until ten years after the licensing of his first tract in 1580 to write his first play. If Never too Late and A Groatsworth of Wit have any autobiographical value whatever those portions that treat of playwriting experience are worthy the most credence, and the theory that Greene should have taken up playwriting late is quite inconsistent with the purport of both of them.

But aside from any such considerations as these, there are certain general principles having to do with the customs of literary composition of the time, and particularly of the group in which Greene moved, that make it quite improbable that Greene should have waited until 1590 before beginning to write plays. Nothing is clearer than that the movements of these pre-Shakespearean groups were not movements of the individual but of the mass. There is in the work of this era the utmost possible play and interplay of influence. Marlowe was the only strikingly originative writer of the times, yet the facets of his contact with the literary life of England and the Continent have by no means as yet been numbered. Any new style of composition immediately assumed the dignity of a school. Lyly's style became so popular that Euphuism became a convention. So the appearance of the Arcadia, of Tamburlaine, of a romance by Greene, was followed by a flood of imitative works. Greene's Tully's Love is used in Every Woman in Her Humour, a comedy of humours after the model of Jonson; the author of Sir John Oldcastle borrows from The Pinner of Wakefield the swallowing of the seals; Harvey accuses Nash of being "the ape of Greene," and Greene of being the "ape of Euphues"; Tamburlaine is imitated again and again, sometimes in whole, as in Alphonsus of Arragon, Selimus, and The Battle of Alcazar, but more often through the unconscious influence of its affected language and dramatic types. As much can be said of the imitation of Kyd's Spanish Tragedy. Traces of the same source-book appear in Greene's Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay and Marlowe's Dr Faustus, and identical lines appear in Greene's Orlando Furioso and Peele's Old Wives' Tale. The same comedy appears in A Looking-Glass for London and England, Locrine and Selimus, and The Taming of a Shrew contains lines from Tamburlaine and Dr Faustus. Shakespeare borrows from Greene, Oberon for A Midsummer Night's Dream; features of the story of Euphues, his Censure to Philautus for Troilus and Cressida; features of Farewell to Folly for Much Ado About Nothing; characters from the Mourning Garment for Polonius and Laertes, and innumerable reminiscent lines. Sometimes the influence is more complicate still. Greene in Pandosto borrows from Lyly's Campaspe, and Shakespeare, borrowing from Greene for his Winter's Tale, approximates Lyly's form; and Greene, ridiculing Marlowe's Tamburlaine, makes some allusions that indicate that he as well as Marlowe must have been acquainted with Primaudaye. Cases of this kind are so frequent that they seem to have no individual bearing, but to refer to the general conditions of art composition of the day. In such a system of community of ideas Greene was entirely at home. Of this we have abundant evidence in his often displayed ability to feel the popular pulse, and to make himself a part of every growing movement. His first works were written under the influence of the Italian school. In these early works there is a strong strain of Euphuism, which is made explicit in his Euphues, his Censure to Philautus (1587). Two years later a new style had arisen through the composition of Sidney's Arcadia (published in 1590), and Greene aligns himself with the new pastoral movement in his Menaphon. Not content with the tacit desertion of the conceits of Lyly he gives his new work the sub-title Camilla's Alarum to Slumbering Euphues, and attacks his old models for artificiality. So also Greene is quick to utilise contemporary events to add to the popular appeal of his writings. From the publication of the Spanish Masquerado (1589), celebrating the victory over the Spanish Armada, there is every reason to believe Greene received his warmest recognition at court; and sincere as were his conny-catching pamphlets we may be sure that their value was not lessened in Greene's eyes by their popular appeal. Greene was neither more nor less of an imitator than his fellows; his ideals and methods of composition were, no doubt, those of his time, and if we cannot claim for him that he consistently broke ground in new domains of expression, we may at any rate be certain that he did not fall far behind in the progressive motion of the art of his era.

The significance of these things in the study of the chronology of Greene's plays should be manifest. There were during Greene's literary life three extraordinary dramatic successes on the London stage—Tamburlaine, Dr Faustus and The Spanish Tragedy. It is reasonable to suppose that the man who, in prose composition, always struck when the iron was hot, would, as a playwright, use the same expedition to take advantage of a popular wave of enthusiasm. That Greene's Alphonsus of Arragon was written under the inspiration of Marlowe's Tamburlaine, and that Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay was written as a reflex from Dr Faustus is so certain as to require no demonstration. And it is only less certain that we have in Orlando Furioso a reminiscence of Tamburlaine and of The Spanish Tragedy, and that James IV. was inspired as a pseudo-historical play by the growing popularity of the chronicle type. According to the best authority obtainable Tamburlaine appeared in 1587, The Spanish Tragedy before 1587, and Dr Faustus in 1588. With these conditions before us, and in the light of Greene's known character and the habits of the times, it is scarcely possible to think that Greene should have waited until Dr Faustus had somewhat dimmed the lustre of Tamburlaine before imitating the latter; or that he should have ignored the undoubted vigour of the magician motive to imitate a form that had enjoyed prior popularity, only to take up for treatment a drama in the occult spirit, when this type in its turn had been laid on the shelf in favour of the newer form of chronicle play. Ignoring then for the present A Looking-Glass for London and England, which is not entirely Greene's own composition, and George-a-Greene, concerning which doubts must exist, we are provided with the order of succession of the four remaining plays in the order of publication of their prototypes: Alphonsus of Arragon, Orlando Furioso, Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, James IV. Further investigation provides more explicit chronological data.

Alphonsus of Arragon is the earliest of Greene's extant plays. Its date has been set at 1587 or 1588 by Gayley, who has carefully worked over the conclusions of Fleay, Storojenko and others. That Greene had been interested in Alphonsus as early as 1584 is clear from his mention of the name in the dedication to The Card of Fancy. The play was not written before Tamburlaine, for that hero is mentioned in it; on the other hand there are several considerations that seem to show that it was written soon after Tamburlaine in an effort to share some of that play's popularity. Greene's words in the prologue:

"Will now begin to treat of bloody Mars,
Of doughty deeds and valiant victories."

seem to announce a purpose to begin a new warlike vein. The play resembles Tamburlaine in bombast, in rant, in comparing a victorious warrior with the gods, in the motive of Asiatic and Mohammedan conquest, and in its double original design. Unlike Tamburlaine only one of the parts was completed. There is a possibility that the two plays are mentioned in conjunction by Peele in his well-known "Farewell" verses to Sir John Norris and his companions (1589):

"Bid theatres and proud tragedians,
Bid Mahomet's Poo and mighty Tamburlaine,
King Charlemayne, Tom Stukeley and the rest,
Adieu."

By the ingenuity of Mr Fleay we are able to conjecture that "Mahomet's Poo" probably refers to the brazen head, or poll, through which the Prophet speaks in the fourth act of the play.

That Alphonsus was not successful on the stage seems likely when one compares the play with the successful productions of the day. Its failure is indicated by the fact that, though a second part was promised in the epilogue, no such part is known to have been written. More interesting still, for the light it throws on the fortunes of this play, and on Greene's relationship with his contemporaries, is the study of the antagonism that suddenly appears in all of Greene's allusions to Marlowe. This feeling apparently dates from the beginning of 1588, or about the time of the probable first performance of Alphonsus of Arragon. It is first marked in the very satirical allusion to Tamburlaine contained in the address to the gentleman readers prefixed to Perimedes (1588). In this the author expresses a purpose to "keep my old course to palter up something in prose using mine old poesie still Omne tulit punctum, although lately two Gentlemen Poets made two madmen of Rome beat it out of their paper bucklers, and had it in derision for that I could not make my verses jet upon the stage in tragical buskins, every word filling the mouth like the faburden of Bo-Bell, daring God out of heaven with that Atheist Tamburlaine or blaspheming with the mad priest of the sun." He ends this passage as follows: "If I speak darkly, gentlemen, and offend with this digression, I crave pardon, in that I but answer in print what they have offered on the stage." Just who the two poets and two madmen of Rome may have been it is now impossible to say. What stands out clear is that Greene has been attacked on the stage for failing to make his "verses jet upon the stage in tragical buskins," after the manner of Marlowe's Tamburlaine; and as Marlowe was the atheist, and not Tamburlaine, it is also clear that Greene has a feeling of resentment against his brother poet. The explanation that seems most sensible is that Greene has attempted to write a play in Marlowe's vein, has failed, and being publicly taunted for his failure, either by Marlowe himself or by his partisans, expresses his determination to continue writing in prose, the form of composition that has already brought him fame. Greene's animosity toward Marlowe continued for several years. In Nash's address prefixed to Greene's Menaphon (1589)[8] the same feeling is manifested, possibly at the instigation of Greene. Here Nash, perhaps to throw contempt on Marlowe as a writer of plays, vaunts Greene as a writer of romance. Menaphon, he holds, excels the achievements of men who, unable to write romance, "think to outbrave better pens with the swelling bombast of a bragging blank verse." The same attack is persistently pushed in the poem, also prefixed to Menaphon, by Thomas Barnaby (signing himself by anagram Brabine), in the words "the pomp of speech that strives to thunder from a stage man's throat." Again and again Greene and his friends return to the attack on Marlowe, now in Francesco's Fortunes, in a slighting reference to the trade of Marlowe's father,[9] now in Greene's Vision, and finally in A Groatsworth of Wit, in which, though in more friendly guise, Greene reproves Marlowe for his atheism.[10] There can be little doubt that thus was displayed the rancour of the unsuccessful as against the successful dramatist. The play of Alphonsus of Arragon is in fact quite unworthy to be placed beside Marlowe's Tamburlaine in any comparison for literary excellence. Whether Greene recognised this or not he was undoubtedly influenced in his later play composition by the failure of his first effort. Without immediately striking out in any new vein he now proceeds to burlesque and to parody where first he had imitated.

About 1585 there was produced Thomas Kyd's The Spanish Tragedy, a tragedy of blood, of madness, and revenge, with many ingredients of the Senecan plays. This play and Marlowe's Tamburlaine were the chief sensations of the English stage of the sixteenth century. No single play of Shakespeare's can be said to have had the instantaneous popular success and the immediate and widespread imitation given to both of these plays. In the next play that Greene wrote unaided after the failure of his Alphonsus of Arragon there is discernible an entire change in the author's attitude. He is no more originative than he was before, but he does not again attempt to treat an imitative drama in the spirit of its original. Certain of the scenes of Alphonsus of Arragon were ridiculous enough, but they were undertaken in no apparent spirit of burlesque. In Orlando Furioso Greene proceeds to parody the two most popular types holding the boards in his day. The real hero of Orlando Furioso is not the mad French knight, Orlando, but Sacripant. And Sacripant is a foiled Tamburlaine, a high aspiring king whose ambition comes to nothingness. In the spirit of Macbeth, who himself had something of Tamburlaine's lust of conquest, are the words of Sacripant: "I hold these salutations as ominous; for saluting me by that which I am not, he presageth what I shall be." And in the musings of Sacripant there operates the spirit of Tamburlaine. "Sweet are the thoughts that smother from conceit," he reflects; his chair presents "a throne of majesty"; his thoughts "dream on a diadem"; he becomes "co-equal with the gods." The lines beginning "Fair queen of love," spoken by Orlando ([p. 187] of this edition) remind us of the lofty yearning love of Tamburlaine for Zenocrate. As a play Orlando Furioso is Tamburlaine by perversions, and purposely so. Its chief martial spirit strives for high ends by ignoble means. He fails to win his mistress, and he fails to win his throne; done out of both by a madman. If this play is a perversion of the Tamburlaine motive, it is also a burlesque on the tragedy of blood. There are indications that Greene would have been quite willing to ridicule Kyd. Nash, in the same preface to Menaphon in which he had ridiculed Marlowe, satirises Kyd in the famous lines, "blood is a beggar," and "whole Hamlets, I should say handfuls of tragical speeches." Kyd, as a non-university man, represented that rising coterie, of which Shakespeare was the master, against whom the jealous shafts of the university wits were directed. The signs of the influence of the tragedy of blood type are many. In the balanced and parallel lines of Senecan character, and found little elsewhere in Greene:

"Only by me was lov'd Angelica,
Only for me must live Angelica."

and

"'Angelica doth none but Medor love,'
Angelica doth none but Medor love!";

in the allusions to Orestes, "Orestes was never so mad in his life as you were"; in the symbols of a classic Hades, Pluto and Averne; in the interspersed quotations from Latin and Italian; in the vague continental setting; in the use of a chorus; in the unheroic revenge motive; in the burlesque death, and the tearing of limb from limb; in "Orlando's sudden insanity and the ridiculously inadequate occasion of it, the headlong dénouement, the farcical technique, the mock heroic atmosphere, the paradoxical absence of pathos, the absurdly felicitous conclusion,—all seemingly unwitting,"[11] we have either imitated or burlesqued the characteristics of the popular revenge and blood play.

That Orlando Furioso was not written after 1591 is clear from a passage in A Defence of Conny-catching (1592) in which Greene is charged with selling the play twice, once to the Queen's players for twenty nobles, and, when these had gone to the provinces, to the Admiral's men for as many more. As the Queen's players left the court 26th December 1591, the play must have existed before that date. A reference to the Spanish Armada provides 30th July 1588 as a posterior limit. No valid conclusions can be drawn from certain resemblances between lines in this play and lines in Peele's Old Wives' Tale,[12] on account of uncertainty as to the date of the latter play. There seems no reason to doubt that Gayley is right in pointing out 26th December 1588 as the date of the first performance of the play before the Queen at court.

About the time that Greene's Orlando Furioso appeared there was presented, perhaps at the same play-house, the Theatre, Marlowe's play, Dr Faustus. In this play Marlowe treated with characteristic intensity the tragical story of a magician who aspired for wisdom as Tamburlaine had aspired for power. Magic and witchcraft were popular in English literature. The story of Dr Faustus was issued in German in 1587, and an English translation was probably made about the same time. The prose narrative of The Famous History of Friar Bacon must also have been well known. Magic and incantation had already been used by Greene in the Brazen Head of Alphonsus of Arragon, in Melissa of Orlando Furioso, and in the priests of Rasni in A Looking-Glass for London and England. But that Marlowe was the first to see a large dramatic motive in the conventional magic is certain. Here again we must accept it that Marlowe was the leader and Greene the adapter. We must agree with Collins that "the presumption in favour of Faustus having preceded Greene's play is so overwhelmingly strong that we cannot suppose that Marlowe borrowed from Greene." But Greene's Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay is by no means an imitation of Dr Faustus, nor is it a mere parody. Through his new mastery of technique Greene was deriving a method of his own that was to make him an effective and independent story-teller. Also there was developing in his art a refinement and sanity that revolted from the broadly-drawn conceits and exaggerated passion of Marlowe's early style. There is something suggestively ironical in the opposition of the titles of the two plays, the honourable history of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, as compared with the tragical history of Dr Faustus. So also there must be some delicate satire in the comic summoning of Burden and the Hostess as opposed to the impressive evocation of Alexander and Helen. And one of the chief episodes in the play may have a jocose oblique reference to Dr Faustus. "It is hardly too great an assumption," says Ward, "to regard Bacon's victory over Vandermast as a cheery outdoing by genuine English magic of the pretentious German article," represented in the play of Dr Faustus. In Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay we have the first extant expression of Greene's independent genius working along characteristic lines. Though Marlowe provides him his starting-point, the treatment is Greene's alone. While lacking in originativeness this play reveals that clearly-marked individual attitude toward art and the people of his brain that was to give Greene's plays a pronounced influence in the development of domestic comedy. And, according to Henslowe's records, the play was as great a success as Dr Faustus had been.

It seems likely that Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay appeared the year following the production of Dr Faustus in 1588. The year 1589 is also indicated by other evidence. In theme the play resembles Greene's Tully's Love of that year. In verse it is not unlike Orlando Furioso, which had appeared in 1588. A striking piece of collateral evidence is adduced by Fleay, who, noting Edward's remark in Act I., "Lacy, thou know'st next Friday is Saint James'," is able to show that 1589 is the only year between 1578 and 1595 in which St James's day falls on Friday. Further confirmation of this date arises from a satirical thrust by Greene at the now unknown author of Fair Em, the Miller's Daughter of Manchester, in his letter prefixed to Farewell to Folly. Fair Em bears about the same relationship to Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay that this play bears to Dr Faustus. In other words, while it is not exactly an imitation, it is in many respects a reflection and a parody of the earlier play. The chief points in which Fair Em parodies Greene's play are in the title, in which the author, "somewhat affecting the letter," plays upon Greene's "Fair Maid of Fressingfield"; in the relationship of a king with his courtier in the courtship of a mistress, in Lubeck's fidelity to William the Conqueror in the matter of his love for Mariana contrasted with Lacy's treachery to Edward in courting Margaret; in Em's scornful refusal to return to Mandeville after he has discarded her contrasted with Margaret's hasty forgiveness of Lacy after his unkind desertion; and in the fact that, while in Friar Bacon Lacy is put into disguise to pursue his love suits, in Fair Em it is the king who masquerades to gain a mistress. Greene no more relished the imitation of his work in 1591 than he did the following year, when he wrote A Groatsworth of Wit. His allusion to this play in his Farewell to Folly epistle is identified by his quoting two lines that occur toward the end of the play, "A man's conscience is a thousand witnesses," and "Love covereth the multitude of sins." Upon such sentiments in the drama Greene throws ridicule in the following words: "O, 'tis a jolly matter when a man hath a familiar style and can indite a whole year and never be beholding to art! But to bring Scripture to prove anything he says, and kill it dead with the text in a trifling subject of love, I tell you is no small piece of cunning." The most important point in these lines is the indication that a year had been spent in the composition of the play Greene was ridiculing. If we are to accept it that Fair Em is in any respect an imitation of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay we must count at least a year before the production of Fair Em to find the date of Greene's play. Accepting early 1591 as the point after which Fair Em could not have been written,[13] Friar Bacon must have been produced at least a year before that time, in 1589, or early in 1590. Supposing, on account of the beautiful eulogy to Elizabeth at the close of the play, that it must have been intended for presentation at court, Gayley suggests St Stephen's day, 26th December 1589, as the probable date of the play's production.

There is an element in the play of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay which, viewed in the light of the dramatic influences of the times, reveals again Greene's quickness of apprehension of a significant new strain in the drama. It is the introduction of Prince Edward, the King of England, and the Emperor of Germany, into the fabric of his plot. This play must precede Marlowe's Edward II. by several months, and at this point we are able finally to dissociate Greene's genius from the direct influence of his great contemporary. In order to develop this point it may be well to glance hastily at the history of the chronicle type of play in England to the time of Greene's James IV. Plays on subjects drawn from English history had been more or less common since the production of Gorboduc in 1562. Three Latin plays, Byrsa Basilica and the two college plays by Thomas Legge, Richardus Tertius, had come somewhat near to the true chronicle type. But it was not until the latter years of the ninth decade of the century that dramatists began on any large scale to utilise the history and mythology of England's kings and wars for the celebrating of her contemporary glories. Even before the Spanish Armada England had become conscious of her own power and eager for the display of her prowess. It was under the stimulus of this growing consciousness of might that the first true chronicle play, The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth, was written. In this play a dramatist for the first time displays an adequate sense of the objective value of the materials derived from history, combined with that insight into human nature and largeness of imaginative power that are necessary to make of the dry records of Holinshed and Stow a moving dramatic story. The Life and Death of Jack Straw, which also probably preceded the Armada in its first production, is, while not so good as The Famous Victories, a play of vigorous characterisation and native English colouring of historical events. But we are probably not far from the truth in supposing that it was the year 1588 that brought the complete development of the chronicle type. From this year dates the production of the two parts of The Troublesome Reign of King John of England, the date being indicated by the allusion to Tamburlaine in the prologue. The First Part of the Contention betwixt two Famous Houses of York and Lancaster, etc., and The True Tragedy of Richard, Duke of York, etc., upon which are based the second and third parts of Shakespeare's Henry VI. trilogy, must be dated little, if any, later. The Troublesome Reign is known to have been performed by the Queen's men after the other university men had left Greene alone as representative of this company. The theory that connects Greene's name with the composition is, however, so much a matter of conjecture that nothing can be gained from its consideration. Following these two works, almost certainly not preceding them, as some have thought, comes Marlowe's Edward II., the faultless masterpiece of his dramatic composition, produced probably in 1590. And within a few years, in quick succession, there came Edward III., Richard II., and Richard III., the Henry VI. trilogy, and the culminating trilogy of the two parts of Henry IV. and Henry V.

Greene's Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, which appeared in the midst of a movement toward the chronicle type of play, so far adopted its formulas as to introduce historic English characters into the fabric of a story based on prose romance. No feature whatever of the chronicle element as introduced into the play is found in the source-book, nor is there any historical warrant for any of the action presented under the names of the kings. Greene's later attitude toward the rapidly-growing chronicle type of play reveals the motives and characteristics of his art at its maturity. He is still willing to borrow from the dominant types of art holding the stage at the time such expedients as shall serve to adjust his work to the popular demand. But he no longer transcends his own powers in an attempt at imitation, or does violence to his own principles of beauty in a parody of the work of a rival. His note is now a clear and individual one, and to the day of his death it sounds upon a definite key. Greene's powers were no more equal to the blowing into pulsing life of the dead bones of the chronicles of Stow and Holinshed than they were efficient to answer in verse to the lure of "impossible things" after the manner of Marlowe. Greene may have expressed himself in a chronicle play as did Marlowe in Edward II., and as did others of his time, but the simple fact is that no chronicle play of unmixed type can with certainty be assigned to him, and until a light is thrown that modifies somewhat the view here outlined we must regard his part in the composition of The Troublesome Reign and The True Tragedy as distinctly a subordinate one. These considerations are of some importance in considering James IV. and George-a-Greene. Assuming that George-a-Greene is Greene's work, it is clear that here he but modified the chronicle play type to his own purposes, and that he based his story, not on historical narrative, but on the legends of the people as retained in ballad and prose romance. Nor is James IV. based on historical records. Going back to the source from which he drew his early stories, he rests his plot on the first novel of the third decade of Giraldi Cinthio's Hecatommithi. The play's sole claim to be counted in the chronicle group is based on the fact that certain of the imaginary characters of Cinthio's fiction are provided with the names of members of the English ruling family. The events of the story have no connection with history, and Greene's title, The Scottish History of James the Fourth, slain at Flodden, is but an ingenious device to reach with a romantic and misleading title the interest of an audience now newly turned toward historical topics.

No evidence whatever can be adduced to show that Greene was in any respect indebted to Marlowe's Edward II. for his pseudo-chronicle on James IV. Present information makes it seem probable that the plays were performed about the same time, Marlowe's play being, perhaps, a few months the earlier. The plays are quite different. Each dramatist had attained to the maturity of his powers through the purification of his artistic ideals, but whereas Marlowe's last play is held to the outlines of a rigorous art with an almost poignant reticence, Greene's James IV. manifests the sweetening and mellowing touch of a dignified and manly philosophy. Nor can we see any indebtedness in Greene's play to Peele's Edward I., though the cruel abuse of the memory of Queen Elinor contained in that play can get its only justification on the theory that the play was written immediately after the Spanish Armada, and therefore two years before James IV. But there is one chronicle play that Greene may have seen and that may have influenced him slightly. It is not possible here to go into the question of the authorship of Edward III. So excellent is the play in its choicest passages that one would not be loath to assign portions of it to Marlowe, or to Shakespeare, or to impute the entire play to the collaboration of these poets. One would even welcome evidence that the hand of Greene is to be seen in the play. Fleay assigns the play to Marlowe and sets its date of production at 1590 or earlier, basing these suppositions upon a citation from this play in a presumably satirical allusion to Marlowe in Greene's Never too Late; perhaps a strained double hypothesis, but one that has the possibility of truth.[14] One would tend to the theory that the play was written by Marlowe, on account of the total absence of comedy and a dulcet sweetness in the blank verse. If so it was an early study and must be placed before Edward II. Edward III. is like James IV. in the fact that it is not a pure chronicle play, but is based for its most effective scenes upon a romantic episode from Painter's Palace of Pleasure. As James IV. goes back to a novella of Cinthio, the ultimate source of the romantic by-plot of Edward III. is a novel by Bandello. The historical portions of the play are based on Holinshed. These romantic scenes, which comprise scene 2 of the first act and the entirety of the second act, are strikingly similar to the large theme of James IV. The love of King Edward for the beautiful Countess of Salisbury, whose castle he has rescued, is similar in its passion and its ill-success to the love of James for Ida. Both stories deal with Scottish wars, though in Edward III. the romantic element arises as a result of the English king's protection of his subject, the Countess of Salisbury, against the Scots, whereas in James IV. the wars result from the unfortunate love of the Scottish king for his subject, Ida, and his consequent attempt to kill his English wife, Dorothea. Like James, Edward is willing to kill his queen in order to gain his love. The Countess of Salisbury's lines,

"As easy may my intellectual soul
Be lent away, and yet my body live,
As lend my body, palace to my soul,
Away from her, and yet retain my soul,"

have something of Ida's incorruptible purity of principle when she asks Ateukin "can his warrant keep my soul from hell?" Ida's scorn of the man who would

"be a king of men and worldly pelf
Yet hath no power to rule and guide himself,"

is like King Edward's—

"Shall the large limit of fair Britanny
By me be overthrown, and shall I not
Master this little mansion of myself?
Give me an armour of eternal steel!
I go to conquer kings; and shall I not then
Subdue myself?"[15]

In no pre-Shakespearean drama outside of Greene's own work is the simple beauty of chaste womanhood presented with the passion and sympathy that are to be found in Edward III. Certainly Ida of James IV., the Countess of Salisbury of Edward III., and Imogen of Shakespeare's Cymbeline are a trio of womanly beauty and purity. In respect of poetry, the Countess of Salisbury scenes of Edward III., in spite of their somewhat cloying sweetness, transcend any sustained passages in Greene's works. Yet the poetry of James IV. is of the same order. If Greene could but have prolonged his vagrant notes of beauty he would have equalled the best in this play. In respect of dramaturgy and human psychology James IV. is far in advance of Edward III. The simple and undeveloped story of love is in the hands of the more skilled plotter of plays complicated to a fit representation of the social implications of an act, and the passion of Edward is in James developed to the awful inward struggle of a sinning soul. In the absence of facts as to the authorship of Edward III., and as to the date of its composition, it is impossible to draw any conclusions as to influence or inter-relationship. It is clear, however, that Greene's play is written in the spirit of Edward III., in that it is an adaptation of the romantic motive that Greene knew so well how to compass to the purposes of the popular chronicle play.

James IV., which is the last undoubted play of Greene's composition, is also the best. Dramatically it is far in advance of any other of his plays, and there is almost no trace of the affected classical and mythological allusion that had marked his earlier writing. Considerations of style and structure indicate that it was written soon after Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay. Allusions to contemporary events, such as Dorothea's mention of the Irish uprisings, the idea of a union of England and Scotland, that run through the play, and the brave words spoken by Dorothea, who is not herself a maid, as a delicate compliment to Elizabeth in her French wars,

"Shall never Frenchman say an English maid
Of threats of foreign force will be afraid,"

indicate that the play was produced about 1590. Gayley suggests that it was presented by Greene's company at court on 26th December 1590, or as one of their five performances in 1591. A pretty point is also made by the same scholar based upon a resemblance between lines in this play and certain lines of Peele's. Though the matter is too confused to serve well as chronological data it seems worthy of review if only for the reason that slightly different results may be reached than those indicated by Gayley. In the first scene of the first act of James IV. Ida has the following lines:

"And weel I wot, I heard a shepherd sing,
That, like a bee, love hath a little sting."

Comparing this with lines in the fragment of Peele's The Hunting of Cupid, preserved in a manuscript volume of extracts by Drummond of Hawthornden, the conclusion is reached that it is Peele, the writer of pastoral, to whom Greene refers as "shepherd," and that Greene's lines are a direct transcription from Peele. Referring to the Stationers' Registers we learn that Peele's The Hunting of Cupid was listed for 26th July 1591, certainly later than we should be willing to place the beginning of composition on Greene's James IV. The formal proviso, "That if it be hurtful to any other copy before licensed ... this to be void," may or may not indicate the existence of an earlier copy. That the general motive was in the air and had caught the ear of Greene is clear from the snatches and fragments of it we find in his late work. In the Mourning Garment, registered 1590, are lines moving upon the same rhyme and answering the same interrogation as Peele's verses:

"Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing.
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king."[16]

One who gets this haunting strain in mind cannot fail to notice how frequently Greene uses the rhyme of thing, bring, king, and sting in James IV. Once it is:

"Although a bee be but a little thing,
You know, fair queen, it hath a bitter sting."

And in the first scene of the second act Greene plays upon the repetition of this rhyme. Peele himself again uses the refrain in Decensus Astræ, licensed October 1591. The argument from the fact that "weel I wot" in Ida's line seems to reflect the same clause in The Hunting of Cupid would be stronger were it not that "weel I wot" occurs only in the Drummond manuscript and is not found in the fragment quoted by Dyce[17] from the Rawlinson manuscript. Here instead of "weel I wot" is found "for sure." As Greene himself has used the refrain in a song sung by a shepherd's wife it leaves room to doubt that either the swains of The Hunting or Peele himself was the shepherd. It is clear that the first general use of the motive had occurred in Greene's Mourning Garment. The positive objections to placing James IV. subsequent to July 1591 lead one to one of three conclusions: (1) Peele's lyric had long been written before it was entered in the Stationers' Registers, and in manuscript form inspired the strains in the Mourning Garment and James IV.; (2) Greene himself provides the prototype of Peele's lyric in his Mourning Garment verse and its cognate form in James IV.; (3) or, as seems most probable, fragmentary strains that have been found are reminiscences of a popular song that has not yet been traced.

We have, a little arbitrarily perhaps, grouped the four indubitable plays of Greene's unassisted composition in order to formulate the developing characteristics of his dramatic genius. Yet there are other plays that raise problems no less interesting than those we have considered, and that might, were we able unquestioningly to assign them to Greene, go far to clarify the obscure places in his biography and his art. That Greene had a part in A Looking-Glass for London and England there is, of course, no doubt, but we are not yet able to say how much of the play is his composition, and the question of its date provides some difficulties. We incline to the view that it was an early play. Lodge was absent from England in 1588 on a voyage with Captain Clark to the Islands of Terceras and the Canaries. In August 1591 he sailed from Plymouth with Cavendish and did not return until 1593, after Greene's death. A Looking-Glass was then either written before 1588 or between 1589 and 1591. Collins, arguing from passages in the play remotely paralleled by biblical allusions in Greene's Vision and the Mourning Garment, decides that it was produced in 1590. This conclusion cannot be accepted because, as Collins himself admits, references to Nineveh and Jonas are frequent in the literature of the time. Of the three reasons given by Collins for supposing that the play was not written before 1588 one is based on the slender hypothesis that as it is not proved that Greene wrote plays before 1590 this one could not have been earlier; and another is based on a gratuitous assumption that this play is that comedy "lastly writ" with "Young Juvenal" and mentioned in A Groatsworth of Wit.[18] The argument that the realistic passage beginning "The fair Triones with their glimmering light" could only have been written after Lodge's first maritime experience carries more weight, but cannot stand long as against counter evidence of any force whatever. Nor do we see any strength in the theory that this play is a product of Greene's era of repentance. As has been shown, Greene uses repentance as a didactic motive from the first. Considering this as a moralising play one may with better force place it in the earlier years of less complex dramatic inspiration. It is difficult to conceive that in 1589, when Greene was almost certainly engaged in writing Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, he should have been willing to go back to the motive of the interludes. As the spirit of the play is earlier than Greene's mature work, so its associations are with the earlier rather than with the later work of Lodge. An Alarum against Usurers, the influence of which is often apparent, was published in 1584. In the years from 1589 to 1591 inclusive Lodge was engaged on another type of work, represented by Scillæ's Metamorphosis, Rosalynde, The History of Robert, second Duke of Normandy, and Catharos, certainly as far removed as possible from the moralising vein of A Looking-Glass. Two published expressions by Lodge lean rather to the earlier than the later date. In Scillæ's Metamorphosis (1589) Lodge vows,

"To write no more of that whence shame doth grow,
[Nor] tie my pen to penny-knaves delight."

Certainly we cannot believe that Lodge was abjuring playwriting at the very moment that he was preparing A Looking-Glass. The other passage occurs in Lodge's Wits Misery (1596), in which Lodge says it is odious "in stage plays to make use of historical scripture." This passage should be viewed in connection with a passage in the epistle prefixed to Greene's Farewell to Folly (1591), taunting the author of Fair Em for "blasphemous rhetoric," and for borrowing from the scripture. Whatever may be the claims of consistency we must suppose that the argument from good policy would tend to the conclusion that the scriptural drama of Greene and Lodge was written as long as possible before these uncompromising words. Setting narrow limits, we should say that A Looking-Glass was produced between the date of the production of Tamburlaine and of the destruction of the Spanish Armada. In the deification of Rasni, "god on earth, and none but he," there are traces of an aspiring kingliness, and the lament of Rasni over Remilia, his queen, has the yearning note sounded in Tamburlaine's grief over the dying Zenocrate. That the play was not written during the intense excitement incident to the Armada would seem probable on general principles, for there is no hint either of imminent national danger or of the intoxication of success. The undoubted reflections of The Spanish Tragedy in this play can serve only to place it in near conjunction with Orlando Furioso as an early play. Whether it preceded or followed that play it is impossible now to decide.[19] As to Greene's share in the work it is impossible to speak with even the semblance of authority. The comic portions sound like Greene's work,[20] and if Greene wrote Act v. scene 4 of James IV. he was quite capable of writing the moralising part. In simplicity of construction the play is quite unlike Greene's other dramatic works, just as it is much better than Lodge's The Wounds of Civil War. Arguing from the position of their names on the title-page, one is tempted to believe that the play was planned and drafted by Lodge, and put forth by Greene somewhat after the manner used in his edition of his friend's Euphues Shadow (1592).

The anonymous authorship of George-a-Greene, Locrine and Selimus provides problems that must continue to vex critics for some time to come. None of them is assigned to Greene on absolute evidence of any weight, yet strong support has been given to the theory of Greene's authorship of each of them. In the case of the first so respectable has been the following that no editor would care definitely to exclude the play from his list. Yet the best evidence is questionable, and much of the evidence is quite adverse to the theory of Greene's authorship. The manuscript notes on a copy of the Quarto of 1599, assigning the play to a minister who had played the pinner's part himself, and in another hand to Robert Greene (quoted on [p. xxiii.]), cannot to-day be considered good evidence. Judged by the well-known tests of textual and structural criticism the play almost absolutely fails to connect itself either with Greene or his contemporary university writers. Few plays of the late eighties are so isolated from the clearly-marked characteristics of the drama of the time. Of Euphues, of Tamburlaine, of The Spanish Tragedy, of Seneca, of the religious play, there are few, if any, traces. The rhetorical structure shows none of the artificial balances and climaxes so common at the time; there is neither ghost, chorus, dumb show nor messenger; there is no high aspiring figure, no madness, no revenge; and the bloodshed is decent. The lyrics are English and not Italian. Indeed so far is it from the classical style that it seems difficult to believe that a university man wrote the play. The rich mythology of the university wits is entirely wanting. Such classical allusions as are to be found are the stock figures of a layman's vocabulary, Leda, Helena, Venus and Hercules, the rudimentary mythology of the age. The play lies nearer to the ground in an absolute realism of the soil than any known in this group. The milk cans of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay may be pure pastoral; the country setting of George-a-Greene is pure rustic, and is not helped at all by literature. So also the play lacks many of Greene's characteristic notes. It was performed at the Rose by Sussex' men, while so far as is known Greene remained faithful to the Queen's company throughout his life. It lacks that satirical under-current, that ironic veiled counter cuff at his rivals, that personal innuendo in the midst of a good story that is so characteristic of Greene.

But in spite of the facts that are brought to his judgment the beauties of the play are such as to compel every editor to soften judgment by inclination and include the play among Greene's dramas. Certainly Greene is the only university man of his day who, knowing the affectations of literature, at the same time knew real life in the concrete well enough to write George-a-Greene. If truth were told it was through plays of the type of George-a-Greene, rather than through the more ambitious university men's plays, that the current of pure English comedy was to flow. And it is because George-a-Greene integrates itself so perfectly with the development of Greene's dramatic genius, and represents so well that realism reached by a settling down of art from above, rather than arising from the vulgar fact, that we are willing to say that if Greene did not write this play he could have written one much like it. George-a-Greene seems to bring to consummation the developing principles of Greene's art. As in the case of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay there is in this play a quite unhistorical chronicle element concerning English kings. But unlike James IV., which is derived from an Italian original, this play tells an English story based on the native Robin Hood strain. Again, like Friar Bacon, the original story, which contains no romantic element, is augmented by a love story. If the play is Greene's it may represent the last and purest expression of his charming doctrine of beauty and his simple philosophy of content. To Greene beauty lay in fresh and joyous colours and in uncomplex forms. And his philosophy of repose is evolved out of the sublimation of the emotional riot of his early life. Again and again these notes are struck in George-a-Greene. Now it is the well-known strain:

"The sweet content of men that live in love
Breeds fretting humours in a restless mind."

Again it is contentment put into better precept:

"a poor man that is true
Is better than an earl, if he be false;"

and

"'tis more credit to men of base degree,
To do great deeds, than men of dignity."

George's words, "Tell me, sweet love, how is thy mind content," "Happy am I to have so sweet a love," and "I have a lovely leman, as bright of blee as is the silver moon," sound like Greene's style matured and softened by experience. Yet that the play is Greene's one would not dare to say. Its present form displays either hasty composition or garbled version, or both, for it is neither consistent nor well integrated. In one breath Cuddy has never seen George, and in the next delivers to King Edward a message which "at their parting George did say to me." The episodes of Jane-a-Barley, Cuddy and Musgrove, George-a-Greene and the horses in the corn, the shoemakers and the "Vail Staff" custom, Robin Hood and his followers, are but fragments thinly and crudely knit together. Perhaps this play is a unique exemplar of a class of hurriedly-sketched popular plays written by Greene for the provinces and printed from a mutilated stage copy.[21]

The Lamentable Tragedy of Locrine has been ascribed to Shakespeare, Marlowe, Peele and Greene. The two former ascriptions are clearly uncritical, and the two latter present many difficulties. According to Symonds, "The best passages of the play ... are very much in the manner of Greene." In this opinion joins Brooke, the editor of The Shakespeare Apocrypha. With certain portions of the argument associating Locrine with Greene we are in harmony. The play was issued by that Thomas Creede who had published Greene's Alphonsus of Arragon, A Looking-Glass, and James IV. In flashes of poetry, in classical allusion, in high-sounding phrases, the play is sometimes astoundingly in the temper of Orlando Furioso and Alphonsus of Arragon. We care little for the evidence that is deduced from literal parallels. More often than not these were purposed copyings or imitations, or involuntary reminiscences of lingering refrains. But there is such a thing as an author's peculiar verbal coin, which is stamped with his sign, and can be paid out by him alone. One who knows his author well cannot but be struck with the frequent occurrence of Greene's own turn of phrase, a style that is clearly to be distinguished from the style of any other poet of his time. Brutus' salutation to his followers at the beginning of the play is much after the manner of Marsilius' welcome to the princes who were come to woo Angelica. Trumpart's imprecations by "sticks and stones," "brickbats and bones," "briars and brambles," "cook shops and shambles," remind one of Orlando's equally ludicrous "Woods, trees, leaves; leaves, trees, woods." The lyrical clownery of Strumbo is often strikingly like that of Miles in Friar Bacon. The senile revenge motive of Corineus resembles that of Carinus in Orlando Furioso. The use of the capital founded by Brutus, Troynovant, is repeated in Never too Late.[22] So also Guendoline's pleas for the life of her faithless husband—"his death will more augment my woes"—are quite in the spirit of Dorothea's pity for her sinning husband in James IV. Strumbo's use of his plackets to hide food in while Humber is starving resembles in comic intent Adam's same expedient in starving Nineveh. Certain verse propositions seem to ring with Greene's own timbre:

"The poorest state is farthest from annoy" (ii. 2, 37).[23]
"After we passed the groves of Caledone.
Where murmuring rivers slide with silent streams,
We did behold the straggling Scythians camp," etc. (ii. 3, 23).
"Why this, my lord, experience teaches us:
That resolution is a sole help at need" (iii. 2, 61).
"Oh, that sweet face painted with nature's dye,
Those roseall cheeks mixt with a snowy white,
That decent neck surpassing ivory" (iv. 1, 91).
"Loc. Better to live, than not to live at all.
Estrild. Better to die renowned for chastity
Than live with shame and endless infamy." (iv. 1, 133)[24]

Other minor phrases that are even more characteristic of Greene's note are, "daughters of proud Lebanon," "Aurora, handmaid of the sun," "party coloured flowers," "shady groves" (often repeated), "girt with a corselet of bright shining steel," "rascal runnagates," "overlook with haughty front," "injurious fortune," and "injurious traitor," "watery" (frequently repeated even where unnecessary), "silver streams" (often repeated), "sweet savours," "regiment," "argent streams," "university of bridewell" (to be compared with Miles' jests), "uncouth rock," "Puryflegiton" (often used; Greene uses Phlegethon), "Anthropophagie," "countercheck," "triple world," "beauty's paragon," "those her so pleasing looks," "straggling" (as an adjective expressing contempt; often used, and quite characteristic of Greene).

The considerations outlined are sufficient to incline one favourably toward the theory of Greene's authorship of Locrine. Yet the difficulties are such as for the present to deny the play a place among Greene's works. The date is in great doubt. The first edition of 1595 "newly set forth, overseen and corrected by W. S.," is evidently a revamped version. We cannot agree with Brooke that the play appeared before Tamburlaine, for, among many strains of the dramas of The Misfortunes of Arthur type there are mingled undoubted influences from the revenge plays and Tamburlaine. It is difficult to adjust the play to any scheme of activities that has been worked out for Greene. Certainly it did not ante-date Alphonsus of Arragon, for there is every reason to take the prologue of that play at its word. Upon the hypothesis that it is Greene's work we should place it just before Orlando Furioso, the play which it resembles above all others, and about the same time as A Looking-Glass for London and England, which in respect of comedy it greatly resembles.

It is impossible to view with any favour the theory of Greene's authorship of Selimus. In every respect the play is divergent from Greene's characteristic tone and method. Grosart's theory that this play may be supposed to take the place of the promised second part of Alphonsus of Arragon has no weight. Like the latter play Selimus is the first part of a work that had been planned in series, and in no respect does it supplement Greene's first play. Like Alphonsus of Arragon the play is constructed with such slavish fidelity to the Tamburlaine principles that it is difficult to think Greene could have written Selimus after the failure of Alphonsus. Constructively the play is unlike Greene's work. The declamation is more sustained and the action is less crowded than in Greene's other plays. The many parallel passages quoted by Grosart prove nothing more than that borrowing was the order of the age. Nor is anything proved by the fact that the same clown comedy is introduced into Locrine, Selimus and A Looking-Glass for London and England. If Locrine is Greene's work it was probably written about the time that he was collaborating with Lodge, and he may have introduced the same comedy into both plays. It is no more of an assumption that the author of Selimus borrowed his comedy from Locrine than that Greene would use the same tricks three times within two years. The blank verse of Selimus, built largely on a system of rhymed stanzas, is very far from that of Locrine and of Greene's undoubted plays. To illustrate this no better passages could be chosen than those produced by Collins to evidence the similarity of the verse of the two plays. The vexed problem of the part taken by Greene in the Henry VI. plays can be treated now only as a subject for interesting but comparatively fruitless speculation. So also must be considered the ingenious and almost convincing circumstantial argument that A Knack to Know a Knave is the comedy "lastly writ" by Greene and "Young Juvenal," and mentioned in A Groatsworth of Wit.[25]

We said in beginning that Greene is clearly typical of his time. And indeed his plays are complexes of the dominant dramatic types of the years just before Shakespeare. In his work are focused the strains leading from the three most clearly marked dramatic movements of the age. The English morality combines with rustic low life to produce the interlude, which continues its course of didacticism and horse-play until the end of the century. The Senecan drama scatters ghosts and horrors through English plays until it is etherealised in the poetry of Tamburlaine, and laughed to death in the parodies of The Spanish Tragedy. The English chronicle play gives life to the dry bones of history, and celebrates the solidarity of an England united over the face of the globe, and through all the eras of her splendid history. Of all these elements the one that remains in Greene's work from beginning to end is the didactic strain. A Looking-Glass for London and England is the last full flowering of English religious drama. Yet didactic elements appear in Friar Bacon's strangely unmotivated repentance, and in the interpolated scene of a lawyer, a merchant and a divine in James IV. In Greene's dramas many of the types and figures from a bygone stage are mingled with the newer creations of his invention. The vices of the interludes spring up incongruously in the midst of the characters of a later drama. In Friar Bacon the Vice is again carried off to hell on the back of the Devil, just as had been done years before in simpler plays; and in the same play, by the use of the expedient of perspective glasses, two actions are represented as taking place in widely separate localities, after the manner of the early masques. And aside from these persisting formulas from an older drama there are influences and obligations in relation with Lyly and Marlowe and Kyd that are literally too numerous for enumeration. As significant as any service Greene performed for English drama is the assimilation to a single dramatic end of the adverse expedients of a heterogeneous dramaturgy.

Technically Greene's contribution to the stage was most significant. Nash called him master above all others in "plotting of plays." Part of this mastery comes from his recognition of the technical requirement of continuous action on the stage. Better than any of his contemporaries, not excluding Kyd, he knew that action is of equal importance with speech in the exposition of a dramatic story. Wherever possible he visualises before his audience the successive stages in the progress of his plot, not by the use of ghosts and chorus, who serve merely a narrative purpose, but by bringing before his readers palpable expedients illustrative of the theme of the action. The use of the Brazen Head in Alphonsus of Arragon; the incantations of Melissa in Orlando Furioso; the raising of the arbor, and the death of Remilia under the incantations of the Magi in A Looking-Glass for London and England; the use of a visible magic to transport Burden and Helen, to raise Hercules and the tree, and to present the downfall of the Brazen Head in Friar Bacon, all reveal an ability to adapt the properties and expedients of the stage of the time to the purposes of the plot. This is further exemplified in the facility with which from the beginning Greene utilises such spectacular expedients as the letting down of the throne of Venus from above in Alphonsus of Arragon, and the descent of the throne of Oseas the prophet in A Looking-Glass. Not only does he use the palpable tricks of stagecraft, but he adapts these to the purposes of his dramatic exposition. The perspective glass in Friar Bacon which serves to present two scenes at the same time serves also to connect two strains of the plot and to further the action by arousing Prince Edward's suspicion of the fidelity of Lacy. So magic, which in Dr Faustus serves only to raise a spectacle, in this play is used as a plot expedient to delay the marriage of Margaret and Lacy. The stage directions are more full and circumstantial in Greene's plays than in those of either Marlowe or Peele, and reveal the same tendency to heighten the effect of plot by action and display.

Greene's dramas present a steady development in effectiveness of plot involution. The first plays are marked by a large amount of action and a great number of narrative fragments very crudely and inorganically clustered around the central character. Alphonsus of Arragon is Greene's poorest work in this as in every other respect. Its first act is marked by hesitation and indirection; accident, coincidence and inconsistency are the rule throughout. The play is practically divided into two parts, in the first of which Alphonsus is the central figure, while Amurack serves as protagonist in the second. Orlando Furioso is structurally an improvement on its predecessor, and in A Looking-Glass for London and England an excellent unity of action has been attained. It is in Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay that Greene effected the most substantial advance in play technique made before Shakespeare. This is nothing less than the weaving of two distinct plots into the unity of a single dramatic narrative. On account of the crowding of the action and the sensations, the play is unbalanced and unorganised. Friar Bacon's activities are divided into two distinct parts, his victory over Vandermast and his loss of the Brazen Head, and they are scattered through a half-dozen episodes. For perfect balance Prince Edward surrenders Margaret too early in the play and thus makes necessary the introduction of further retarding action based upon an unexplainable whim of Lacy. Yet granting the inchoate character of the play we must admit that in effecting the combination of the story of Friar Bacon with the story of Prince Edward, Lacy and the Fair Maid of Fressingfield, Greene accomplished an unusually significant innovation. In James IV. Greene's technique is at its best. Even in the faulty version that comes down to us we see traces of Greene's experimenting temper. In dumb shows he is reinstating a popular feature of older plays. His induction serves as a model for Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew; and one of its characters, Oberon, is a rough draft for the fairy of that name in A Midsummer Night's Dream, as Bohan is a prototype of Jaques in As You Like It. But Greene's induction is better integrated with his play than is Shakespeare's induction of Sly, the Lords and the Servants, for the two characters, Slipper and Nano, who appear first in the induction, are sent out into the play to serve as connecting links for all of its action. James IV. is the only one of Greene's plays that has unity of action. The plot is introduced with a masterly directness and economy. The fatal situation breaks on the reader at the beginning, and throughout the play the crux of the action remains the love of the King of Scots for another than his queen. Ateukin springs up at the psychological moment and at the dramatic crisis. The first act of the play, dramatically quite the best first act written outside of Shakespeare up to his time, provides the king's marriage to Dorothea, the revelation of his love for Ida, the enlistment of Ateukin in the cause of the king's love, and a lover for Ida to make her inaccessible. Aside from the development of the tragedy of this situation there enters into the play only one minor episode, the love of Lady Anderson for the young knight (in reality Queen Dorothea) whom she is succouring in her castle. That Greene chose to end the play after the manner of comedy, and not, as the situation would seem to require, and the taste of the age must have demanded, with the death of the erring king, is an effective indication of his later freedom from restraint and of his personal philosophy of art.

As Marlowe moved from the sublime passion of his Tamburlaine theme to the cold reserve of his Edward II., Greene also, casting off the turgid eloquence of his early style, attained at the end to an art of contemplative repose and genial humanity. The critic likes to feel that in stripping away the excrescences from his art he was discovering his own soul. In treating Greene as a representative Elizabethan, one should not ignore the individuality of the man that stamps all his work with a new impress. Without being original in structure or style Greene was individual in outlook and temper. He had a keener eye for the little things than any dramatist of his time, and he had also a better sympathy for the quick flashing moods and manifestations of human character. His knowledge of the concrete realities of character is an attribute of the man himself. In depicting fairies he lacks, as did Lyly, the imagination to vitalise an unreal world in the spirit of a Shakespeare. He chooses his characters from the world around him and studies them in their native habitat. His clowns, though belonging to an ancient family, are racy of the soil of England, and are fellows with Shadow, and Launce, and Speed and Grumio. Warren and Ermsby are Englishmen of a sturdy type, and Sir Cuthbert Anderson and Lady Anderson are studied as if in their Scotch castle. But Greene did something more than present the exteriors of men as types. He studied their psychology, and knew the warring forces within the individual soul, the power of circumstance, and ambition, and love to direct the forces of character into untoward paths. He knew that logic of human nature that counts consistency untrue, and constructs motives out of the syllogisms of perversity. So he divides the part of the Capitano, in the original story upon which James IV. was based, into two parts, one the working intelligence, Ateukin, and the other the executioner, Jaques. So also the King of Scots is no puppet. He struggles as he falls, and his fall is reflected in his distraught mind. And in the depiction of women Greene lavishes the finest forces of his genius. Nash called him "the Homer of women," and that phrase is worth the entirety of Strange News in defending Greene's fame. Sometimes he goes to his own baser experience for his comment, and then there is, as in Orlando Furioso ([p. 191]), a touch of the awful invective delivered against prostitutes in his Never too Late. But Greene's later art was better than this. Scottish Ida, who wins the heart of the King of Scots from English Doll, is no courtesan. Something of the respect and love that breathes through Greene's allusions to Doll his wife is seen in his treatment of all womankind. Even Angelica in Orlando Furioso, unformed as are her outlines, represents that fidelity of a patient Grizzel so well exemplified in Margaret in Friar Bacon and Dorothea in James IV. Nothing in Marlowe's Queen Isabella of Edward II., Zenocrate of Tamburlaine, Abigail of The Jew of Malta, can equal the sweet and simple womanliness of Greene's gallery, comprising Isabel in Never too Late, Bellaria and Fawnia in Pandosto, Sephestia in Menaphon, Philomela and the shepherd's wife in the Mourning Garment, Margaret in Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, and Ida and Dorothea in James IV.

Greene's skill in the treatment of character grew out of his knowledge of life, and is involved in his most significant and enduring contribution to the stage. This is the introduction of realism onto a stage that was essentially romantic, and it arises from the application of dramatic art to the experiences of everyday life. Greene's low life is not artificial pastoral, nor is it the boorish clownage of the interludes. It is the characteristic life of England that we see in Harrison's Description, refined and beautified by a mature and chastened art. Only in such art can come the homely ideal of "beauty tempered with ... huswifery." By the time of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay Greene's art has come home. Now in a series of domestic thumb sketches he shows us Margaret:

"And there amongst the cream bowls she did shine
As Pallas 'mongst her princely huswifery,"

and the hostess in the kitchen,

"Spitting the meat 'gainst supper for my guess,"

and the hay, and butter, and cheese displays of Harleston fair. "He was of singular pleasaunce, the very supporter, and, to no man's disgrace be this intended, the only comedian, of a vulgar writer, in this country," writes Chettle in A Kind Hart's Dream, summing up in striking phrase the true contemporary judgment of Greene's greatest distinction. But there is another aspect of his genius. He loved the active life of out-of-doors, and he indulged a vigorous spirit of participation in the life around him. But he saw behind things into the spirit, and his treatment of events is dignified with a rich philosophy drawn from his manifold contact with the most lavish era in England's history. To him a drama is more than an isolated and a meaningless show. In Francesco's Fortunes he outlines the kind of play that he himself wrote: "Therein they painted out in the persons the course of the world, how either it was graced with honour, or discredited with vices." He leaves the hollow-sounding verbiage of his early plays to comment with the lawyer on "the manners and the fashions of this age." His James IV. is a play of contemplation. Bohan is an early "malcontent," and Andrew, noting the downfall of his prince, exclaims, "Was never such a world, I think, before." With the heart of a democrat Greene understands alike the problems of kings and yeomen. The counsel of the King of England to Dorothea on the obligations and dangers of sovereignty is sage and rational, and Ida's comments on the "greatest good"—that it lies not "in delights, or pomp, or majesty"—are rich with the best philosophy. In A Quip for an Upstart Courtier Clothbreeches asks, "Doth true virtue consist in riches, or humanity in wealth? is ancient honour tied to outward bravery? or not rather true nobility, a mind excellently qualified with rare virtues?" So often is this note struck in Greene's plays that we might call it a personal one were it not that it is beginning to appear commonly in the literature of the time.

Summing up Greene's contribution to the drama of his age we should say that it lies in the essential comedy of his outlook on life, his inherent vis comica; in his loving insight into human nature in its familiar aspects; in his distrust of exaggeration and his tendency to turn this to burlesque; and in his beautiful philosophy of the eternal verities. Out of the drama of Greene there developed the new romantic comedy of Shakespeare and the realism of joy of domestic drama. After George-a-Greene there came the Huntingdon plays of Munday and Chettle, in which the woodland knight, Robin Hood, appears again. After Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay there came Fair Em, A Knack to Know a Knave, John-a-Kent and John-a-Cumber, and Dekker's Shoemaker's Holiday. Heywood and Samuel Rowley and Munday and Dekker and the author of The Merry Devil of Edmonton share with Shakespeare indisputable strains of his individual note.

Professor Herford calls attention to the conflict, in Greene's life, between "the fresh, unworn sense of beauty and poetry," and "the bitter, disillusioned cynicism of premature old age." That conflict was a necessary one. It was present also in the discrepancy between the lyric note of Marlowe's yearning fancy and the hard reserve laid upon his later pen by bitter suffering. Both of these were true Elizabethans. They were true to their times in the vastness of their conceptions and in the narrowness of their lives, in their poetic triumphs no less than in their personal defeats. The marvellous thing is that in the midst of riotous life they should have learned repose in art, that though writing in a tavern their muse should have remained chaste. Marlowe remained to the end the poet of "air and fire." From Greene we get in the drama the first clear note of the English woodland joy that had echoed fitfully in English non-dramatic verse from the days of Chaucer and the unknown author of Alysoun.

A Groatsworth of Wit has been so often cited as a record in the history of English drama that its value as a human document has been forgotten. Of Greene's attack therein on Shakespeare there is no need to say anything here. To those who have any concern with Greene himself it is interesting chiefly for its revelation of the awful melancholy of his last days and his pathetic sense of the wrongs suffered by the little school of dramatists of which he was a member. The sense of pity produced by reading this book is intensified by a study of Greene's last days as suggested in his own succeeding book, The Repentance of Robert Greene, and in the pamphlets of Harvey and Nash. Greene died on the 3rd of September 1592, of a malady following a surfeit of Rhenish wine and pickled herring. Before his death he received commendations from his wife, and his last written words were addressed to her in a request to pay the debt incurred by his sickness. We are told that after his death the keeper of his garret crowned his head with bays. Fourteen years later, when, with the exception of Lodge, the last of the university wits had passed away, and Shakespeare, whom they had all feared, had taken his abiding place, Dekker in his tract, A Knight's Coiffuring, shows Marlowe, Greene and Peele, together once more in Elysium, under the "shades of a large vine, laughing to see Nash, that was but newly come to their college, still haunted with the sharp and satirical spirit that had followed him here upon earth."

The text of this edition is based on Dyce's modernised text of 1861 compared with the later collations of Grosart and Collins, and editions of single plays by Ward, Manly and Gayley. The editor has been conservative in accepting modifications of Dyce's text. The act and scene divisions as found in Collins have been adopted, and the location of scenes has been indicated throughout.

[ALPHONSUS, KING OF ARRAGON]

The first extant edition of Alphonsus, King of Arragon, was printed in quarto by Thomas Creede in 1599. Lowndes mentions a quarto of 1597 of which no trace can be found. Of the two copies of the quarto of 1599 now known, one is in the library of the Duke of Devonshire, and the other is in the Dyce Library at South Kensington. Alphonsus is not mentioned by Henslowe in his Diary, nor is there any record of the play in the Stationers' Registers. Nothing certain can be said concerning the circumstances and dates of composition and first performance of Greene's plays. But there can be no doubt that this is one of Greene's earliest plays, for in the Prologue Greene says through the mouth of Venus:

"And this my hand, which usèd for to pen
The praise of love and Cupid's peerless power,
Will now begin to treat of bloody Mars."

Nor can there be any doubt that the play was written in imitation of Marlowe's Tamburlaine, mention of which occurs in IV. 3. A second part, "when I come to finish up his life," is promised in the Epilogue. That the second part was not written is probably an indication of the failure of the piece. In the Preface to Greene's Perimedes of 29th March 1588, we learn that two "gentlemen poets" had caused two actors to mock Greene's motto, Omne tulit punctum, because his verse fell short of the bombast and blasphemy of Marlowe's early style. It has been suggested that it may have been the verse of Alphonsus that was ridiculed. Certainly it must have been this play, or a lost early play, for it was in drama that the "mighty line" appeared. There is in Peele's Farewell, April 1589, a reference to a piece of mechanism occurring in this play which closely connects it with Marlowe's first play, "Mahomet's Poo and mighty Tamburlaine." This has been discussed in the [General Introduction]. Greene's play is based distantly on the history of Alphonso I. of Naples and V. of Arragon (1385-1454), though with no pretence to historical accuracy.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Carinus, the rightful heir to the crown of Arragon.

Alphonsus, his son.

Flaminius, King of Arragon.

Belinus, King of Naples.

Duke of Milan.

Albinius.

Fabius.

Lælius.

Miles.

Amurack, the Great Turk.

Arcastus, King of the Moors.

Claramont, King of Barbary.

Crocon, King of Arabia.

Faustus, King of Babylon.

Bajazet.

Two Priests of Mahomet.

Provost, Soldiers, Janissaries, etc.

Fausta, wife to Amurack.

Iphigena, her daughter.

Medea, an enchantress.

Mahomet (speaking from the Brazen Head).

Venus.

The Nine Muses.

[THE COMICAL HISTORY OF ALPHONSUS, KING OF ARRAGON]

ACT THE FIRST

PROLOGUE

After you have sounded thrice, let Venus be let down from the top of the stage.

Venus. Poets are scarce, when goddesses themselves
Are forc'd to leave their high and stately seats,
Plac'd on the top of high Olympus' Mount,
To seek them out, to pen their champions' praise.
The time hath been when Homer's sugar'd Muse
Did make each echo to repeat his verse,
That every coward that durst crack a spear,
And tilt and tourney for his lady's sake,
Was painted out in colours of such price
As might become the proudest potentate.
But now-a-days so irksome idless' slights,
And cursèd charms have witch'd each student's mind,
That death it is to any of them all,
If that their hands to penning you do call.
O Virgil, Virgil, wert thou now alive,
Whose painful pen, in stout Augustus' days,
Did dain[26] to let the base and silly fly
To scape away without thy praise of her,
I do not doubt but long or ere this time,
Alphonsus' fame unto the heavens should climb;
Alphonsus' fame, that man of Jove his seed,
Sprung from the loins of the immortal gods,
Whose sire, although he habit on the earth,
May claim a portion in the fiery pole,
As well as any one whate'er he be.
But, setting by Alphonsus' power divine,
What man alive, or now amongst the ghosts,
Could countervail his courage and his strength?
But thou art dead, yea, Virgil, thou art gone,
And all his acts drown'd in oblivion.
And all his acts drown'd in oblivion?[27]
No, Venus, no, though poets prove unkind,
And loth to stand in penning of his deeds,
Yet rather than they shall be clean forgot,
I, which was wont to follow Cupid's games
Will put in ure[28] Minerva's sacred art;
And this my hand, which usèd for to pen
The praise of love and Cupid's peerless power,
Will now begin to treat of bloody Mars,
Of doughty deeds and valiant victories.

Enter Melpomene, Clio, Erato, with their Sisters, playing all upon sundry instruments, Calliope only excepted, who coming last, hangeth down the head, and plays not of her instrument.

But see whereas[29] the stately Muses come,
Whose harmony doth very far surpass
The heavenly music of Apollo's pipe!
But what means this? Melpomene herself
With all her sisters sound their instruments,
Only excepted fair Calliope,
Who, coming last and hanging down her head,
Doth plainly show by outward actions
What secret sorrow doth torment her heart.
[Stands aside.
Mel. Calliope, thou which so oft didst crake[30]
How that such clients cluster'd to thy court,
By thick and threefold, as not any one
Of all thy sisters might compare with thee,
Where be thy scholars now become, I trow?
Where are they vanish'd in such sudden sort,
That, while as we do play upon our strings,
You stand still lazing, and have naught to do?
Clio. Melpomene, make you a why of that?
I know full oft you have [in] authors read,
The higher tree, the sooner is his fall,
And they which first do flourish and bear sway,
Upon the sudden vanish clean away.
Cal. Mock on apace; my back is broad enough
To bear your flouts as many as they be.
That year is rare that ne'er feels winter's storms;
That tree is fertile which ne'er wanteth fruit;
And that same Muse hath heapèd well in store
Which never wanteth clients at her door.
But yet, my sisters, when the surgent seas
Have ebb'd their fill, their waves do rise again,
And fill their banks up to the very brims;
And when my pipe hath eas'd herself a while,
Such store of suitors shall my seat frequent,
That you shall see my scholars be not spent.
Erato. Spent, quoth you, sister? then we were to blame,
If we should say your scholars all were spent:
But pray now tell me when your painful pen
Will rest enough?
Mel. When husbandmen shear hogs.
Ven. [coming forward]. Melpomene, Erato,[31] and the rest,
From thickest shrubs Dame Venus did espy
The mortal hatred which you jointly bear
Unto your sister high Calliope.
What, do you think if that the tree do bend,
It follows therefore that it needs must break?
And since her pipe a little while doth rest,
It never shall be able for to sound?
Yes, Muses, yes, if that she will vouchsafe
To entertain Dame Venus in her school,
And further me with her instructions,
She shall have scholars which will dain to be
In any other Muse's company.
Cal. Most sacred Venus, do you doubt of that?
Calliope would think her three times blest
For to receive a goddess in her school,
Especially so high an one as you,
Which rules the earth, and guides the heavens too.
Ven. Then sound your pipes, and let us bend our steps
Unto the top of high Parnassus Hill,
And there together do our best devoir
For to describe Alphonsus' warlike fame,
And, in the manner of a comedy,
Set down his noble valour presently.

Cal. As Venus wills, so bids Calliope.

Mel. And as you bid, your sisters do agree. [Exeunt.

SCENE I.—Near Naples.

Enter Carinus and Alphonsus.

Cari. My noble son, since first I did recount
The noble acts your predecessors did
In Arragon against their warlike foes,
I never yet could see thee joy at all,
But hanging down thy head as malcontent,
Thy youthful days in mourning have been spent.
Tell me, Alphonsus, what might be the cause
That makes thee thus to pine away with care?
Hath old Carinus done thee any offence
In reckoning up these stories unto thee?
What ne'er a word but mum? Alphonsus, speak,
Unless your father's fatal day you seek.
Alphon. Although, dear father, I have often vow'd
Ne'er to unfold the secrets of my heart
To any man or woman, whosome'er
Dwells underneath the circle of the sky;
Yet do your words so cónjure me, dear sire,
That needs I must fulfil that you require.
Then so it is. Amongst the famous tales
Which you rehears'd done by our sires in war,
Whenas you came unto your father's days,
With sobbing notes, with sighs and blubbering tears,
And much ado, at length you thus began:
"Next to Alphonsus should my father come
For to possess the diadem by right
Of Arragon, but that the wicked wretch
His younger brother, with aspiring mind,
By secret treason robb'd him of his life,
And me his son of that which was my due."
These words, my sire, did so torment my mind,
As had I been with Ixion[32] in hell,
The ravening bird could never plague me worse;
For ever since my mind hath troubled been
Which way I might revenge this traitorous fact,
And that recover which is ours by right.
Cari. Ah, my Alphonsus, never think on that!
In vain it is to strive against the stream:
The crown is lost, and now in hucksters' hands,
And all our hope is cast into the dust.
Bridle these thoughts, and learn the same of me,—
A quiet life doth pass an empery.
Alphon. Yet, noble father, ere Carinus' brood
Shall brook his foe for to usurp his seat,
He'll die the death with honour in the field,
And so his life and sorrows briefly end.
But did I know my froward fate were such
As I should fail in this my just attempt,
This sword, dear father, should the author be
To make an end of this my tragedy.
Therefore, sweet sire, remain you here a while,
And let me walk my Fortune for to try.
I do not doubt but, ere the time be long,
I'll quite his cost, or else myself will die.
Cari. My noble son, since that thy mind is such
For to revenge thy father's foul abuse,
As that my words may not a whit prevail
To stay thy journey, go with happy fate,
And soon return unto thy father's cell,
With such a train as Julius Cæsar came
To noble Rome, whenas he had achiev'd[33]
The mighty monarch of the triple world.
Meantime Carinus in this silly[34] grove
Will spend his days with prayers and orisons,
To mighty Jove to further thine intent.
Farewell, dear son, Alphonsus, fare you well. [Exit.
Alphon. And is he gone? then hie, Alphonsus, hie,
To try thy fortune where thy fates do call.
A noble mind disdains to hide his head,
And let his foes triumph in his overthrow.
[Makes as though to go out.

Enter Albinius.

Albi. What loitering fellow have we spièd here?
Presume not, villain, further for to go,
Unless[35] you do at length the same repent.
Alphon. [coming towards Albinius].
"Villain," say'st thou? nay, "villain" in thy throat!
What, know'st thou, skipjack, whom thou villain call'st?
Albi. A common vassal I do villain call.
Alphon. That shalt thou soon approve, persuade thyself,
Or else I'll die, or thou shalt die for me.
Albi. What, do I dream, or do my dazzling eyes
Deceive me? Is't Alphonsus that I see?
Doth now Medea use her wonted charms
For to delude Albinius' fantasy?
Or doth black Pluto, king of dark Avern,
Seek to flout me with his counterfeit?
His body like to Alphonsus' framèd is;
His face resembles much Alphonsus' hue;
His noble mind declares him for no less;
'Tis he indeed. Woe worth Albinius,
Whose babbling tongue hath caus'd his own annoy!
Why doth not Jove send from the glittering skies
His thunderbolts to chástise this offence?
Why doth Dame Terra cease[36] with greedy jaws
To swallow up Albinius presently?
What, shall I fly and hide my traitorous head,
From stout Alphonsus whom I so misus'd?
Or shall I yield? Tush, yielding is in vain:
Nor can I fly, but he will follow me.
Then cast thyself down at his grace's feet,
Confess thy fault, and ready make thy breast
To entertain thy well-deservèd death. [Kneels.
Alphon. What news, my friend? why are you so blank,
That erst before did vaunt it to the skies?
Albi. Pardon, dear lord! Albinius pardon craves
For this offence, which, by the heavens I vow,
Unwittingly I did unto your grace;
For had I known Alphonsus had been here,
Ere that my tongue had spoke so traitorously,
This hand should make my very soul to die.
Alphon. Rise up, my friend, thy pardon soon is got:
[Albinius rises up.
But, prithee, tell me what the cause might be,
That in such sort thou erst upbraided'st me?
Albi. Most mighty prince, since first your father's sire
Did yield his ghost unto the Sisters Three,
And old Carinus forcèd was to fly
His native soil and royal diadem,
I, for because I seemèd to complain
Against their treason, shortly was forewarn'd
Ne'er more to haunt the bounds of Arragon,
On pain of death. Then like a man forlorn,
I sought about to find some resting-place,
And at the length did hap upon this shore,
Where showing forth my cruel banishment,
By King Belinus I am succourèd.
But now, my lord, to answer your demand:
It happens so, that the usurping king
Of Arragon makes war upon this land
For certain tribute which he claimeth here;
Wherefore Belinus sent me round about
His country for to gather up [his] men
For to withstand this most injurious foe;
Which being done, returning with the king,
Despitefully I did so taunt your grace,
Imagining you had some soldier been,
The which, for fear, had sneakèd from the camp.
Alphon. Enough, Albinius, I do know thy mind:
But may it be that these thy happy news
Should be of truth, or have you forgèd them?
Albi. The gods forbid that e'er Albinius' tongue
Should once be found to forge a feignèd tale,
Especially unto his sovereign lord:
But if Alphonsus think that I do feign,
Stay here a while, and you shall plainly see
My words be true, whenas you do perceive
Our royal army march before your face;
The which, if't please my noble lord to stay,
I'll hasten on with all the speed I may.
Alphon. Make haste, Albinius, if you love my life;
But yet beware, whenas your army comes,
You do not make as though you do me know,
For I a while a soldier base will be,
Until I find time more convenient
To show, Albinius, what is mine intent.
Albi. Whate'er Alphonsus fittest doth esteem,
Albinius for his profit best will deem. [Exit.
Alphon. Now do I see both gods and fortune too
Do join their powers to raise Alphonsus' fame;
For in this broil I do not greatly doubt
But that I shall my cousin's courage tame.
But see whereas Belinus' army comes,
And he himself, unless I guess awry:
Whoe'er it be, I do not pass[37] a pin;
Alphonsus means his soldier for to be.
[He stands aside.[38]

SCENE II.—The Camp of Belinus.

Enter Belinus, Albinius, Fabius, marching with their Soldiers; they make a stand. Alphonsus discovered at one side.

Beli. Thus far, my lords, we trainèd have our camp
For to encounter haughty Arragon,
Who with a mighty power of straggling mates
Hath traitorously assailèd this our land,
And burning towns, and sacking cities fair,
Doth play the devil wheresome'er he comes.
Now, as we are informèd of our scouts,
He marcheth on unto our chiefest seat,
Naples, I mean, that city of renown,
For to begirt it with his bands about,
And so at length, the which high Jove forbid,
To sack the same, as erst he other did.
If which should hap, Belinus were undone,
His country spoil'd, and all his subjects slain:
Wherefore your sovereign thinketh it most meet
For to prevent the fury of the foe,
And Naples succour, that distressèd town,
By entering in, ere Arragon doth come,
With all our men, which will sufficient be
For to withstand their cruel battery.
Albi. The silly serpent, found by country swain,
And cut in pieces by his furious blows,
Yet if her head do 'scape away untouch'd,
As many write, it very strangely goes
To fetch an herb, with which in little time
Her batter'd corpse again she doth conjoin:
But if by chance the ploughman's sturdy staff
Do hap to hit upon the serpent's head,
And bruise the same, though all the rest be sound
Yet doth the silly serpent lie for dead,
Nor can the rest of all her body serve
To find a salve which may her life preserve.
Even so, my lord, if Naples once be lost,
Which is the head of all your grace's land,
Easy it were for the malicious foe
To get the other cities in their hand:
But if from them that Naples town be free,
I do not doubt but safe the rest shall be;
And therefore, mighty king, I think it best,
To succour Naples rather than the rest.
Beli. 'Tis bravely spoken; by my crown I swear,
I like thy counsel, and will follow it.
But hark, Albinius, dost thou know the man,
That doth so closely overthwart us stand?
[Pointing towards Alphonsus.
Albi. Not I, my lord, nor never saw him yet.
Beli. Then, prithee, go and ask him presently,
What countryman he is, and why he comes
Into this place? perhaps he is some one,
That is sent hither as a secret spy
To hear and see in secret what we do.
[Albinius and Fabius go toward Alphonsus.
Albi. My friend, what art thou, that so like a spy
Dost sneak about Belinus' royal camp?
Alphon. I am a man.
Fabi. A man! we know the same:
But prithee, tell me, and set scoffing by,
What countryman thou art, and why you come,
That we may soon resolve the king thereof?
Alphon. Why, say I am a soldier.
Fabi. Of whose band?
Alphon. Of his that will most wages to me give.
Fabi. But will you be
Content to serve Belinus in his wars?
Alphon. Ay, if he'll reward me as I do deserve,
And grant whate'er I win, it shall be mine
Incontinent.
Albi. Believe me, sir, your service costly is:
But stay a while, and I will bring you word
What King Belinus says unto the same.
[Goes towards Belinus.
Beli. What news, Albinius? who is that we see?
Albi. It is, my lord, a soldier that you see,
Who fain would serve your grace in these your wars,
But that, I fear, his service is too dear.
Beli. Too dear, why so? what doth the soldier crave?
Albi. He craves, my lord, all things that with his sword
He doth obtain, whatever that they be.
Beli. [To Alphonsus]. Content, my friend; if thou wilt succour me,
Whate'er you get, that challenge as thine own;
Belinus gives it frankly unto thee,
Although it be the crown of Arragon.
Come on, therefóre, and let us hie apace
To Naples town, whereas by this, I know,
Our foes have pitch'd their tents against our walls.
Alphon. March on, my lord, for I will follow you;
And do not doubt but, ere the time be long,
I shall obtain the crown of Arragon. [Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND

PROLOGUE

Enter Belinus, Albinius, Fabius and Alphonsus with Soldiers; alarum, and then enter Venus.

Venus. Thus from the pit of pilgrim's poverty
Alphonsus 'gins by step and step to climb
Unto the top of friendly Fortune's wheel:
From banish'd state, as you have plainly seen,
He is transform'd into a soldier's life,
And marcheth in the ensign of the king
Of worthy Naples, which Belinus hight;
Not for because that he doth love him so,
But that he may revenge him on his foe.
Now on the top of lusty barbèd steed
He mounted is, in glittering armour clad,
Seeking about the troops of Arragon,
For to encounter with his traitorous niece.[39]
How he doth speed, and what doth him befall,
Mark this our act, for it doth show it all.
[Exeunt.

SCENE I.—A Battle-field.

Alarum. Enter Flaminius on one side, Alphonsus on the other. They fight; Alphonsus kills Flaminius.

Alphon. Go pack thou hence unto the Stygian lake,
And make report unto thy traitorous sire
How well thou hast enjoy'd the diadem
Which he by treason set upon thy head;
And if he ask thee who did send thee down,
Alphonsus say, who now must wear thy crown.

Alarum. Enter Lælius.

Læli. Traitor, how dar'st thou look me in the face,
Whose mighty king thou traitorously hast slain?
What, dost thou think Flaminius hath no friends
For to revenge his death on thee again?
Yes, be you sure that, ere you 'scape from hence,
Thy gasping ghost shall bear him company,
Or else myself, fighting for his defence,
Will be content by those thy hands to die.
Alphon. Lælius, few words would better thee become,
Especially as now the case doth stand;
And didst thou know whom thou dost threaten thus,
We should you have more calmer out of hand:
For, Lælius, know that I Alphonsus am,
The son and heir to old Carinus, whom
The traitorous father of Flaminius
Did secretly bereave his diadem.
But see the just revenge of mighty Jove!
The father dead, the son is likewise slain
By that man's hand who they did count as dead,
Yet doth survive to wear the diadem,
When they themselves accompany the ghosts
Which wander round about the Stygian fields.
[Lælius gazes upon Alphonsus.
Muse not hereat, for it is true I say;
I am Alphonsus, whom thou hast misus'd.
Læli. The man whose death I did so oft lament?
[Kneels.
Then pardon me for these uncourteous words,
The which I in my rage did utter forth,
Prick'd by the duty of a loyal mind;
Pardon, Alphonsus, this my first offence,
And let me die if e'er I flight[40] again.
Alphon. Lælius, I fain would pardon this offence,
And eke accept thee to my grace again,
But that I fear that, when I stand in need
And want your help, you will your lord betray:
How say you, Lælius, may I trust to thee?
Læli. Ay, noble lord, by all the gods I vow;
For first shall heavens want stars, and foaming seas
Want watery drops, before I'll traitor be
Unto Alphonsus, whom I honour so.
Alphon. Well then, arise; and for because I'll try
[Lælius arises.
If that thy words and deeds be both alike,
Go haste and fetch the youths of Arragon,
Which now I hear have turn'd their heels and fled:
Tell them your chance, and bring them back again
Into this wood; where in ambushment lie,
Until I send or come for you myself.
Læli. I will, my lord.
[Exit.
Alphon. Full little think Belinus and his peers
What thoughts Alphonsus casteth in his mind;
For if they did, they would not greatly haste
To pay the same the which they promis'd me.

Enter Belinus, Albinius, Fabius, with their Soldiers, marching.

Beli. Like simple sheep, when shepherd absent is
Far from his flock, assail'd by greedy wolves,
Do scattering fly about, some here, some there,
To keep their bodies from their ravening jaws,
So do the fearful youths of Arragon
Run round about the green and pleasant plains,
And hide their heads from Neapolitans;
Such terror have their strong and sturdy blows
Struck to their hearts, as for a world of gold,
I warrant you, they will not come again.
But, noble lords, where is the knight become
Which made the blood be-sprinkle all the place
Whereas he did encounter with his foe?
My friend, Albinius, know you where he is?
Albi. Not I, my lord, for since in thickest ranks
I saw him chase Flaminius at the heels,
I never yet could set mine eyes on him.
But see, my lord, whereas the warrior stands,
Or else my sight doth fail me at this time.
[Spies out Alphonsus, and shows him to Belinus.
Beli. 'Tis he indeed, who, as I do suppose,
Hath slain the king, or else some other lord,
For well I wot, a carcass I do see
Hard at his feet lie struggling on the ground.
Come on, Albinius, we will try the truth.
[Belinus and Albinius go towards Alphonsus.
Hail to the noble victor of our foes!
Alphon. Thanks, mighty prince; but yet I seek not this:
It is not words must recompense my pain,
But deeds. When first I took up arms for you,
Your promise was, whatever my sword did win
In fight, as his Alphonsus should it crave.
See, then, where lies thy foe Flaminius,
Whose crown my sword hath conquer'd in the field;
Therefore, Belinus, make no long delay,
But that discharge you promis'd for to pay.
Beli. Will nothing else satisfy thy conquering mind
Besides the crown? Well, since thou hast it won,
Thou shalt it have, though far against my will.
[Alphonsus sits in the chair; Belinus takes the crown off Flaminius' head, and puts it on that of Alphonsus.
Here doth Belinus crown thee with his hand
The King of Arragon.
[Trumpets and drums sound within.
What, are you pleas'd?
Alphon. Not so, Belinus, till you promise me
All things belonging to the royal crown
Of Arragon, and make your lordings swear
For to defend me to their utmost power
Against all men that shall gainsay the same.
Beli. Mark, what belongèd erst unto the crown
Of Arragon, that challenge as thine own;
Belinus gives it frankly unto thee,
And swears by all the powers of glittering skies
To do my best for to maintain the same,
So that it be not prejudicial
Unto mine honour, or my country-soil.
Albi. And by the sacred seat of mighty Jove
Albinius swears that first he'll die the death,
Before he'll see Alphonsus suffer wrong.
Fabi. What erst Albinius vow'd we jointly vow.
Alphon. Thanks, mighty lords; but yet I greatly fear
That very few will keep the oaths they swear.
But, what, Belinus, why stand you so long,
And cease from offering homage unto me?
What, know you not that I thy sovereign am,
Crownèd by thee and all thy other lords,
And now confirmèd by your solemn oaths?
Feed not thyself with fond persuasions,
But presently come yield thy crown to me,
And do me homage, or by heavens I swear
I'll force thee to it maugre all thy train.
Beli. How now, base brat! what, are thy wits thine own,
That thou dar'st thus abraid[41] me in my land?
'Tis best for thee these speeches to recall,
Or else, by Jove, I'll make thee to repent
That ere thou sett'st thy foot in Naples' soil.
Alphon. "Base brat," say'st thou? as good a man as thou:
But say I came but of a base descent,
My deeds shall make my glory for to shine
As clear as Luna in a winter's night.
But for because thou bragg'st so of thy birth,
I'll see how it shall profit thee anon.
Fabi. Alphonsus, cease from these thy threatening words,
And lay aside this thy presumptuous mind,
Or else be sure thou shalt the same repent.
Alphon. How now, sir boy! will you be prattling too?
'Tis best for thee to hold thy tattling tongue,
Unless I send some one to scourge thy breech.
Why, then, I see 'tis time to look about
When every boy Alphonsus dares control:
But be they sure, ere Phœbus' golden beams
Have compassèd the circle of the sky,
I'll clog their tongues, since nothing else will serve
To keep those vilde[42] and threatening speeches in.
Farewell, Belinus, look thou to thyself:
Alphonsus means to have thy crown ere night.
[Exit.
Beli. What, is he gone? the devil break his neck,
The fiends of hell torment his traitorous corpse!
Is this the quittance of Belinus' grace,
Which he did show unto that thankless wretch,
That runagate, that rakehell, yea, that thief?
For, well I wot, he hath robb'd me of a crown.
If ever he had sprung from gentle blood,
He would not thus misuse his favourer.
Albi. "That runagate, that rakehell, yea, that thief"!
Stay there, sir king, your mouth runs over-much;
It ill becomes the subject for to use
Such traitorous terms against his sovereign.
Know thou, Belinus, that Carinus' son
Is neither rakehell, [no], nor runagate.
But be thou sure that, ere the darksome night
Do drive god Phœbus to his Thetis' lap,
Both thou, and all the rest of this thy train,
Shall well repent the words which you have sain.
Beli. What, traitorous villain, dost thou threaten me?—
Lay hold on him, and see he do not 'scape:
I'll teach the slave to know to whom he speaks.
Albi. To thee I speak, and to thy fellows all;
And though as now you have me in your power,
Yet doubt I not but that in little space
These eyes shall see thy treason recompens'd,
And then I mean to vaunt our victory.
Beli. Nay, proud Albinius, never build on that;
For though the gods do chance for to appoint
Alphonsus victor of Belinus' land,
Yet shalt thou never live to see that day;—
And therefore, Fabius, stand not lingering,
But presently slash off his traitorous head.
Albi. Slash off his head! as though Albinius' head
Were then so easy to be slashèd off:
In faith, sir, no; when you are gone and dead,
I hope to flourish like the pleasant spring.
Beli. Why, how now, Fabius! what, do you stand in doubt
To do the deed? what fear you? who dares seek
For to revenge his death on thee again,
Since that Belinus did command it so?
Or are you wax'd so dainty, that you dare
Not use your sword for staining of your hands?
If it be so, then let me see thy sword,
And I will be his butcher for this time.
[Fabius gives Belinus his sword drawn.
Now, Sir Albinius, are you of the mind
That erst you were? what, do you look to see,
And triumph in, Belinus' overthrow?
I hope the very sight of this my blade
Hath chang'd your mind into another tune.
Albi. Not so, Belinus, I am constant still;
My mind is like to the asbeston-stone,
Which, if it once be heat in flames of fire,
Denieth to becomen cold again:
Even so am I, and shall be till I die.
And though I should see Atropos appear,
With knife in hand, to slit my thread in twain,
Yet ne'er Albinius should persuaded be
But that Belinus he should vanquish'd see.
Beli. Nay, then, Albinius, since that words are vain
For to persuade you from this heresy,
This sword shall sure put you out of doubt.

[Belinus offers to strike off Albinius' head: alarum; enter Alphonsus and his Men; Belinus and Fabius fly, followed by Alphonsus and Albinius.

SCENE II.—Another Part of the Field.

Enter Lælius, Miles, and Servants.

Læli. My noble lords of Arragon, I know
You wonder much what might the occasion be
That Lælius, which erst did fly the field,
Doth egg you forwards now unto the wars;
But when you hear my reason, out of doubt
You'll be content with this my rash attempt.
When first our king, Flaminius I do mean,
Did set upon the Neapolitans,
The worst of you did know and plainly see
How far they were unable to withstand
The mighty forces of our royal camp,
Until such time as froward fates we thought,—
Although the fates ordain'd it for our gain,—
Did send a stranger stout, whose sturdy blows
And force alone did cause our overthrow.
But to our purpose: this same martial knight
Did hap to hit upon Flaminius,
And lent our king then such a friendly blow
As that his gasping ghost to Limbo went.
Which when I saw, and seeking to revenge,
My noble lords, did hap on such a prize
As never king nor keisar got the like.
Miles. Lælius, of force we must confess to thee,
We wonder'd all whenas you did persuade
Us to return unto the wars again;
But since our marvel is increasèd much
By these your words, which sound of happiness:
Therefore, good Lælius, make no tarrying,
But soon unfold thy happy chance to us.
Læli. Then, friends and fellow soldiers, hark to me;
When Lælius thought for to revenge his king
On that same knight, instead of mortal foe,
I found him for to be our chiefest friend.
Miles. Our chiefest friend! I hardly can believe
That he, which made such bloody massacres
Of stout Italians, can in any point
Bear friendship to the country or the king.
Læli. As for your king, Miles, I hold with you,
He bare no friendship to Flaminius,
But hated him as bloody Atropos;
But for your country, Lælius doth avow
He loves as well as any other land,
Yea, sure, he loves it best of all the world.
And, for because you shall not think that I
Do say the same without a reason why,
Know that the knight Alphonsus hath to name,
Both son and heir to old Carinus, whom
Flaminius' sire bereavèd of his crown;
Who did not seek the ruin of our host
For any envy he did bear to us,
But to revenge him on his mortal foe;
Which by the help of high celestial Jove
He hath achiev'd with honour in the field.
Miles. Alphonsus, man! I'll ne'er persuaded be
That e'er Alphonsus may survive again,
Who with Carinus, many years ago,
Was said to wander in the Stygian fields.
Læli. Truth, noble Miles: these mine ears have heard,
For certainty reported unto me,
That old Carinus, with his peerless son,
Had felt the sharpness of the Sisters' shears;
And had I not of late Alphonsus seen
In good estate, though all the world should say
He is alive, I would not credit them.
But, fellow soldiers, wend you back with me,
And let us lurk within the secret shade
Which he himself appointed unto us;
And if you find my words to be untroth,
Then let me die to recompense the wrong.

Alarum: re-enter Albinius with his sword drawn.

Albi. Lælius, make haste: soldiers of Arragon,
Set lingering by, and come and help your king,
I mean Alphonsus, who, whilst that he did
Pursue Belinus at the very heels,
Was suddenly environèd about
With all the troops of mighty Milan-land.
Miles. What news is this! and is it very so?
Is our Alphonsus yet in human state,
Whom all the world did judge for to be dead?
Yet can I scarce give credit to the same:
Give credit! yes, and since the Milan Duke
Hath broke his league of friendship, be he sure,
Ere Cynthia, the shining lamp of night,
Doth scale the heavens with her hornèd head,
Both he and his shall very plainly see
The league is burst that causèd long the glee.
Læli. And could the traitor harbour in his breast
Such mortal treason 'gainst his sovereign,
As when he should with fire and sword defend
Him from his foes, he seeks his overthrow?
March on, my friends: I ne'er shall joy at all,
Until I see that bloody traitor's fall.
[Exeunt.

Alarum; Belinus flies, followed by Lælius; Fabius flies, followed by Albinius; the Duke of Milan flies, followed by Miles.

ACT THE THIRD

PROLOGUE

Alarum. Enter Venus.

Venus. No sooner did Alphonsus with his troop
Set on the soldiers of Belinus' band,
But that the fury of his sturdy blows
Did strike such terror to their daunted minds
That glad was he which could escape away,
With life and limb, forth of that bloody fray.
Belinus flies unto the Turkish soil,
To crave the aid of Amurack their king;
Unto the which he willingly did consent,
And sends Belinus, with two other kings,
To know God Mahomet's pleasure in the same.
Meantime the empress by Medea's help
Did use such charms that Amurack did see,
In soundest sleep, what afterward should hap.
How Amurack did recompense her pain,
With mickle more, this act shall show you plain.
[Exit.

SCENE I.—Camp of Alphonsus, near Naples.

Enter one, carrying two crowns upon a crest; Alphonsus, Albinius, Lælius, and Miles, with their Soldiers.

Alphon. Welcome, brave youths of Arragon, to me,
Yea, welcome, Miles, Lælius, and the rest,
Whose prowess alone hath been the only cause
That we, like victors, have subdu'd our foes.
Lord, what a pleasure was it to my mind,
To see Belinus, which not long before
Did with his threatenings terrify the gods,
Now scud apace from warlike Lælius' blows.
The Duke of Milan, he increas'd our sport,
Who doubting that his force was over-weak
For to withstand, Miles, thy sturdy arm,
Did give more credence to his frisking skips
Than to the sharpness of his cutting blade.
What Fabius did to pleasure us withal,
Albinius knows as well as I myself;
For, well I wot, if that thy tirèd steed
Had been as fresh and swift in foot as his,
He should have felt, yea, known for certainty,
To check Alphonsus did deserve to die.
Briefly, my friends and fellow-peers in arms,
The worst of you deserve such mickle praise,
As that my tongue denies for to set forth
The demi-parcel of your valiant deeds;
So that, perforce, I must by duty be
Bound to you all for this your courtesy.
Miles. Not so, my lord; for if our willing arms
Have pleasur'd you so much as you do say,
We have done naught but that becometh us,
For to defend our mighty sovereign.
As for my part, I count my labour small,
Yea, though it had been twice as much again,
Since that Alphonsus doth accept thereof.
Alphon. Thanks, worthy Miles: lest all the world
Should count Alphonsus thankless for to be,
Lælius, sit down, and, Miles, sit by him,
And that receive the which your swords have won.
[Lælius and Miles sit down.
First, for because thou, Lælius, in these broils,
By martial might, didst proud Belinus chase
From troop to troop, from side to side about,
And never ceas'd from this thy swift pursuit
Until thou hadst obtain'd his royal crown,
Therefore, I say, I'll do thee naught but right,
And give thee that which thou well hast won.
[Sets the crown on his head.
Here doth Alphonsus crown thee, Lælius, King
Of Naples' town, with all dominions
That erst belongèd to our traitorous foe,
That proud Belinus, in his regiment.
[Trumpets and drums sounded.
Miles, thy share the Milan Dukedom is,
For, well I wot, thy sword deserv'd no less;
[Sets the crown on his head.
The which Alphonsus frankly giveth thee,
In presence of his warlike men-at-arms;
And if that any stomach[43] this my deed,
Alphonsus can revenge thy wrong with speed.
[Trumpets and drums sounded.
Now to Albinius, which in all my toils
I have both faithful, yea, and friendly, found:
Since that the gods and friendly fates assign
This present time to me to recompense
The sundry pleasures thou hast done to me,
Sit down by them, and on thy faithful head
[Takes the crown from his own head.
Receive the crown of peerless Arragon.
Albi. Pardon, dear lord, Albinius at this time;
It ill becomes me for to wear a crown
Whenas my lord is destitute himself.
Why, high Alphonsus, if I should receive
This crown of you, the which high Jove forbid,
Where would yourself obtain a diadem?
Naples is gone, Milan possessèd is,
And naught is left for you but Arragon.
Alphon. And naught is left for me but Arragon!
Yes, surely, yes, my fates have so decreed,
That Arragon should be too base a thing
For to obtain Alphonsus for her king.
What, hear you not how that our scatter'd foes,
Belinus, Fabius, and the Milan duke,
Are fled for succour to the Turkish court?
And think you not that Amurack their king,
Will, with the mightiest power of all his land,
Seek to revenge Belinus' overthrow?
Then doubt I not but, ere these broils do end,
Alphonsus shall possess the diadem
That Amurack now wears upon his head.
Sit down therefóre, and that receive of me
The which the fates appointed unto thee.
Albi. Thou King of Heaven, which by Thy power divine
Dost see the secrets of each liver's heart,
Bear record now with what unwilling mind
I do receive the crown of Arragon.
[Albinius sits down by Lælius and Miles; Alphonsus sets the crown on his head.
Alphon. Arise, Albinius, King of Arragon,
Crownèd by me, who, till my gasping ghost
Do part asunder from my breathless corpse,
Will be thy shield against all men alive
That for thy kingdom any way do strive.
[Trumpets and drums sounded.
Now since we have, in such an happy hour,
Confirm'd three kings, come, let us march with speed
Into the city, for to celebrate
With mirth and joy this blissful festival.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—Palace of Amurack at Constantinople.

Enter Amurack, Belinus, Fabius, Arcastus, Claramont and Bajazet, with their train.

Amu. Welcome, Belinus, to thy cousin's court,
Whose late arrival in such posting pace
Doth bring both joy and sorrow to us all;
Sorrow, because the fates have been so false
To let Alphonsus drive thee from thy land,
And joy, since that now mighty Mahomet
Hath given me cause to recompense at full
The sundry pleasures I receiv'd of thee.
Therefore, Belinus, do but ask and have,
For Amurack doth grant whate'er you crave.
Beli. Thou second sun, which with thy glimpsing beams
Dost clarify each corner of the earth,
Belinus comes not, as erst Midas did
To mighty Bacchus, to desire of him
That whatsoe'er at any time he touch'd
Might turnèd be to gold incontinent.
Nor do I come as Jupiter did erst
Unto the palace of Amphitryon,
For any fond or foul concupiscence
Which I do bear to Alcumena's hue.
But as poor Saturn, forc'd by mighty Jove
To fly his country, banish'd and forlorn,
Did crave the aid of Troos, King of Troy,
So comes Belinus to high Amurack;
And if he can but once your aid obtain,
He turns with speed to Naples back again.
Amu. My aid, Belinus! do you doubt of that?
If all the men-at-arms of Africa,
Of Asia likewise, will sufficient be
To press the pomp of that usurping mate,
Assure thyself, thy kingdom shall be thine,
If Mahomet say ay unto the same;
For were I sure to vanquish all our foes,
And find such spoils in ransacking their tents
As never any keisar did obtain,
Yet would I not set foot forth of this land,
If Mahomet our journey did withstand.
Beli. Nor would Belinus, for King Crœsus' trash,
Wish Amurack to displease the gods,
In pleasuring me in such a trifling toy.
Then, mighty monarch, if it be thy will,
Get their consents, and then the act fulfil.
Amu. You counsel well; therefore, Belinus, haste,
And, Claramont, go bear him company,
With King Arcastus, to the city walls:
Then bend with speed unto the darksome grove,
Where Mahomet, this many a hundred year,
Hath prophesied unto our ancestors.
Tell to his priests that Amurack, your king,
Is now selecting all his men-at-arms
To set upon that proud Alphonsus' troop:
(The cause you know, and can inform them well,
That makes me take these bloody broils in hand?)
And say that I desire their sacred god,
That Mahomet which ruleth all the skies,
To send me word, and that most speedily,
Which of us shall obtain the victory.
[Exeunt all except Bajazet and Amurack.
You, Bajazet, go post away apace
To Syria, Scythia, and Albania,
To Babylon, with Mesopotamia,
Asia, Armenia, and all other lands
Which owe their homage to high Amurack:
Charge all their kings with expedition
To gather up the chiefest men-at-arms
Which now remain in their dominions,
And on the twentieth day of the same month
To come and wait on Amurack their king,
At his chief city Constantinople.
Tell them, moreover, that, whoso doth fail,
Naught else but death from prison shall him bail.
[Exit Bajazet. Music within.
What heavenly music soundeth in my ear?
Peace, Amurack, and hearken to the same.
[Hearkening to the music Amurack falls asleep.

Enter Medea, Fausta and Iphigena.

Medea. Now have our charms fulfill'd our minds full well;
High Amurack is lullèd fast asleep,
And doubt I not but, ere he wakes again,
You shall perceive Medea did not gibe
Whenas she put this practice in your mind.
Sit, worthy Fausta, at thy spouse his feet.
Iphigena, sit thou on the other side:
[Fausta and Iphigena sit down at Amurack's feet.
Whate'er you see, be not aghast thereat,
But bear in mind what Amurack doth chat.
[Does ceremonies belonging to conjuring.
Thou, which wert wont, in Agamemnon's days,
To utter forth Apollo's oracles
At sacred Delphos, Calchas I do mean,
I charge thee come; all lingering set aside,
Unless the penance you thereof abide:
I cónjure thee by Pluto's loathsome lake,
By all the hags which harbour in the same,
By stinking Styx, and filthy Phlegethon,
To come with speed, and truly to fulfil
That which Medea to thee straight shall will!
[Calchas rises up,[44] in a white surplice and a cardinal's mitre.
Calc. Thou wretched witch, when wilt thou make an end
Of troubling us with these thy cursèd charms?
What mean'st thou thus to call me from my grave?
Shall ne'er my ghost obtain his quiet rest?
Medea. Yes, Calchas, yes, your rest doth now approach;
Medea means to trouble thee no more,
Whenas thou hast fulfill'd her mind this once.
Go, get thee hence to Pluto back again,
And there inquire of the Destinies
How Amurack shall speed in these his wars:
Peruse their books, and mark what is decreed
By Jove himself, and all his fellow-gods;
And when thou know'st the certainty thereof,
By fleshless visions show it presently
To Amurack, in pain of penalty.
Calc. Forc'd by thy charm, though with unwilling mind,
I haste to hell, the certainty to find.
[Sinks down where he came up.
Medea. Now, peerless princess, I must needs be gone;
My hasty business calls me from this place.
There resteth naught, but that you bear in mind
What Amurack, in this his fit, doth say;
For mark, what dreaming, madam, he doth prate,
Assure yourself that that shall be his fate.
Fausta. Though very loth to let thee so depart,
Farewell, Medea, easer of my heart. [Exit Medea.
[Instruments sound within.
Amu. [speaking in a dream].
What, Amurack, dost thou begin to nod?
Is this the care that thou hast of thy wars?
As when thou shouldst be prancing of thy steed.
To egg thy soldiers forward in thy wars,
Thou sittest moping by the fire-side?
See where thy viceroys grovel on the ground;
Look where Belinus breatheth forth his ghost;
Behold by millions how thy men do fall
Before Alphonsus, like to silly sheep;
And canst thou stand still lazing in this sort?
No, proud Alphonsus, Amurack doth fly
To quail thy courage, and that speedily.
[Instruments sound within.
And dost thou think, thou proud injurious god,
Mahound I mean, since thy vain prophecies
Led Amurack into this doleful case,
To have his princely feet in irons clapt,
Which erst the proudest kings were forc'd to kiss,
That thou shalt 'scape unpunish'd for the same?
No, no, as soon as by the help of Jove
I 'scape this bondage, down go all thy groves,
Thy altars tumble round about the streets,
And whereas erst we sacrific'd to thee,
Now all the Turks thy mortal foes shall be.
[Instruments sound within.
Behold the gem and jewel of mine age,
See where she comes, whose heavenly majesty
Doth far surpass the brave and gorgeous pace
Which Cytherea, daughter unto Jove,
Did put in ure whenas she had obtain'd
The golden apple at the shepherd's hands.
See, worthy Fausta, where Alphonsus stands,
Whose valiant courage could not daunted be
With all the men-at-arms of Africa;
See now he stands as one that lately saw
Medusa's head, or Gorgon's hoary hue.
[Instruments sound within.
And can it be that it may happen so?
Can fortune prove so friendly unto me
As that Alphonsus loves Iphigena?
The match is made, the wedding is decreed:
Sound trumpets, ho! strike drums for mirth and glee!
And three times welcome son-in-law to me!
Fausta. [rising up in a fury and waking Amurack].
Fie, Amurack, what wicked words be these?
How canst thou look thy Fausta in her face,
Whom thou hast wrongèd in this shameful sort?
And are the vows so solemnly you sware
Unto Belinus, my most friendly niece,
Now wash'd so clearly from thy traitorous heart?
Is all the rancour which you erst did bear
Unto Alphonsus worn so out of mind
As, where thou shouldst pursue him to death,
You seek to give our daughter to his hands?
The gods forbid that such a heinous deed
With my consent should ever be decreed:
And rather than thou shouldst it bring to pass,
If all the army of Amazones
Will be sufficient to withhold the same,
Assure thyself that Fausta means to fight
'Gainst Amurack for to maintain the right.
Iphi. Yea, mother, say,—which Mahomet forbid,—
That in this conflict you should have the foil,
Ere that Alphonsus should be call'd my spouse,
This heart, this hand, yea, and this blade, should be
A readier means to finish that decree.
Amu. [rising in a rage].
What threatening words thus thunder in mine ears?
Or who are they, amongst the mortal troops,
That dare presume to use such threats to me?
The proudest kings and keisars of the land
Are glad to feed me in my fantasy;
And shall I suffer, then, each prattling dame
For to upbraid me in this spiteful sort?
No, by the heavens, first will I lose my crown,
My wife, my children, yea, my life and all.
And therefore, Fausta, thou which Amurack
Did tender erst, as the apple of mine eye,
Avoid my court, and, if thou lov'st thy life,
Approach not nigh unto my regiment.
As for this carping girl, Iphigena,
Take her with thee to bear thee company,
And in my land I rede[45] be seen no more,
For if you do, you both shall die therefóre. [Exit.
Fausta. Nay, then, I see 'tis time to look about,
Delay is dangerous, and procureth harm:
The wanton colt is tamèd in his youth;
Wounds must be cur'd when they be fresh and green;
And pleurisies, when they begin to breed,
With little care are driven away with speed.
Had Fausta then, when Amurack begun
With spiteful speeches to control and check,
Sought to prevent it by her martial force,
This banishment had never hapt to me.
But the echinus, fearing to be gor'd,
Doth keep her younglings in her paunch so long,
Till, when their pricks be waxen long and sharp,
They put their dam at length to double pain:
And I, because I loath'd the broils of Mars,
Bridled my thoughts, and pressèd down my rage;
In recompense of which my good intent
I have receiv'd this woful banishment.
Woful, said I? nay, happy I did mean,
If that be happy which doth set one free;
For by this means I do not doubt ere long
But Fausta shall with ease revenge her wrong.
Come, daughter, come: my mind foretelleth me
That Amurack shall soon requited be.

SCENE III.—A Grove.

Fausta and Iphigena discovered; enter Medea, meeting them.[46]

Medea. Fausta, what means this sudden flight of yours?
Why do you leave your husband's princely court,
And all alone pass through these thickest groves,
More fit to harbour brutish savage beasts
Than to receive so high a queen as you?
Although your credit would not stay your steps
From bending them into these darkish dens,
Yet should the danger, which is imminent
To every one which passeth by these paths,
Keep you at home with fair Iphigena.
What foolish toy hath tickled you to this?
I greatly fear some hap hath hit amiss.
Fausta. No toy, Medea, tickled Fausta's head,
Nor foolish fancy led me to these groves,
But earnest business eggs my trembling steps
To pass all dangers, whatsoe'er they be.
I banish'd am, Medea, I, which erst
Was empress over all the triple world,
Am banish'd now from palace and from pomp.
But if the gods be favourers to me,
Ere twenty days I will revengèd be.
Medea. I thought as much, when first from thickest leaves
I saw you trudging in such posting pace.
But to the purpose: what may be the cause
Of this strange and sudden banishment?
Fausta. The cause, ask you? A simple cause, God wot;
'Twas neither treason, nor yet felony,
But for because I blam'd his foolishness.
Medea. I hear you say so, but I greatly fear,
Ere that your tale be brought unto an end,
You'll prove yourself the author of the same.
But pray, be brief; what folly did your spouse?
And how will you revenge your wrong on him?
Fausta. What folly, quoth you? Such as never yet
Was heard or seen, since Phœbus first 'gan shine.
You know how he was gathering in all haste
His men-at-arms, to set upon the troop
Of proud Alphonsus; yea, you well do know
How you and I did do the best we could
To make him show us in his drowsy dream
What afterward should happen in his wars.
Much talk he had, which now I have forgot;
But at the length this surely was decreed,
How that Alphonsus and Iphigena
Should be conjoin'd in Juno's sacred rites.
Which when I heard, as one that did despise
That such a traitor should be son to me,
I did rebuke my husband Amurack:
And since my words could take no better place,
My sword with help of all Amazones
Shall make him soon repent his foolishness.
Medea. This is the cause, then, of your banishment?
And now you go unto Amazone
To gather all your maidens in array,
To set upon the mighty Amurack?
O foolish queen, what meant you by this talk?
Those prattling speeches have undone you all.
Do you disdain to have that mighty prince,
I mean Alphonsus, counted for your son?
I tell you, Fausta, he is born to be
The ruler of a mighty monarchy.
I must confess the powers of Amurack
Be great; his confines stretch both far and near;
Yet are they not the third part of the lands
Which shall be rulèd by Alphonsus' hands:
And yet you dain to call him son-in-law.
But when you see his sharp and cutting sword
Piercing the heart of this your gallant girl,
You'll curse the hour wherein you did denay
To join Alphonsus with Iphigena.
Fausta. The gods forbid that e'er it happen so!
Medea. Nay, never pray, for it must happen so.
Fausta. And is there, then, no remedy for it?
Medea, No, none but one, and that you have forsworn.
Fausta. As though an oath can bridle so my mind
As that I dare not break a thousand oaths
For to eschew the danger imminent!
Speak, good Medea, tell that way to me,
And I will do it, whatsoe'er it be.
Medea. Then, as already you have well decreed,
Pack to your country, and in readiness
Select the army of Amazones:
When you have done, march with your female troop
To Naples' town, to succour Amurack:
And so, by marriage of Iphigena,
You soon shall drive the danger clean away.
Iphi. So shall we soon eschew Charybdis' lake,
And headlong fall to Scylla's greedy gulf.
I vow'd before, and now do vow again,
Before I wed Alphonsus, I'll be slain.
Medea. In vain it is to strive against the stream;
Fates must be follow'd, and the gods' decree
Must needs take place in every kind of cause.
Therefore, fair maid, bridle these brutish thoughts,
And learn to follow what the fates assign.
When Saturn heard that Jupiter his son
Should drive him headlong from his heavenly seat
Down to the bottom of the dark Avern,
He did command his mother presently
To do to death the young and guiltless child:
But what of that? the mother loath'd in heart
For to commit so vile a massacre;
Yea, Jove did live, and, as the fates did say,
From heavenly seat drave Saturn clean away.
What did avail the castle all of steel,
The which Acrisius causèd to be made
To keep his daughter Danaë clogg'd in?
She was with child for all her castle's force;
And by that child Acrisius, her sire,
Was after slain, so did the fates require.
A thousand examples I could bring hereof;
But marble stones need no colouring,
And that which every one doth know for truth
Needs no examples to confirm the same.
That which the fates appoint must happen so,
Though heavenly Jove and all the gods say no.
Fausta. Iphigena, she sayeth naught but truth;
Fates must be follow'd in their just decrees;
And therefore, setting all delays aside,
Come, let us wend unto Amazone,
And gather up our forces out of hand.
Iphi. Since Fausta wills and fates do so command,
Iphigena will never it withstand.
[Exeunt.

ACT THE FOURTH

PROLOGUE

Enter Venus.

Venus. Thus have you seen how Amurack himself,
Fausta his wife, and every other king
Which hold their sceptres at the Turk his hands,
Are now in arms, intending to destroy,
And bring to naught, the Prince of Arragon.
Charms have been us'd by wise Medea's art,
To know before what afterward shall hap;
And King Belinus, with high Claramont,
Join'd to Arcastus, which with princely pomp
Doth rule and govern all the warlike Moors,
Are sent as legates to God Mahomet,
To know his counsel in these high affairs.
Mahound, provok'd by Amurack's discourse,
Which, as you heard, he in his dream did use,
Denies to play the prophet any more;
But, by the long entreaty of his priests,
He prophesies in such a crafty sort
As that the hearers needs must laugh for sport.
Yet poor Belinus, with his fellow kings,
Did give such credence to that forgèd tale
As that they lost their dearest lives thereby,
And Amurack became a prisoner
Unto Alphonsus, as straight shall appear.
[Exit.

SCENE I.—The Temple of Mahomet.

Let there be a Brazen Head set in the middle of the place behind the stage, out of the which cast flames of fire; drums rumble within. Enter two Priests.

First Pr. My fellow priest of Mahound's holy house,
What can you judge of these strange miracles
Which daily happen in this sacred seat?
[Drums rumble within.
Hark, what a rumbling rattleth in our ears!
[Flames of fire are cast forth of the Brazen Head.
See flakes of fire proceeding from the mouth
Of Mahomet, that god of peerless power!
Nor can I tell, with all the wit I have,
What Mahomet, by these his signs, doth crave.
Sec. Pr. Thrice ten times Phœbus with his golden beams
Hath compassèd the circle of the sky,
Thrice ten times Ceres hath her workmen hir'd,
And fill'd her barns with fruitful crops of corn,
Since first in priesthood I did lead my life;
Yet in this time I never heard before
Such fearful sounds, nor saw such wondrous sights;
Nor can I tell, with all the wit I have,
What Mahomet, by these his signs, doth crave.
Mahomet [speaking out of the Brazen Head].
You cannot tell, nor will you seek to know:
O perverse priests, how careless are you wax'd,
As when my foes approach unto my gates,
You stand still talking of "I cannot tell!"
Go pack you hence, and meet the Turkish kings
Which now are drawing to my temple ward;
Tell them from me, God Mahomet is dispos'd
To prophesy no more to Amurack,
Since that his tongue is waxen now so free,
As that it needs must chat and rail at me.
[The Priests kneel.
First Pr. O Mahomet, if all the solemn prayers
Which from our childhood we have offer'd thee,
Can make thee call this sentence back again,
Bring not thy priests into this dangerous state!
For when the Turk doth hear of this repulse,
We shall be sure to die the death therefóre.
Mahomet [speaking out of the Brazen Head].
Thou sayest truth; go call the princes in:
I'll prophesy unto them for this once;
But in such wise as they shall neither boast,
Nor you be hurt in any kind of wise.

Enter Belinus, Claramont, Arcastus and Fabius, conducted by the Priests.

First Pr. You kings of Turkey, Mahomet our god,
By sacred science having notice that
You were sent legates from high Amurack
Unto this place, commanded us, his priests,
That we should cause you make as mickle speed
As well you might, to hear for certainty
Of that shall happen to your king and ye.
Beli. For that intent we came into this place;
And sithens that the mighty Mahomet
Is now at leisure for to tell the same,
Let us make haste and take time while we may,
For mickle danger happeneth through delay.
Sec. Pr. Truth, worthy king, and therefore you yourself,
With your companions, kneel before this place,
And listen well what Mahomet doth say.
Beli. As you do will, we jointly will obey.
[All kneel down before the Brazen Head.
Mahomet [speaking out of the Brazen Head].
Princes of Turkey, and ambassadors
Of Amurack to mighty Mahomet,
I needs must muse that you, which erst have been
The readiest soldiers of the triple world,
Are now become so slack in your affairs
As, when you should with bloody blade in hand
Be hacking helms in thickest of your foes,
You stand still loitering in the Turkish soil.
What, know you not how that it is decreed
By all the gods, and chiefly by myself,
That you with triumph should all crownèd be?
Make haste, kings, lest when the fates do see
How carelessly you do neglect their words,
They call a council, and force Mahomet
Against his will some other things to set.
Send Fabius back to Amurack again,
To haste him forwards in his enterprise;
And march you on, with all the troops you have,
To Naples ward, to conquer Arragon,
For if you stay, both you and all your men
Must needs be sent down straight to Limbo-den.
Sec. Pr. Muse not, brave kings, at Mahomet's discourse,
For mark what he forth of that mouth doth say,
Assure yourselves it needs must happen so.
Therefore make haste, go mount you on your steeds,
And set upon Alphonsus presently:
So shall you reap great honour for your pain,
And 'scape the scourge which else the fates ordain.
[All rise up.
Beli. Then, proud Alphonsus, look thou to thy crown:
Belinus comes, in glittering armour clad,
All ready prest[47] for to revenge the wrong
Which, not long since, you offer'd unto him;
And since we have God Mahound on our side,
The victory must needs to us betide.
Cla. Worthy Belinus, set such threats away,
And let us haste as fast as horse can trot
To set upon presumptuous Arragon.—
You, Fabius, haste, as Mahound did command,
To Amurack with all the speed you may.
Fabi. With willing mind I hasten on my way.
[Exit.
Beli. And thinking long till that we be in fight,
Belinus hastes to quail Alphonsus' might. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—Near Naples.

Alarum awhile. Enter Carinus.

Cari. No sooner had God Phœbus' brightsome beams
Begun to dive within the western seas,
And darksome Nox had spread about the earth
Her blackish mantle, but a drowsy sleep
Did take possession of Carinus' sense,
And Morpheus show'd me strange disguisèd shapes.
Methought I saw Alphonsus, my dear son,
Plac'd in a throne all glittering clear with gold,
Bedeck'd with diamonds, pearls, and precious stones,
Which shin'd so clear, and glitter'd all so bright,
Hyperion's coach that well be term'd it might.
Above his head a canopy was set,
Not deck'd with plumes, as other princes use,
But all beset with heads of conquer'd kings,
Enstall'd with crowns, which made a gallant show,
And struck a terror to the viewers' hearts.
Under his feet lay grovelling on the ground
Thousands of princes, which he in his wars
By martial might did conquer and bring low:
Some lay as dead as either stock or stone,
Some other tumbled, wounded to the death;
But most of them, as to their sovereign king,
Did offer duly homage unto him.
As thus I stood beholding of this pomp,
Methought Alphonsus did espy me out,
And, at a trice, he leaving throne alone,
Came to embrace me in his blessèd arms.
Then noise of drums and sound of trumpets shrill
Did wake Carinus from this pleasant dream.
Something, I know, is now foreshown by this:
The gods forfend that aught should hap amiss!
[Carinus walks up and down.

Enter the Duke of Milan in pilgrim's apparel.

Duke of M. This is the chance of fickle Fortune's wheel;
A prince at morn, a pilgrim ere't be night;
I, which erewhile did dain for to possess
The proudest palace of the western world,
Would now be glad a cottage for to find,
To hide my head; so Fortune hath assign'd.
Thrice Hesperus with pomp and peerless pride
Hath heav'd his head forth of the eastern seas,
Thrice Cynthia, with Phœbus' borrow'd beams,
Hath shown her beauty through the darkish clouds,
Since that I, wretched duke, have tasted aught,
Or drunk a drop of any kind of drink.
Instead of beds set forth with ebony,
The greenish grass hath been my resting-place,
And for my pillow stuff'd with down,
The hardish hillocks have suffic'd my turn.
Thus I, which erst had all things at my will,
A life more hard then death do follow still.
Cari. [aside]. Methinks I hear, not very far from hence,
Some woful wight lamenting his mischance:
I'll go and see if that I can espy
Him where he sits, or overhear his talk.
Duke of M. O Milan, Milan, little dost thou think,
How that thy duke is now in such distress!
For if thou didst, I soon should be releas'd
Forth of this greedy gulf of misery.
Cari. [aside]. The Milan Duke! I thought as much before,
When first I glanc'd mine eyes upon his face.
This is the man which was the only cause
That I was forc'd to fly from Arragon.
High Jove be prais'd which hath allotted me
So fit a time to quite that injury.—
Pilgrim, God speed.
Duke of M. Welcome, grave sir, to me.
Cari. Methought as now I heard you for to speak
Of Milan-land: pray, do you know the same?
Duke of M. Ay, aged father, I have cause to know
Both Milan-land and all the parts thereof.
Cari. Why, then, I doubt not but you can resolve
Me of a question that I shall demand.
Duke of M. Ay, that I can, whatever that it be.
Cari. Then, to be brief: not twenty winters past,
When these my limbs, which wither'd are with age,
Were in the prime and spring of all their youth,
I, still desirous, as young gallants be,
To see the fashions of Arabia,
My native soil, and in this pilgrim's weed,
Began to travel through unkennèd lands.
Much ground I pass'd, and many soils I saw;
But when my feet in Milan-land I set,
Such sumptuous triumphs daily there I saw
As never in my life I found the like.
I pray, good sir, what might the occasion be,
That made the Milans make such mirth and glee?
Duke of M. This solemn joy whereof you now do speak,
Was not solémnisèd, my friend, in vain;
For at that time there came into the land
The happiest tidings that they e'er did hear;
For news was brought upon that solemn day
Unto our court, that Ferdinandus proud
Was slain himself, Carinus and his son
Was banish'd both for e'er from Arragon;
And for these happy news that joy was made.
Cari. But what, I pray, did afterward become
Of old Carinus with his banish'd son?
What, hear you nothing of them all this while?
Duke of M. Yes, too-too much, the Milan Duke may say.
Alphonsus first by secret means did get
To be a soldier in Belinus' wars,
Wherein he did behave himself so well
As that he got the crown of Arragon;
Which being got, he dispossess'd also
The King Belinus which had foster'd him.
As for Carinus he is dead and gone:
I would his son were his companion.
Cari. A blister build upon that traitor's tongue!
But, for thy friendship which thou showed'st me,
Take that of me, I frankly give it thee.
[Stabs the Duke of Milan, who dies.
Now will I haste to Naples with all speed,
To see if Fortune will so favour me
To view Alphonsus in his happy state.

SCENE III.—Camp of Amurack, near Naples.

Enter Amurack, Crocon, Faustus and Fabius, with the Provost and Turkish Janissaries.

Amu. Fabius, come hither: what is that thou sayest?
What did God Mahound prophesy to us?
Why do our viceroys wend unto the wars
Before their king had notice of the same?
What, do they think to play bob-fool with me?
Or are they wax'd so frolic now of late,
Since that they had the leading of our bands,
As that they think that mighty Amurack
Dares do no other than to soothe them up?
Why speak'st thou not? what fond or frantic fit
Did make those careless kings to venture it?
Fabi. Pardon, dear lord; no frantic fit at all,
No frolic vein, nor no presumptuous mind,
Did make your viceroys take these wars in hand:
But forc'd they were by Mahound's prophecy
To do the same, or else resolve to die.
Amu. So, sir, I hear you, but can scarce believe
That Mahomet would charge them go before,
Against Alphonsus with so small a troop,
Whose number far exceeds King Xerxes' troop.
Fabi. Yes, noble lord, and more than that, he said
That, ere that you, with these your warlike men,
Should come to bring your succour to the field,
Belinus, Claramont, and Arcastus too
Should all be crown'd with crowns of beaten gold,
And borne with triumph round about their tents.
Amu. With triumph, man! did Mahound tell them so?—
Provost, go carry Fabius presently
Unto the Marshalsea;[48] there let him rest,
Clapt sure and safe in fetters all of steel,
Till Amurack discharge him from the same;
For be he sure, unless it happen so
As he did say Mahound did prophesy,
By this my hand forthwith the slave shall die.
[They lay hold of Fabius, and make as though to carry him out.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Stay, Provost, stay, let Fabius alone:
More fitteth now that every lusty lad
Be buckling on his helmet, than to stand
In carrying soldiers to the Marshalsea.
Amu. Why, what art thou, that darest once presume
For to gainsay that Amurack did bid?
Mess. I am, my lord, the wretched'st man alive,
Born underneath the planet of mishap;
Erewhile, a soldier of Belinus' band,
But now—
Amu. What now?
Mess. The mirror of mishap;
Whose captain's slain, and all his army dead,
Only excepted me, unhappy wretch.
Amu. What news is this! and is Belinus slain?
Is this the crown which Mahomet did say
He should with triumph wear upon his head?
Is this the honour which that cursèd god
Did prophesy should happen to them all?
O Dædalus, an wert thou now alive,
To fasten wings upon high Amurack,
Mahound should know, and that for certainty,
That Turkish kings can brook no injury!
Fabi. Tush, tush, my lord; I wonder what you mean,
Thus to exclaim against high Mahomet:
I'll lay my life that, ere this day be past,
You shall perceive his tidings all be waste.
Amu. We shall perceive, accursèd Fabius!
Suffice it not that thou hast been the man
That first didst beat those baubles in my brain,
But that, to help me forward in my grief,
Thou seekest to confirm so foul a lie?
Go, get thee hence, and tell thy traitorous king
What gift you had, which did such tidings bring.—
[Stabs Fabius, who dies.
And now, my lords, since nothing else will serve,
Buckle your helms, clap on your steelèd coats,
Mount on your steeds, take lances in your hands;
For Amurack doth mean this very day
Proud Mahomet with weapons to assay.
Mess. Mercy, high monarch! it is no time now
To spend the day in such vain threatenings
Against our god, the mighty Mahomet:
More fitteth thee to place thy men-at-arms
In battle 'ray, for to withstand your foes,
Which now are drawing towards you with speed.
[Drums sounded within.
Hark, how their drums with dub-a-dub do come!
To arms, high lord, and set these trifles by,
That you may set upon them valiantly.
Amu. And do they come? you kings of Turkey-[land],
Now is the time in which your warlike arms
Must raise your names above the starry skies.
Call to your mind your predecessors' acts,
Whose martial might, this many a hundred year,
Did keep those fearful dogs in dread and awe,
And let your weapons show Alphonsus plain,
That though that they be clappèd up in clay,
Yet there be branches sprung up from those trees,
In Turkish land, which brook no injuries.
Besides the same, remember with yourselves
What foes we have; not mighty Tamburlaine,
Nor soldiers trainèd up amongst the wars,
But fearful boors, pick'd from their rural flock,
Which, till this time, were wholly ignorant
What weapons meant, or bloody Mars doth crave.
More would I say, but horses that be free
Do need no spurs, and soldiers which themselves
Long and desire to buckle with the foe,
Do need no words to egg them to the same.

Enter Alphonsus, with a canopy carried over him by three Lords, having over each corner a king's head crowned; with him Albinius, Lælius and Miles with crowns on their heads, and their Soldiers.

Besides the same, behold whereas our foes
Are marching towards us most speedily.
Courage, my lords, ours is the victory.
Alphon. Thou pagan dog, how dar'st thou be so bold
To set thy foot within Alphonsus' land?
What, art thou come to view thy wretched kings,
Whose traitorous heads bedeck my tent so well?
Or else, thou hearing that on top thereof
There is a place left vacant, art thou come
To have thy head possess the highest seat?
If it be so, lie down, and this my sword
Shall presently that honour thee afford.
If not, pack hence, or by the heavens I vow,
Both thou and thine shall very soon perceive
That he that seeks to move my patience
Must yield his life to me for recompense.
Amu. Why, proud Alphonsus, think'st thou Amurack,
Whose mighty force doth terrify the gods,
Can e'er be found to turn his heels, and fly
Away for fear from such a boy as thou?
No, no, although that Mars this mickle while
Hath fortified thy weak and feeble arm,
And Fortune oft hath view'd with friendly face
Thy armies marching victors from the field,
Yet at the presence of high Amurack
Fortune shall change, and Mars, that god of might,
Shall succour me, and leave Alphonsus quite.
Alphon. Pagan, I say thou greatly art deceiv'd:
I clap up Fortune in a cage of gold,
To make her turn her wheel as I think best;
And as for Mars whom you do say will change,
He moping sits behind the kitchen-door,
Prest at command of every scullion's mouth,
Who dares not stir, nor once to move a whit,
For fear Alphonsus then should stomach it.
Amu. Blasp-hém-ous dog, I wonder that the earth
Doth cease from renting underneath thy feet,
To swallow up that canker'd corpse of thine.
I muse that Jove can bridle so his ire
As, when he hears his brother so misus'd,
He can refrain from sending thunderbolts
By thick and threefold, to revenge his wrong.
Mars fight for me, and fortune be my guide!
And I'll be victor, whatsome'er betide.
Albi. Pray loud enough,[49] lest that you pray in vain:
Perhaps God Mars and Fortune are asleep.
Amu. An Mars lies slumbering on his downy bed,
Yet do not think but that the power we have,
Without the help of those celestial gods,
Will be sufficient, yea, with small ado,
Alphonsus' straggling army to subdue.
Læli. You had need as then to call for Mahomet,
With hellish hags to perform the same.
Faustus. High Amurack, I wonder what you mean,
That, when you may, with little toil or none,
Compel these dogs to keep their tongues in peace,
You let them stand still barking in this sort:
Believe me, sovereign, I do blush to see
These beggar's brats to chat so frolicly.
Alphon. How now, sir boy! Let Amurack himself,
Or any he, the proudest of you all,
But offer once for to unsheath his sword,
If that he dares, for all the power you have.
Amu. What, dar'st thou us? myself will venture it.—
To arms, my mate!

[Amurack draws his sword; Alphonsus and all the other Kings draw theirs. Alarum; Amurack and his company fly, followed by Alphonsus and his company.

ACT THE FIFTH

PROLOGUE

Alarum. Enter Venus.

Venus. Fierce is the fight, and bloody is the broil.
No sooner had the roaring cannon shot
Spit forth the venom of their firèd paunch,
And with their pellets sent such troops of souls
Down to the bottom of the dark Avern,
As that it cover'd all the Stygian fields;
But, on a sudden, all the men-at-arms,
Which mounted were on lusty coursers' backs,
Did rush together with so great a noise
As that I thought the giants one time more
Did scale the heavens, as erst they did before.
Long time dame Fortune temper'd so her wheel
As that there was no vantage to be seen
On any side, but equal was the gain;
But at the length, so God and Fates decreed,
Alphonsus was the victor of the field,
And Amurack became his prisoner;
Who so remain'd, until his daughter came,
And by her marrying did his pardon frame. [Exit.

SCENE I.—A Battle-field near Naples.

Alarum: Amurack flies, followed by Alphonsus, who takes him prisoner and carries him in. Alarum: as Crocon and Faustus are flying, enter Fausta and Iphigena, with their army, meeting them.

Fausta. You Turkish kings, what sudden flight is this?
What mean the men, which for their valiant prowess
Were dreaded erst clean through the triple world,
Thus cowardly to turn their backs and fly?
What froward fortune happen'd on your side?
I hope your king in safety doth abide?
Cro. Ay, noble madam, Amurack doth live,
And long I hope he shall enjoy his life;
But yet I fear, unless more succour come,
We shall both lose our king and sovereign.
Fausta. How so, King Crocon? dost thou speak in jest,
To prove if Fausta would lament his death?
Or else hath anything hapt him amiss?
Speak quickly, Crocon, what the cause might be,
That thou dost utter forth these words to me.
Cro. Then, worthy Fausta, know that Amurack
Our mighty king, and your approvèd spouse,
Prick'd with desire of everlasting fame,
As he was pressing in the thickest ranks
Of Arragonians, was, with much ado,
At length took prisoner by Alphonsus' hands.
So that, unless you succour soon do bring,
You lose your spouse, and we shall want our king.
Iphi. O hapless hap, O dire and cruel fate!
What injury hath Amurack, my sire,
Done to the gods, which now I know are wroth,
Although unjustly and without a cause?
For well I wot, not any other king,
Which now doth live, or since the world begun
Did sway a sceptre, had a greater care
To please the gods than mighty Amurack:
And for to quite our father's great good-will,
Seek they thus basely all his fame to spill?
Fausta. Iphigena, leave off these woful tunes:
It is not words can cure and case this wound,
But warlike swords; not tears, but sturdy spears.
High Amurack is prisoner to our foes:
What then? Think you that our Amazones,
Join'd with the forces of the Turkish troop,
Are not sufficient for to set him free?
Yes, daughter, yes, I mean not for to sleep
Until he is free, or we him company keep.—
March on, my mates. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—Another Part of the Field.

Alarum: enter Alphonsus in flight, followed by Iphigena.

Iphi. How now, Alphonsus! you which never yet
Could meet your equal in the feats of arms,
How haps it now that in such sudden sort
You fly the presence of a silly maid?
What, have you found mine arm of such a force
As that you think your body over-weak
For to withstand the fury of my blows?
Or do you else disdain to fight with me,
For staining of your high nobility?
Alphon. No, dainty dame, I would not have thee think
That ever thou or any other wight
Shall live to see Alphonsus fly the field
From any king or keisar whosome'er:
First will I die in thickest of my foe,
Before I will disbase mine honour so.
Nor do I scorn, thou goddess, for to stain
My prowess with thee, although it be a shame
For knights to combat with the female sect:[50]
But love, sweet mouse, hath so benumbed my wit,
That, though I would, I must refrain from it.
Iphi. I thought as much when first I came to wars;
Your noble acts were fitter to be writ
Within the tables of Dame Venus' son,
Than in God Mars his warlike registers:
Whenas your lords are hacking helms abroad,
And make their spears to shiver in the air,
Your mind is busied in fond Cupid's toys.
Come on, i' faith, I'll teach you for to know
We came to fight, and not to love, I trow.
Alphon. Nay, virgin, stay. An if thou wilt vouchsafe
To entertain Alphonsus' simple suit,
Thou shalt ere long be monarch of the world:
All christen'd kings, with all your pagan dogs,
Shall bend their knees unto Iphigena;
The Indian soil shall be thine at command,
Where every step thou settest on the ground
Shall be receivèd on the golden mines;
Rich Pactolus,[51] that river of account,
Which doth descend from top of Tmolus Mount,
Shall be thine own, and all the world beside,
If you will grant to be Alphonsus' bride.
Iphi. Alphonsus' bride! nay, villain, do not think
That fame or riches can so rule my thoughts
As for to make me love and fancy him
Whom I do hate, and in such sort despise,
As, if my death could bring to pass his bane,
I would not long from Pluto's port remain.
Alphon. Nay, then, proud peacock, since thou art so stout
As that entreaty will not move thy mind
For to consent to be my wedded spouse,
Thou shalt, in spite of gods and fortune too,
Serve high Alphonsus as a concubine.
Iphi. I'll rather die than ever that shall hap.
Alphon. And thou shalt die unless it come to pass.
[Alphonsus and Iphigena fight. Iphigena flies followed by Alphonsus.

SCENE III.—The Camp of Alphonsus.

Alarum. Enter Alphonsus with his rapier, Albinius, Lælius, Miles, with their Soldiers; Amurack, Fausta, Iphigena, Crocon, and Faustus, all bound, with their hands behind them. Amurack looks angrily on Fausta.

Enter Medea.

Medea. Nay, Amurack, this is no time to jar:
Although thy wife did, in her frantic mood,
Use speeches which might better have been spar'd,
Yet do thou not judge this same time to be
A season to requite that injury.
More fitteth thee, with all the wit thou hast,
To call to mind which way thou mayst release
Thyself, thy wife, and fair Iphigena,
Forth of the power of stout Alphonsus' hands;
For, well I wot, since first you breathèd breath,
You never were so nigh the snares of death.
Now, Amurack, your high and kingly seat,
Your royal sceptre, and your stately crown,
Your mighty country, and your men-at-arms,
Be conquer'd all, and can no succour bring.
Put, then, no trust in these same paltry toys,
But call to mind that thou a prisoner art,
Clapt up in chains, whose life and death depend
Upon the hands of thy most mortal foe.
Then take thou heed, that whatsome'er he say,
Thou dost not once presume for to gainsay.
Amu. Away, you fool! think you your cursèd charms
Can bridle so the mind of Amurack
As that he will stand crouching to his foe?
No, no, be sure that, if that beggar's brat
Do dare but once to contrary my will,
I'll make him soon in heart for to repent
That e'er such words 'gainst Amurack he spent.
Medea. Then, since thou dost disdain my good advice,
Look to thyself, and if you fare amiss,
Remember that Medea counsel gave,
Which might you safe from all those perils save.
But, Fausta, you, as well you have begun,
Beware you follow still your friend's advice:
If that Alphonsus do desire of thee
To have your daughter for his wedded spouse,
Beware you do not once the same gainsay,
Unless with death he do your rashness pay.
Fausta. No, worthy wight; first Fausta means to die
Before Alphonsus she will contrary.
Medea. Why, then, farewell.—But you, Iphigena,
Beware you do not over-squeamish wax,
Whenas your mother giveth her consent.
Iphi. The gods forbid that e'er I should gainsay
That which Medea bids me to obey. [Exit Medea.

Alphonsus, who all this while has been talking to Albinius, rises up out of his chair.

Alphon. Now, Amurack, the proud blasphémous dogs,
For so you term'd us, which did brawl and rail
Against God Mars, and fickle Fortune's wheel,
Have got the goal for all your solemn prayers.
Yourself are prisoner, which as then did think
That all the forces of the triple world
Were insufficient to fulfil the same.
How like you this? Is Fortune of such might,
Or hath God Mars such force or power divine,
As that he can, with all the power he hath,
Set thee and thine forth of Alphonsus' hands?
I do not think but that your hope's so small
As that you would with very willing mind
Yield for my spouse the fair Iphigena,
On that condition, that without delay
Fausta and you may scot-free 'scape away.
Amu. What, think'st thou, villain, that high Amurack
Bears such a mind as, for the fear of death,
He'll yield his daughter, yea, his only joy,
Into the hands of such a dunghill-knight?
No, traitor, no; for [though] as now I lie
Clapt up in irons and with bolts of steel,
Yet do there lurk within the Turkish soil
Such troops of soldiers that, with small ado,
They'll set me scot-free from your men and you.
Alphon. "Villain," say'st thou? "traitor" and "dunghill-knight"?
Now, by the heavens, since that thou dost deny
For to fulfil that which in gentle wise
Alphonsus craves, both thou and all thy train
Shall with your lives requite that injury.—
Albinius, lay hold of Amurack,
And carry him to prison presently,
There to remain until I do return
Into my tent; for by high Jove I vow,
Unless he wax more calmer out of hand,
His head amongst his fellow-kings shall stand.
Amu. No, villain, think not that the fear of death
Shall make me calmer while I draw my breath.
[Exit in custody of Albinius.
Alphon. Now, Lælius, take you Iphigena,
Her mother Fausta, with these other kings,
And put them into prisons severally;
For Amurack's stout stomach shall undo
Both he himself and all his other crew.
Fausta [kneeling]. O sacred prince, if that the salt brine tears,
Distilling down poor Fausta's wither'd cheeks,
Can mollify the hardness of your heart,
Lessen this judgment, which thou in thy rage
Hast given on thy luckless prisoners.
Alphon. Woman, away! my word is gone and past;
Now, if I would, I cannot call it back.
You might have yielded at my first demand,
And then you needed not to fear this hap.—
[Fausta rises.
Lælius make haste, and go thou presently
For to fulfil that I commanded thee.
Iphi [kneeling]. Mighty Alphonsus, since my mother's suit
Is so rejected that in any case
You will not grant us pardon for her sake,
I now will try if that my woful prayers
May plead for pity at your grace's feet.
When first you did, amongst the thickest ranks,
All clad in glittering arms encounter me,
You know yourself what love you did protest
You then did bear unto Iphigena:
Then for that love, if any love you had,
Revoke this sentence, which is too-too bad.
Alphon. No, damsel; he that will not when he may,
When he desires, shall surely purchase nay:
If that you had, when first I proffer made,
Yielded to me, mark, what I promis'd you
I would have done; but since you did deny,
Look for denial at Alphonsus' hands.
[Iphigena rises, and stands aside. Alphonsus talks with Albinius.

Enter Carinus in pilgrim's apparel.

Cari. [aside]. O friendly Fortune, now thou show'st thy power
In raising up my son from banish'd state
Unto the top of thy most mighty wheel!
But, what be these which at his sacred feet
Do seem to plead for mercy at his hands?
I'll go and sift this matter to the full.
[Goes toward Alphonsus, and speaks to one of his soldiers.
Sir knight, an may a pilgrim be so bold
To put your person to such mickle pain
For to inform me what great king is this,
And what these be, which, in such woful sort,
Do seem to seek for mercy at his hands?
Sol. Pilgrim, the king that sits on stately throne
Is call'd Alphonsus; and this matron hight
Fausta, the wife to Amurack the Turk;
That is their daughter, fair Iphigena;
Both which, together with the Turk himself,
He did take prisoners in a battle fought.
Alphon. [spying out Carinus].
And can the gods be found so kind to me
As that Carinus now I do espy?
'Tis he indeed.—Come on, Albinius:
The mighty conquest which I have achiev'd,
And victories the which I oft have won,
Bring not such pleasure to Alphonsus' heart
As now my father's presence doth impart.
[Alphonsus and Albinius go toward Carinus: Alphonsus stands looking on him.
Cari. What, ne'er a word, Alphonsus? art thou dumb?
Or doth my presence so perturb thy mind
That, for because I come in pilgrim's weed,
You think each word which you do spend to me
A great disgrace unto your name to be?
Why speak'st thou not? if that my place you crave,
I will be gone, and you my place shall have.
Alphon. Nay, father, stay; the gods of heaven forbid
That e'er Alphonsus should desire or wish
To have his absence whom he doth account
To be the loadstar[52] of his life!
What, though the Fates and Fortune, both in one,
Have been content to call your loving son
From beggar's state unto this princely seat,
Should I therefore disdain my agèd sire?
No, first both crown and life I will detest,
Before such venom breed within my breast.
What erst I did, the sudden joy I took
To see Carinus in such happy state,
Did make me do, and nothing else at all,
High Jove himself do I to witness call.
Cari. These words are vain; I knew as much before.
But yet, Alphonsus, I must wonder needs
That you, whose years are prone to Cupid's snares,
Can suffer such a goddess as this dame
Thus for to shed such store of crystal tears.
Believe me, son, although my years be spent,
Her sighs and sobs in twain my heart do rent.
Alphon. Like power, dear father, had she over me,
Until for love I looking to receive
Love back again, not only was denied,
But also taunted in most spiteful sort:
Which made me loathe that which I erst did love,
As she herself, with all her friends, shall prove.
Cari. How now, Alphonsus! you which have so long
Been trainèd up in bloody broils of Mars,
What, know you not that castles are not won
At first assault, and women are not woo'd
When first their suitors proffer love to them?
As for my part, I should account that maid
A wanton wench, unconstant, lewd, and light,
That yields the field before she venture fight;
Especially unto her mortal foe,
As you were then unto Iphigena.
But, for because I see you fitter are
To enter lists and combat with your foes
Than court fair ladies in God Cupid's tents,
Carinus means your spokesman for to be,
And if that she consent, you shall agree.
Alphon. What you command Alphonsus must not fly,
Though otherwise perhaps he would deny.
Cari. Then, dainty damsel, stint these trickling tears,
Cease sighs and sobs, yea, make a merry cheer;
Your pardon is already purchasèd,
So that you be not over-curious[53]
In granting to Alphonsus' just demand.
Iphi. Thanks, mighty prince; no curioser I'll be
Than doth become a maid of my degree.
Cari. The gods forbid that e'er Carinus' tongue
Should go about to make a maid consent
Unto the thing which modesty denies:
That which I ask is neither hurt to thee,
Danger to parents, nor disgrace to friends,
But good and honest, and will profit bring
To thee and those which lean unto that thing.
And that is this:—since first Alphonsus' eyes
Did hap to glance upon your heavenly hue,
And saw the rare perfection of the same,
He hath desirèd to become your spouse:
Now, if you will unto the same agree,
I dare assure you that you shall be free.
Iphi. Pardon, dear lord; the world goes very hard
When womenkind are forcèd for to woo.
If that your son had lovèd me so well,
Why did he not inform me of the same?
Cari. Why did he not! what, have you clean forgot
What ample proffers he did make to you,
When, hand to hand, he did encounter you?
Iphi. No, worthy sir, I have not it forgot;
But Cupid cannot enter in the breast
Where Mars before had took possession:
That was no time to talk of Venus' games
When all our fellows were press'd in the wars.
Cari. Well, let that pass: now canst thou be content
To love Alphonsus and become his spouse?
Iphi. Ay, if the high Alphonsus could vouchsafe
To entertain me as his wedded spouse.
Alphon. If that he could! what, dost thou doubt of that?
Jason did jet[54] whenas he had obtain'd
The golden fleece by wise Medea's art;
The Greeks rejoicèd when they had subdu'd
The famous bulwarks of most stately Troy;
But all their mirth was nothing in respect
Of this my joy, since that I now have got
That which I long desirèd in my heart.
Cari. But what says Fausta to her daughter's choice?
Fausta. Fausta doth say, the gods have been her friends,
To let her live to see Iphigena
Bestowèd so unto her heart's content.
Alphon. Thanks, mighty empress, for your gentleness,
And, if Alphonsus can at any time
With all his power requite this courtesy,
You shall perceive how kindly he doth take
Your forwardness in this his happy chance.
Cari. Albinius, go call forth Amurack:
We'll see what he doth say unto this match.
[Albinius brings forth Amurack.
Most mighty Turk, I, with my warlike son
Alphonsus, loathing that so great a prince
As you should live in such unseemly sort,
Have sent for you to proffer life or death;
Life, if you do consent to our demand,
And death, if that you dare gainsay the same.
Your wife, high Fausta, with Iphigena,
Have given consent that this my warlike son
Should have your daughter for his bedfellow:
Now resteth naught but that you do agree,
And so to purchase sure tranquillity.
Amu. [aside]. Now, Amurack, advise thee what thou say'st;
Bethink thee well what answer thou wilt make:
Thy life and death dependeth on thy words.
If thou deny to be Alphonsus' sire,
Death is thy share; but if that thou consent,
Thy life is sav'd. Consent! nay, rather die:
Should I consent to give Iphigena
Into the hands of such a beggar's brat?
What, Amurack, thou dost deceive thyself;
Alphonsus is the son unto a king:
What then? then worthy of thy daughter's love.
She is agreed, and Fausta is content;
Then Amurack will not be discontent.
[Takes Iphigena by the hand, and gives her to Alphonsus.
Here, brave Alphonsus, take thou at my hand
Iphigena, I give her unto thee;
And for her dowry, when her father dies,
Thou shalt possess the Turkish empery.
Take her, I say, and live King Nestor's years:
So would the Turk and all his noble peers.
Alphon. Immortal thanks I give unto your grace.
Cari. Now, worthy princes, since, by help of Jove,
On either side the wedding is decreed,
Come, let us wend to Naples speedily
For to solémnise it with mirth and glee.
Amu. As you do will, we jointly do agree.
[Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE

Enter Venus with the Muses.

Venus. Now, worthy Muses, with unwilling mind
Venus is forc'd to trudge to heaven again,
For Jupiter, that god of peerless power,
Proclaimed hath a solemn festival
In honour of Dame Danaë's luckless death;
Unto the which, in pain of his displeasure,
He hath invited all the immortal gods
And goddesses, so that I must be there,
Unless I will his high displeasure bear.
You see Alphonsus hath, with much ado,
At length obtained fair Iphigena,
Of Amurack her father, for his wife;
Who now are going to the temple wards,
For to perform Dame Juno's sacred rites;
Where we will leave them, till the feast be done,
Which, in the heavens, by this time is begun.
Meantime, dear Muses, wander you not far
Forth of the path of high Parnassus' hill,
That, when I come to finish up his life,[55]
You may be ready for to succour me:
Adieu, dear dames; farewell, Calliope.
Cal. Adieu, you sacred goddess of the sky.
[Exit Venus; or, if you can conveniently, let a chair come down from the top of the stage, and draw her up.
Well, loving sisters, since that she is gone,
Come, let us haste unto Parnassus' hill,
As Cytherea did lately will.
Melpom. Then make you haste her mind for to fulfil.
[Exeunt omnes, playing on their instruments.

[A LOOKING-GLASS FOR LONDON AND ENGLAND]

A Looking-Glass for London and England is first mentioned in Henslowe's Diary as performed by Lord Strange's servants, 8th March 1592. At this time it was not a new play, and it is probable that it had first belonged to the Queen's players, to whom Greene was attached, and that it was by them turned over to Strange's company along with several other plays when the Queen's company went to the provinces in 1591. Henslowe records four performances of the play between 8th March and 7th June 1592. It was printed by Thomas Creede and entered on the Stationers' Registers, 5th March 1594, as written by Thomas Lodge and Robert Greene, gent. There is every indication that the play was successful. For two decades after its appearance Jonah and the Whale were popular in puppet-shows, and allusions in Beaumont and Fletcher, Ben Jonson and Cowley indicate the vogue of Nineveh on the puppet-stage. Five early quartos are mentioned by Collins: 1594, in the library of the Duke of Devonshire; 1598, in the Bodleian and the British Museum; 1602, in the British Museum; 1617, in the Bodleian and the British Museum; and apparently an actor's edition with many variants, formerly in Heber's Library, now in that of Mr Godfrey Locker Lampson, of the conjectural date 1598. The assignment of authorship of different portions of the play is difficult and not entirely profitable. Fleay assigns "most and best" of the play to Lodge. From their resemblance to the Alarum Against Usurers Collins assigns the following scenes to Lodge: I. 3; II. 3; V. 2. He also assigns the speeches of Oseas and Jonas, and the scenes displaying marine technology, to Lodge, viz.: III. 2; IV. 1. (See also Gayley, Representative English Comedies, p 405, n.) This play was one of the earliest in which Greene had a hand and has been rightly called "a modernised morality."

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Rasni, King of Nineveh.

King of Cilicia.

King of Crete.

King of Paphlagonia.

Thrasybulus, a young gentleman, reduced to poverty.

Alcon, a poor man.

Radagon,
Clesiphon,
his sons.

Usurer.

Judge.

Lawyer.

Smith.

Adam, his man.

First Ruffian.

Second Ruffian.

Governor of Joppa.

Master of a Ship.

First Searcher.

Second Searcher.

A Man in devil's attire.

Magi, Merchants, Sailors, Lords, Attendants, etc.

Remilia, sister to Rasni.

Alvida, wife to the King of Paphlagonia.

Samia, wife to Alcon.

Smith's Wife.

Ladies.

An Angel.

An Evil Angel.

Oseas.

Jonas.

A LOOKING-GLASS FOR LONDON AND ENGLAND

ACT THE FIRST

SCENE I.—The Palace of Rasni in Nineveh.

Enter Rasni, with the Kings of Cilicia, Crete and Paphlagonia, from the overthrow of Jeroboam, King of Jerusalem.

Rasni. So pace ye on, triumphant warriors;
Make Venus' leman,[56] arm'd in all his pomp,
Bash at the brightness of your hardy looks;
For you, the viceroys and the cavaliers,
That wait on Rasni's royal mightiness:—
Boast, petty kings, and glory in your fates,
That stars have made your fortunes climb so high,
To give attend on Rasni's excellence.
Am I not he that rules great Nineveh,
Rounded with Lycus' silver-flowing streams?
Whose city-large diametri contains,
Even three days' journey's length from wall to wall;
Two hundred gates carv'd out of burnish'd brass,
As glorious as the portal of the sun;
And, for to deck heaven's battlements with pride,
Six hundred towers that topless touch the clouds.
This city is the footstool of your king;
A hundred lords do honour at my feet;
My sceptre straineth both the parallels:
And now t' enlarge the highness of my power
I have made Judea's monarch flee the field,
And beat proud Jeroboam from his holds,
Winning from Cadiz to Samaria.
Great Jewry's God, that foil'd stout Benhadad,
Could not rebate[57] the strength that Rasni brought;
For be he God in heaven, yet, viceroys, know,
Rasni is god on earth, and none but he.
K. of Cil. If lovely shape, feature by nature's skill
Passing in beauty fair Endymion's,
That Luna wrapt within her snowy breasts,
Or that sweet boy that wrought bright Venus' bane,
Transform'd unto a purple hyacinth;
If beauty nonpareil in excellence,
May make a king match with the gods in gree,[58]
Rasni is god on earth, and none but he.
K. of Crete. If martial looks, wrapt in a cloud of wars,
More fierce than Mavors lighteneth from his eyes,
Sparkling revenge and dire disparagement;
If doughty deeds more haught than any done,
Seal'd with the smile of fortune and of fate,
Matchless to manage lance and curtle-axe;
If such high actions, grac'd with victories,
May make a king match with the gods in gree,
Rasni is god on earth, and none but he.
K. of Paph. If Pallas' wealth—
Rasni. Viceroys, enough; peace, Paphlagon, no more.
See where's my sister, fair Remilia,
Fairer than was the virgin Danaë
That waits on Venus with a golden show;
She that hath stol'n the wealth of Rasni's looks,
And tied his thoughts within her lovely locks,
She that is lov'd, and love unto your king,
See where she comes to gratulate my fame.

Enter Radagon, with Remilia, Alvida, and Ladies, bringing a globe seated on a ship.

Remil. Victorious monarch, second unto Jove
Mars upon earth, and Neptune on the seas,
Whose frown strows all the ocean with a calm,
Whose smile draws Flora to display her pride,
Whose eye holds wanton Venus at a gaze,
Rasni, the regent of great Nineveh;
For thou hast foil'd proud Jeroboam's force,
And, like the mustering breath of Æolus,
That overturns the pines of Lebanon,
Hast scatter'd Jewry and her upstart grooms,
Winning from Cadiz to Samaria;—
Remilia greets thee with a kind salute,
And, for a present to thy mightiness,
Gives thee a globe folded within a ship,
As king on earth and lord of all the seas,
With such a welcome unto Nineveh
As may thy sister's humble love afford.
Rasni. Sister! the title fits not thy degree;
A higher state of honour shall be thine.
The lovely trull that Mercury entrapp'd
Within the curious pleasure of his tongue,
And she that bash'd the sun-god with her eyes,
Fair Semele, the choice of Venus' maids,
Were not so beauteous as Remilia.
Then, sweeting, sister shall not serve the turn,
But Rasni's wife, his leman and his love:
Thou shalt, like Juno, wed thyself to Jove,
And fold me in the riches of thy fair;[59]
Remilia shall be Rasni's paramour.
For why,[60] if I be Mars for warlike deeds,
And thou bright Venus for thy clear aspect,
Why should not from our loins issue a son
That might be lord of royal sovereignty,
Of twenty worlds, if twenty worlds might be?
What say'st, Remilia, art thou Rasni's wife?
Remil. My heart doth swell with favour of thy thoughts;
The love of Rasni maketh me as proud
As Juno when she wore heaven's diadem.
Thy sister born was for thy wife, my love:
Had I the riches nature locketh up
To deck her darling beauty when she smiles,
Rasni should prank him in the pride of all.
Rasni. Remilia's love is far more richer[61] priz'd
Than Jeroboam's or the world's subdue.
Lordings, I'll have my wedding sumptuous,
Made glorious with the treasures of the world:
I'll fetch from Albia shelves of margarites,[62]
And strip the Indies of their diamonds,
And Tyre shall yield me tribute of her gold,
To make Remilia's wedding glorious.
I'll send for all the damosel queens that live
Within the reach of Rasni's government,
To wait as hand-maids on Remilia,
That her attendant train may pass the troop
That gloried Venus at her wedding-day.
K. of Crete. O my Lord, not sister to thy love!
'Tis incest and too foul a fact for kings;
Nature allows no limits to such lust.
Radag. Presumptuous viceroy, dar'st thou check thy lord,
Or twit him with the laws that nature loves?
Is not great Rasni above nature's reach,
God upon earth, and all his will is law?
K. of Crete. O, flatter not, for hateful is his choice,
And sister's love will blemish all his worth.
Radag. Doth not the brightness of his majesty
Shadow his deeds from being counted faults?
Rasni. Well hast thou answer'd with him, Radagon;
I like thee for thy learnèd sophistry.—
But thou of Crete, that countercheck'st thy king,
Pack hence in exile;—Radagon the crown!—
Be thou vicegerent of his royalty,
And fail me not in what my thoughts may please,
For from a beggar have I brought thee up,
And grac'd thee with the honour of a crown.—
Ye quondam king, what, feed ye on delays?
K. of Crete. Better no king than viceroy under him,
That hath no virtue to maintain his crown. [Exit.
Rasni. Remilia, what fair dames be those that wait
Attendant on thy matchless royalty?
Remil. 'Tis Alvida, the fair wife to the King of Paphlagonia.
Rasni. Trust me, she is a fair:—thou'st, Paphlagon, a jewel,
To fold thee in so bright a sweeting's arms.
Radag. Like you her, my lord?
Rasni. What if I do, Radagon?
Radag. Why, then she is yours, my lord; for marriage
Makes no exception, where Rasni doth command.
K. of Paph. Ill dost thou counsel him to fancy wives.
Radag. Wife or not wife, whatso he likes is his.
Rasni. Well answer'd, Radagon; thou art for me:
Feed thou mine humour, and be still a king.—
Lords, go in triumph of my happy loves,
And, for to feast us after all our broils,
Frolic and revel it in Nineveh.
Whatso'er befitteth your conceited thoughts,
Or good or ill, love or not love, my boys,
In love, or what may satisfy your lust,
Act it, my lords, for no man dare say no.
Divisum imperium cum Jove nunc teneo.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A Public Place in Nineveh.

Enter, brought in by an Angel, Oseas, the Prophet, and let down over the stage in a throne.

Angel. Amaze not, man of God, if in the spirit
Thou'rt brought from Jewry unto Nineveh;
So was Elias wrapt within a storm,
And set upon Mount Carmel by the Lord:
For thou hast preach'd long to the stubborn Jews,
Whose flinty hearts have felt no sweet remorse,
But lightly valuing all the threats of God,
Have still perséver'd in their wickedness.
Lo, I have brought thee unto Nineveh,
The rich and royal city of the world,
Pamper'd in wealth, and overgrown with pride,
As Sodom and Gomorrah full of sin.
The Lord looks down, and cannot see one good,
Not one that covets to obey His will;
But wicked all, from cradle to the crutch.
Note, then, Oseas, all their grievous sins,
And see the wrath of God that pays revenge;
And when the ripeness of their sin is full,
And thou hast written all their wicked thoughts,
I'll carry thee to Jewry back again,
And seat thee in the great Jerusalem;
There shalt thou publish in her open streets
That God sends down His hateful wrath for sin
On such as never heard His prophets speak:
Much more will He inflict a world of plagues
On such as hear the sweetness of His voice,
And yet obey not what His prophets speak.
Sit thee, Oseas, pondering in the spirit
The mightiness of these fond people's[63] sins.
Oseas. The will of the Lord be done!
[Exit Angel.

Enter Adam[64] and his crew of Ruffians, to go to drink.