Transcriber's Note
Endnotes have been moved to the end of the scene to which they apply. The following note preceded the printed endnotes:
"In the Quartos there are no divisions of acts and scenes.
A, B, C = 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Quartos."
THE TEMPLE DRAMATISTS
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM
The text of this edition is nearly that of the first Quarto, the copy of which in the Dyce Library at South Kensington has been carefully collated. I have not noted minute variations. The German editors, Warnke and Proescholt, give the various readings of the three Quartos and of later editions.
Feversham Abbey.
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM
Edited with a Preface, Notes
and Glossary by
REV. RONALD BAYNE
M.A.
J. M. DENT AND CO.
ALDINE HOUSE : LONDON
1897
‘Considering the various and marvellous gifts displayed for the first time on our stage by the great poet, the great dramatist, the strong and subtle searcher of hearts, the just and merciful judge and painter of human passions, who gave this tragedy to the new-born literature of our drama ... I cannot but finally take heart to say, even in the absence of all external or traditional testimony, that it seems to me not pardonable merely or permissible, but simply logical and reasonable, to set down this poem, a young man’s work on the face of it, as the possible work of no man’s youthful hand but Shakespeare’s.’
Mr. A. C. Swinburne.
PREFACE
Early Editions. On 3rd April, 1592, ‘The Tragedie of Arden of Feversham and Blackwall’[A] was entered on the Stationers’ Registers to Edward White. In the same year appeared, ‘The lamentable and true Tragedie of M. Arden of Feversham in Kent. Who was most wickedlye murdered, by the meanes of his disloyall and wanton wyfe, who for the love she bare to one Mosbie, hyred two desperat ruffins, Blackwill and Shakbag, to kill him. Wherin is shewed the great mallice and discimulation of a wicked woman, the unsatiable desire of filthie lust and the shamefull end of all murderers. Imprinted at London for Edward White, dwelling at the lyttle North dore of Paules Church at the signe of the Gun. 1592.’ A second Quarto, with the same title, was printed in 1599. A third, ‘by Eliz. Allde dwelling neere Christs Church,’ appeared in 1633. The second and third Quartos are founded textually upon the first, and their variations are of no value. The text of the first Quarto is unusually good even when prose and verse are mixed together, although the printer has apparently no scientific knowledge of the nature of metre.
[A] A misprint for Blackwill.
Place of the Play in the Elizabethan Drama. Arden of Faversham is the finest extant specimen of a kind of play which has been classified as Domestic Tragedy. A picturesque or sensational murder in the sixteenth century was given to the public first in popular ballads or pamphlets, and afterwards, if sufficiently notable, in the more serious Chronicle. From the popular pamphlet, or from the Chronicle, or from both together, it found its way on to the stage. Four of these ‘murder-plays’ have come down to us, and the titles of many others. They form a minor section of the Chronicle plays or Histories. They did not attain any very striking literary development, owing perhaps to the necessary bondage of the poet to his facts. Arden of Faversham is a remarkable instance of the possibilities of this class of play, but it is to be noted that the poet used the narrative of a Chronicler who wrote twenty-seven years after the date of the murder. A Warning for Fair Women and Yarington’s Two Tragedies in One are both inferior to Arden, though influenced by it. The fourth ‘murder-play’—The Yorkshire Tragedy—is distinct from the other three in style and method. Several famous dramatists produced ‘domestic’ tragedies, but none have survived. A Late Murder of the Son upon the Mother, in which Ford and Webster collaborated, must have been a notable piece of work.
Source of the Play. On Sunday, 15th February 1550-1, Thomas Ardern of Faversham, gentleman, ‘was heynously murdered in his own parlour, about seven of the clock in the night, by one Thomas Morsby, a taylor of London, late servant to sir Edward North, knight, chancellor of the augmentations, father-in-law unto Alice Ardern, wife of the said Thomas Ardern.’ Thomas Ardern was Mayor of Faversham in 1548, and his murder made such a stir that in 1577 the first edition of Holinshed’s Chronicle devotes five pages (pp. 1703-8) to an elaborate account of it. The chronicler begins thus:—‘About this time there was at Faversham in Kent a Gentleman named Arden most cruelly murthered and slain by the procurement of his own wife. The which murder for the horribleness thereof, although otherwise it may seem to be but a private matter, and therefore as it were impertinent to this History, I have thought good to set it forth somewhat at large, having the instructions delivered to me by them that have used some diligence to gather the true understanding of the circumstances.’ Our first quotation was from the Wardmote Book of Faversham, and proves that Holinshed’s narrative is not minutely accurate. The Wardmote Book gives a curt account of the actual murder on the Sunday evening with the names and fate of the culprits. It tells us nothing of the previous failures of these culprits which give to Holinshed’s tale such a terrible and dramatic interest. We need not speculate on Holinshed’s sources. No doubt there were many contemporary pamphlets and ballads which recounted the murder. We know only of The Complaint ... of Mistress Arden of Feversham, preserved among the Roxburghe Ballads, and reprinted by Evans and in Miss De Vaynes’ Kentish Garland. But this is dated by Mr. Bullen about 1633, when the third Quarto of the play appeared, and was probably occasioned by that re-issue. The important point to bear in mind is the excellence of Holinshed’s narrative. To praise it adequately we must say that it is worthy of the fine play founded upon it, which probably had no other source. The play agrees always with Holinshed when Holinshed differs from the Wardmote Book. When the play differs from Holinshed it differs also from the Wardmote Book. To the dramatic instinct of the poet we must ascribe his suppression of the fact that Arden winked at his wife’s infidelity. Holinshed and the Wardmote Book both explicitly assert this. Franklin, Arden’s friend, is also an invention of the dramatist.
Author of the Play. The three Quartos are all anonymous. We know of no other edition till 1770, when Edward Jacob, a Faversham antiquary, edited the first Quarto, and boldly claimed the play for Shakespeare. Ludwig Tieck published in 1823 an excellent German translation, accompanied by a discriminating statement of the case for the Shakesperean authorship. Delius, editing the play in 1855, agreed with Tieck, and was followed by the French translator, François Victor Hugo, and more recently by Professor Mézières. Owing to the supposed Shakespearean authorship there have been at least three translations into German, one into French, and one into Dutch. In England opinion has been more divided. Henry Tyrrell,[B] Charles Knight, and Mr. Swinburne[C] have supported the Shakespearean authorship. Professor Ward[D] and J. A. Symonds incline to reject it. Professor Saintsbury considers that ‘the only possible hypothesis on which it could be admitted as Shakespeare’s would be that of an early experiment thrown off while he was seeking his way in a direction where he found no thoroughfare.’[E] Mr. Bullen, who edited a careful reprint of the first Quarto in 1887, suspects ‘that Arden in its present state has been retouched here and there by the master’s hand.’ The latest German editors, Warnke and Proescholt (1888), ‘are of opinion that Shakespeare had nothing to do with Arden of Faversham.’
[B] Doubtful Plays of Shakespeare.
[C] Study of Shakespeare.
[D] History of English Dramatic Literature.
[E] History of Elizabethan Literature.
The Question of Shakespeare’s Authorship. The only reason for ascribing the play to Shakespeare is its merit. It seems incredible that a drama so mature in its art should have been written in 1592 by a writer otherwise unknown to us. In three directions the art of the writer is mature. First, the character of the base coward Mosbie, and of the ‘bourgeois Clytemnestra,’ Alice Arden, are drawn with an insight, delicacy, and sustained power new to English literature in 1592, and not excelled till Shakespeare excelled them. The picture of Arden, as a man fascinated and bewitched by his wife and by his fate, might match that of Mosbie and Alice if the artist had not blurred his conception by the introduction of the jarring motives of avarice and sacrilege. But the poet’s aim is clear; it is his own, and it almost succeeds. Second, the picturesque ferocity and grim humour of Black Will and Shakebag are described with a firmness and ease and restraint of style which critics have not sufficiently noted. I can compare it only with the Jack Cade scenes of the Contention (and 2 Henry VI.). The prose of our poet is excellent. His humour has a clearly defined character and style of its own. The character of Michael, so admired by Mr. Swinburne, is as subtle and well-sustained as Mosbie’s or Alice Arden’s, and it exhibits our poet’s special humorous gift. This gift, excellent as it is, seems to me very definitely not Shakespearean. But thirdly, the terrifying use of signs and omens and of an almost Shakespearean irony—e.g. Arden’s words, ‘I am almost stifled with this fog!’—combine to produce as the play proceeds an impressive sense of ‘the slow unerring tread of assassination, balked but persevering, marching like a fate to its accomplishment.’ But the special excellencies of the play are all against Shakespeare having written it by 1592. As Mr. Bullen insists, the weak point in Mr. Swinburne’s criticism is the phrase ‘a young man’s work.’ This play is not ‘a young man’s work.’ The copiousness of the young man Shakespeare’s work is the exact contrary of the deliberate anxious effort which marks the style of Arden of Faversham except in the prose scenes. In none of Shakespeare’s plays can it be perceived that the poet has taken such pains as the poet of Arden takes. Unless Shakespeare wrote this play as soon as he reached London, and then for a year or two wrote nothing else, it is impossible to fit it into his work. And if he wrote the play as soon as he reached London and then took up the studies which resulted in Venus and Adonis and Lucrece, would he have written Love’s Labour’s Lost and Comedy of Errors on his way back to work like Arden? If Shakespeare wrote Arden it is the most interesting fact in his literary development. To suggest that Shakespeare revised the play is to shirk the question. Its excellence is in its warp and woof, not in its ornaments.
Literature. Mr. Bullen’s Introduction is the best monograph on the play. Warnke and Proescholt’s Introduction should be consulted, but lacks the distinction of style and the critical insight of Mr. Bullen’s essay. Excellent analyses and criticisms of the play are in Charles Knight’s Doubtful Plays (‘Pictorial Shakespere’); J. A. Symonds’ Shakspere’s Predecessors; Alfred Mézières’ Prédécesseurs et Contemporains de Shakspeare. Mr. Fleay in his Biographical Chronicle of the English Drama (1891) has suggested Kyd as the author of Arden.
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
- Thomas Arden, Gentleman, of Feversham
- Franklin, his Friend
- Mosbie
- Clarke, a Painter
- Adam Fowle, Landlord of the Flower-de-Luce
- Bradshaw, a Goldsmith
- Michael, Arden’s Servant
- Greene
- Richard Reede, a Sailor
- Black Will } Murderers
- Shakebag }
- A Prentice
- A Ferryman
- Lord Cheiny, and his Men
- Mayor of Feversham, and Watch
- Alice, Arden’s Wife
- Susan, Mosbie’s Sister
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM
ACT I
A Room in Arden’s House.
Enter Arden and Franklin.
Franklin. Arden, cheer up thy spirits, and droop no more!
My gracious Lord, the Duke of Somerset,
Hath freely given to thee and to thy heirs,
By letters patents from his Majesty,
All the lands of the Abbey of Feversham.
Here are the deeds, [He hands them.
Sealed and subscribed with his name and the king’s:
Read them, and leave this melancholy mood.
Arden. Franklin, thy love prolongs my weary life;
And but for thee how odious were this life, 10
That shows me nothing but torments my soul,
And those foul objects that offend mine eyes!
Which makes me wish that for this veil of heaven
The earth hung over my head and covered me.
Love-letters pass ’twixt Mosbie and my wife,
And they have privy meetings in the town:
Nay, on his finger did I spy the ring
Which at our marriage-day the priest put on.
Can any grief be half so great as this?
Franklin. Comfort thyself, sweet friend; it is not strange 20
That women will be false and wavering.
Arden. Ay, but to dote on such a one as he
Is monstrous, Franklin, and intolerable.
Franklin. Why, what is he?
Arden. A botcher, and no better at the first;
Who, by base brokage getting some small stock,
Crept into service of a nobleman,
And by his servile flattery and fawning
Is now become the steward of his house,
And bravely jets it in his silken gown. 30
Franklin. No nobleman will countenance such a peasant.
Arden. Yes, the Lord Clifford, he that loves not me.
But through his favour let him not grow proud;
For were he by the Lord Protector backed,
He should not make me to be pointed at.
I am by birth a gentleman of blood,
And that injurious ribald, that attempts
To violate my dear wife’s chastity
(For dear I hold her love, as dear as heaven)
Shall on the bed which he thinks to defile 40
See his dissevered joints and sinews torn,
Whilst on the planchers pants his weary body,
Smeared in the channels of his lustful blood.
Franklin. Be patient, gentle friend, and learn of me
To ease thy grief and save her chastity:
Intreat her fair; sweet words are fittest engines
To race the flint walls of a woman’s breast.
In any case be not too jealous,
Nor make no question of her love to thee;
But, as securely, presently take horse, 50
And lie with me at London all this term;
For women, when they may, will not,
But, being kept back, straight grow outrageous.
Arden. Though this abhors from reason, yet I’ll try it,
And call her forth and presently take leave.
How! Alice!
Here enters Alice.
Alice. Husband, what mean you to get up so early?
Summer-nights are short, and yet you rise ere day.
Had I been wake, you had not risen so soon.
Arden. Sweet love, thou knowest that we two, Ovid-like, 60
Have often chid the morning when it ’gan to peep,
And often wished that dark night’s purblind steeds
Would pull her by the purple mantle back,
And cast her in the ocean to her love.
But this night, sweet Alice, thou hast killed my heart:
I heard thee call on Mosbie in thy sleep.
Alice. ’Tis like I was asleep when I named him,
For being awake he comes not in my thoughts.
Arden. Ay, but you started up and suddenly,
Instead of him, caught me about the neck. 70
Alice. Instead of him? why, who was there but you?
And where but one is, how can I mistake?
Franklin. Arden, leave to urge her over-far.
Arden. Nay, love, there is no credit in a dream;
Let it suffice I know thou lovest me well.
Alice. Now I remember whereupon it came:
Had we no talk of Mosbie yesternight?
Franklin. Mistress Alice, I heard you name him once or twice.
Alice. And thereof came it, and therefore blame not me.
Arden. I know it did, and therefore let it pass. 80
I must to London, sweet Alice, presently.
Alice. But tell me, do you mean to stay there long?
Arden. No longer there till my affairs be done.
Franklin. He will not stay above a month at most.
Alice. A month? ay me! Sweet Arden, come again
Within a day or two, or else I die.
Arden. I cannot long be from thee, gentle Alice.
Whilst Michael fetch our horses from the field,
Franklin and I will down unto the quay;
For I have certain goods there to unload. 90
Meanwhile prepare our breakfast, gentle Alice;
For yet ere noon we’ll take horse and away.
[Exeunt Arden and Franklin.
Alice. Ere noon he means to take horse and away!
Sweet news is this. O that some airy spirit
Would in the shape and likeness of a horse
Gallop with Arden ’cross the Ocean,
And throw him from his back into the waves!
Sweet Mosbie is the man that hath my heart:
And he usurps it, having nought but this,
That I am tied to him by marriage. 100
Love is a God, and marriage is but words;
And therefore Mosbie’s title is the best.
Tush! whether it be or no, he shall be mine,
In spite of him, of Hymen, and of rites.
Here enters Adam of the Flower-de-luce.
And here comes Adam of the Flower-de-luce;
I hope he brings me tidings of my love.
—How now, Adam, what is the news with you?
Be not afraid; my husband is now from home.
Adam. He whom you wot of, Mosbie, Mistress Alice,
Is come to town, and sends you word by me 110
In any case you may not visit him.
Alice. Not visit him?
Adam. No, nor take no knowledge of his being here.
Alice. But tell me, is he angry or displeased?
Adam. It should seem so, for he is wondrous sad.
Alice. Were he as mad as raving Hercules,
I’ll see him, I; and were thy house of force,
These hands of mine should race it to the ground,
Unless that thou wouldst bring me to my love.
Adam. Nay, and you be so impatient, I’ll be gone. 120
Alice. Stay, Adam, stay; thou wert wont to be my friend.
Ask Mosbie how I have incurred his wrath;
Bear him from me these pair of silver dice,
With which we played for kisses many a time,
And when I lost, I won, and so did he;—
Such winning and such losing Jove send me!
And bid him, if his love do not decline,
To come this morning but along my door,
And as a stranger but salute me there:
This may he do without suspect or fear. 130
Adam. I’ll tell him what you say, and so farewell.
[Exit Adam.
Alice. Do, and one day I’ll make amends for all.—
I know he loves me well, but dares not come,
Because my husband is so jealous,
And these my narrow-prying neighbours blab,
Hinder our meetings when we would confer.
But, if I live, that block shall be removed,
And, Mosbie, thou that comes to me by stealth,
Shalt neither fear the biting speech of men,
Nor Arden’s looks; as surely shall he die 140
As I abhor him and love only thee.
Here enters Michael.
How now, Michael, whither are you going?
Michael. To fetch my master’s nag.
I hope you’ll think on me.
Alice. Ay; but, Michael, see you keep your oath,
And be as secret as you are resolute.
Michael. I’ll see he shall not live above a week.
Alice. On that condition, Michael, here’s my hand:
None shall have Mosbie’s sister but thyself.
Michael. I understand the painter here hard by 150
Hath made report that he and Sue is sure.
Alice. There’s no such matter, Michael; believe it not.
Michael. But he hath sent a dagger sticking in a heart,
With a verse or two stolen from a painted cloth,
The which I hear the wench keeps in her chest.
Well, let her keep it! I shall find a fellow
That can both write and read and make rhyme too.
And if I do—well, I say no more:
I’ll send from London such a taunting letter
As she shall eat the heart he sent with salt 160
And fling the dagger at the painter’s head.
Alice. What needs all this? I say that Susan’s thine.
Michael. Why, then I say that I will kill my master,
Or anything that you will have me do.
Alice. But, Michael, see you do it cunningly.
Michael. Why, say I should be took, I’ll ne’er confess
That you know anything; and Susan, being a maid,
May beg me from the gallows of the sheriff.
Alice. Trust not to that, Michael.
Michael. You cannot tell me, I have seen it, I. 170
But, mistress, tell her, whether I live or die,
I’ll make her more worth than twenty painters can;
For I will rid mine elder brother away,
And then the farm of Bolton is mine own.
Who would not venture upon house and land,
When he may have it for a right down blow?
Here enters Mosbie.
Alice. Yonder comes Mosbie. Michael, get thee gone,
And let not him nor any know thy drifts.
[Exit Michael.
Mosbie, my love!
Mosbie. Away, I say, and talk not to me now. 180
Alice. A word or two, sweet heart, and then I will.
’Tis yet but early days, thou needst not fear.
Mosbie. Where is your husband?
Alice. ’Tis now high water, and he is at the quay.
Mosbie. There let him be; henceforward know me not.
Alice. Is this the end of all thy solemn oaths?
Is this the fruit thy reconcilement buds?
Have I for this given thee so many favours,
Incurred my husband’s hate, and, out alas!
Made shipwreck of mine honour for thy sake? 190
And dost thou say ‘henceforward know me not’?
Remember, when I lock’d thee in my closet,
What were thy words and mine; did we not both
Decree to murder Arden in the night?
The heavens can witness, and the world can tell,
Before I saw that falsehood look of thine,
’Fore I was tangled with thy ’ticing speech,
Arden to me was dearer than my soul,—
And shall be still: base peasant, get thee gone,
And boast not of thy conquest over me, 200
Gotten by witchcraft and mere sorcery!
For what hast thou to countenance my love,
Being descended of a noble house,
And matched already with a gentleman
Whose servant thou may’st be!—and so farewell.
Mosbie. Ungentle and unkind Alice, now I see
That which I ever feared, and find too true:
A woman’s love is as the lightning-flame,
Which even in bursting forth consumes itself.
To try thy constancy have I been strange; 210
Would I had never tried, but lived in hope!
Alice. What need’st thou try me whom thou ne’er found false?
Mosbie. Yet pardon me, for love is jealous.
Alice. So lists the sailor to the mermaid’s song,
So looks the traveller to the basilisk:
I am content for to be reconciled,
And that, I know, will be mine overthrow.
Mosbie. Thine overthrow? first let the world dissolve.
Alice. Nay, Mosbie, let me still enjoy thy love,
And happen what will, I am resolute. 220
My saving husband hoards up bags of gold
To make our children rich, and now is he
Gone to unload the goods that shall be thine,
And he and Franklin will to London straight.
Mosbie. To London, Alice? if thou’lt be ruled by me,
We’ll make him sure enough for coming there.
Alice. Ah, would we could!
Mosbie. I happened on a painter yesternight,
The only cunning man of Christendom;
For he can temper poison with his oil, 230
That whoso looks upon the work he draws
Shall, with the beams that issue from his sight,
Suck venom to his breast and slay himself.
Sweet Alice, he shall draw thy counterfeit,
That Arden may, by gazing on it, perish.
Alice. Ay, but Mosbie, that is dangerous,
For thou, or I, or any other else,
Coming into the chamber where it hangs, may die.
Mosbie. Ay, but we’ll have it covered with a cloth
And hung up in the study for himself. 240
Alice. It may not be, for when the picture’s drawn,
Arden, I know, will come and show it me.
Mosbie. Fear not; we’ll have that shall serve the turn.
This is the painter’s house; I’ll call him forth.
Alice. But Mosbie, I’ll have no such picture, I.
Mosbie. I pray thee leave it to my discretion.
How! Clarke!
Here enters Clarke.
Oh, you are an honest man of your word! you served me well.
Clarke. Why, sir, I’ll do it for you at any time,
Provided, as you have given your word, 250
I may have Susan Mosbie to my wife.
For, as sharp-witted poets, whose sweet verse
Make heavenly gods break off their nectar draughts
And lay their ears down to the lowly earth,
Use humble promise to their sacred Muse,
So we that are the poets’ favourites
Must have a love: ay, Love is the painter’s muse,
That makes him frame a speaking countenance,
A weeping eye that witnesses heart’s grief.
Then tell me, Master Mosbie, shall I have her? 260
Alice. ’Tis pity but he should; he’ll use her well.
Mosbie. Clarke, here’s my hand: my sister shall be thine.
Clarke. Then, brother, to requite this courtesy,
You shall command my life, my skill, and all.
Alice. Ah, that thou couldst be secret.
Mosbie. Fear him not; leave; I have talked sufficient
Clarke. You know not me that ask such questions.
Let it suffice I know you love him well,
And fain would have your husband made away:
Wherein, trust me, you show a noble mind, 270
That rather than you’ll live with him you hate,
You’ll venture life, and die with him you love.
The like will I do for my Susan’s sake.
Alice. Yet nothing could inforce me to the deed
But Mosbie’s love. Might I without control
Enjoy thee still, then Arden should not die:
But seeing I cannot, therefore let him die.
Mosbie. Enough, sweet Alice; thy kind words makes me melt.
Your trick of poisoned pictures we dislike;
Some other poison would do better far. 280
Alice. Ay, such as might be put into his broth,
And yet in taste not to be found at all.
Clarke. I know your mind, and here I have it for you.
Put but a dram of this into his drink,
Or any kind of broth that he shall eat,
And he shall die within an hour after.
Alice. As I am a gentlewoman, Clarke, next day
Thou and Susan shall be married.
Mosbie. And I’ll make her dowry more than I’ll talk of, Clarke.
Clarke. Yonder’s your husband. Mosbie, I’ll be gone. 290
Here enters Arden and Franklin.
Alice. In good time see where my husband comes.
Master Mosbie, ask him the question yourself.
[Exit Clarke.
Mosbie. Master Arden, being at London yesternight,
The Abbey lands, whereof you are now possessed,
Were offered me on some occasion
By Greene, one of Sir Antony Ager’s men:
I pray you, sir, tell me, are not the lands yours?
Hath any other interest herein?
Arden. Mosbie, that question we’ll decide anon.
Alice, make ready my breakfast, I must hence. 300
[Exit Alice.
As for the lands, Mosbie, they are mine
By letters patents from his Majesty.
But I must have a mandate for my wife;
They say you seek to rob me of her love:
Villain, what makes thou in her company?
She’s no companion for so base a groom.
Mosbie. Arden, I thought not on her, I came to thee;
But rather than I pocket up this wrong——
Franklin. What will you do, sir?
Mosbie. Revenge it on the proudest of you both. 310
[Then Arden draws forth Mosbie’s sword.
Arden. So, sirrah; you may not wear a sword,
The statute makes against artificers;
I warrant that I do. Now use your bodkin,
Your Spanish needle, and your pressing iron,
For this shall go with me; and mark my words,
You goodman botcher, ’tis to you I speak:
The next time that I take thee near my house,
Instead of legs I’ll make thee crawl on stumps.
Mosbie. Ah, Master Arden, you have injured me:
I do appeal to God and to the world. 320
Franklin. Why, canst thou deny thou wert a botcher once?
Mosbie. Measure me what I am, not what I was.
Arden. Why, what art thou now but a velvet drudge,
A cheating steward, and base-minded peasant?
Mosbie. Arden, now thou hast belched and vomited
The rancorous venom of thy mis-swoll’n heart,
Hear me but speak: as I intend to live
With God and his elected saints in heaven,
I never meant more to solicit her;
And that she knows, and all the world shall see. 330
I loved her once;—sweet Arden, pardon me,
I could not choose, her beauty fired my heart!
But time hath quenched these over-raging coals;
And, Arden, though I now frequent thy house,
’Tis for my sister’s sake, her waiting-maid,
And not for hers. Mayest thou enjoy her long:
Hell-fire and wrathful vengeance light on me,
If I dishonour her or injure thee.
Arden. Mosbie, with these thy protestations
The deadly hatred of my heart’s appeased, 340
And thou and I’ll be friends, if this prove true.
As for the base terms I gave thee late,
Forget them, Mosbie: I had cause to speak,
When all the knights and gentlemen of Kent
Make common table-talk of her and thee.
Mosbie. Who lives that is not touched with slanderous tongues?
Franklin. Then, Mosbie, to eschew the speech of men,
Upon whose general bruit all honour hangs,
Forbear his house.
Arden. Forbear it! nay, rather frequent it more: 350
The world shall see that I distrust her not.
To warn him on the sudden from my house
Were to confirm the rumour that is grown.
Mosbie. By my faith, sir, you say true,
And therefore will I sojourn here a while,
Until our enemies have talked their fill;
And then, I hope, they’ll cease, and at last confess
How causeless they have injured her and me.
Arden. And I will lie at London all this term
To let them see how light I weigh their words. 360
Here enters Alice.
Alice. Husband, sit down; your breakfast will be cold.
Arden. Come, Master Mosbie, will you sit with us?
Mosbie. I cannot eat, but I’ll sit for company.
Arden. Sirrah Michael, see our horse be ready.
Alice. Husband, why pause ye? why eat you not?
Arden. I am not well; there’s something in this broth
That is not wholesome: didst thou make it, Alice?
Alice. I did, and that’s the cause it likes not you.
[Then she throws down the broth on the ground.
There’s nothing that I do can please your taste;
You were best to say I would have poisoned you. 370
I cannot speak or cast aside my eye,
But he imagines I have stepped awry.
Here’s he that you cast in my teeth so oft:
Now will I be convinced or purge myself.
I charge thee speak to this mistrustful man,
Thou that wouldst see me hang, thou, Mosbie, thou:
What favour hast thou had more than a kiss
At coming or departing from the town?
Mosbie. You wrong yourself and me to cast these doubts:
Your loving husband is not jealous. 380
Arden. Why, gentle Mistress Alice, cannot I be ill
But you’ll accuse yourself?
Franklin, thou hast a box of mithridate;
I’ll take a little to prevent the worst.
Franklin. Do so, and let us presently take horse;
My life for yours, ye shall do well enough.
Alice. Give me a spoon, I’ll eat of it myself;
Would it were full of poison to the brim,
Then should my cares and troubles have an end.
Was ever silly woman so tormented? 390
Arden. Be patient, sweet love; I mistrust not thee.
Alice. God will revenge it, Arden, if thou dost;
For never woman loved her husband better
Than I do thee.
Arden. I know it, sweet Alice; cease to complain,
Lest that in tears I answer thee again.
Franklin. Come, leave this dallying, and let us away.
Alice. Forbear to wound me with that bitter word;
Arden shall go to London in my arms.
Arden. Loth am I to depart, yet I must go. 400
Alice. Wilt thou to London, then, and leave me here?
Ah, if thou love me, gentle Arden, stay.
Yet, if thy business be of great import
Go, if thou wilt, I’ll bear it as I may;
But write from London to me every week,
Nay, every day, and stay no longer there
Than thou must needs, lest that I die for sorrow.
Arden. I’ll write unto thee every other tide,
And so farewell, sweet Alice, till we meet next.
Alice. Farewell, husband, seeing you’ll have it so; 410
And, Master Franklin, seeing you take him hence,
In hope you’ll hasten him home, I’ll give you this.
[And then she kisseth him.
Franklin. And if he stay, the fault shall not be mine.
Mosbie, farewell, and see you keep your oath.
Mosbie. I hope he is not jealous of me now.
Arden. No, Mosbie, no; hereafter think of me
As of your dearest friend, and so farewell.
[Exeunt Arden, Franklin, and Michael.
Alice. I am glad he is gone; he was about to stay,
But did you mark me then how I brake off?
Mosbie. Ay, Alice, and it was cunningly performed. 420
But what a villain is that painter Clarke!
Alice. Was it not a goodly poison that he gave?
Why, he’s as well now as he was before.
It should have been some fine confection
That might have given the broth some dainty taste:
This powder was too gross and populous.
Mosbie. But had he eaten but three spoonfuls more,
Then had he died and our love continued.
Alice. Why, so it shall, Mosbie, albeit he live.
Mosbie. It is unpossible, for I have sworn 430
Never hereafter to solicit thee,
Or, whilst he lives, once more importune thee.
Alice. Thou shalt not need, I will importune thee.
What? shall an oath make thee forsake my love?
As if I have not sworn as much myself
And given my hand unto him in the church!
Tush, Mosbie; oaths are words, and words is wind,
And wind is mutable: then, I conclude,
’Tis childishness to stand upon an oath.
Mosbie. Well proved, Mistress Alice; yet by your leave 440
I’ll keep mine unbroken whilst he lives.
Alice. Ay, do, and spare not, his time is but short;
For if thou beest as resolute as I,
We’ll have him murdered as he walks the streets.
In London many alehouse ruffians keep,
Which, as I hear, will murder men for gold.
They shall be soundly fee’d to pay him home.
Here enters Greene.
Mosbie. Alice, what’s he that comes yonder? knowest thou him?
Alice. Mosbie, be gone: I hope ’tis one that comes
To put in practice our intended drifts. 450
[Exit Mosbie
Greene. Mistress Arden, you are well met.
I am sorry that your husband is from home,
Whenas my purposed journey was to him:
Yet all my labour is not spent in vain,
For I suppose that you can full discourse
And flat resolve me of the thing I seek.
Alice. What is it, Master Greene? If that I may
Or can with safety, I will answer you.
Greene. I heard your husband hath the grant of late,
Confirmed by letters patents from the king, 460
Of all the lands of the Abbey of Feversham,
Generally intitled, so that all former grants
Are cut off; whereof I myself had one;
But now my interest by that is void.
This is all, Mistress Arden; is it true or no?
Alice. True, Master Greene; the lands are his in state,
And whatsoever leases were before
Are void for term of Master Arden’s life;
He hath the grant under the Chancery seal.
Greene. Pardon me, Mistress Arden, I must speak, 470
For I am touched. Your husband doth me wrong
To wring me from the little land I have.
My living is my life, and only that
Resteth remainder of my portion.
Desire of wealth is endless in his mind,
And he is greedy-gaping still for gain;
Nor cares he though young gentlemen do beg,
So he may scrape and hoard up in his pouch.
But, seeing he hath ta’en my lands, I’ll value life
As careless as he is careful for to get: 480
And tell him this from me, I’ll be revenged,
And so as he shall wish the Abbey lands
Had rested still within their former state.
Alice. Alas, poor gentleman, I pity you,
And woe is me that any man should want!
God knows ’tis not my fault; but wonder not
Though he be hard to others, when to me,—
Ah, Master Greene, God knows how I am used.
Greene. Why, Mistress Arden, can the crabbed churl
Use you unkindly? respects he not your birth, 490
Your honourable friends, nor what you brought?
Why, all Kent knows your parentage and what you are.
Alice. Ah, Master Greene, be it spoken in secret here,
I never live good day with him alone:
When he’s at home, then have I froward looks,
Hard words and blows to mend the match withal;
And though I might content as good a man,
Yet doth he keep in every corner trulls;
And when he’s weary with his trugs at home,
Then rides he straight to London; there, forsooth, 500
He revels it among such filthy ones
As counsels him to make away his wife.
Thus live I daily in continual fear,
In sorrow; so despairing of redress
As every day I wish with hearty prayer
That he or I were taken forth the world.
Greene. Now trust me, Mistress Alice, it grieveth me
So fair a creature should be so abused.
Why, who would have thought the civil sir so sullen?
He looks so smoothly. Now, fie upon him, churl! 510
And if he live a day, he lives too long.
But frolic, woman! I shall be the man
Shall set you free from all this discontent;
And if the churl deny my interest
And will not yield my lease into my hand,
I’ll pay him home, whatever hap to me.
Alice. But speak you as you think?
Greene. Ay, God’s my witness, I mean plain dealing,
For I had rather die than lose my land.
Alice. Then, Master Greene, be counsellèd by me: 520
Indanger not yourself for such a churl,
But hire some cutter for to cut him short,
And here’s ten pound to wager them withal;
When he is dead, you shall have twenty more,
And the lands whereof my husband is possess’d
Shall be intitled as they were before.
Greene. Will you keep promise with me?
Alice. Or count me false and perjured whilst I live.
Greene. Then here’s my hand, I’ll have him so dispatched.
I’ll up to London straight, I’ll thither post, 530
And never rest till I have compassed it.
Till then farewell.
Alice. Good fortune follow all your forward thoughts.
[Exit Greene.
And whosoever doth attempt the deed,
A happy hand I wish, and so farewell.—
All this goes well: Mosbie, I long for thee
To let thee know all that I have contrived.
Here enters Mosbie and Clarke.
Mosbie. How, now, Alice, what’s the news?
Alice. Such as will content thee well, sweetheart.
Mosbie. Well, let them pass a while, and tell me, Alice,
How have you dealt and tempered with my sister?
What, will she have my neighbour Clarke, or no?
Alice. What, Master Mosbie! let him woo himself!
Think you that maids look not for fair words?
Go to her, Clarke; she’s all alone within;
Michael my man is clean out of her books.
Clarke. I thank you, Mistress Arden, I will in;
And if fair Susan and I can make a gree,
You shall command me to the uttermost,
As far as either goods or life may stretch. 550
[Exit Clarke.
Mosbie. Now, Alice, let’s hear thy news.
Alice. They be so good that I must laugh for joy,
Before I can begin to tell my tale.
Mosbie. Let’s hear them, that I may laugh for company.
Alice. This morning, Master Greene, Dick Greene I mean,
From whom my husband had the Abbey land,
Came hither, railing, for to know the truth
Whether my husband had the lands by grant.
I told him all, whereat he stormed amain
And swore he would cry quittance with the churl, 560
And, if he did deny his interest,
Stab him, whatsoever did befall himself.
Whenas I saw his choler thus to rise,
I whetted on the gentleman with words;
And, to conclude, Mosbie, at last we grew
To composition for my husband’s death.
I gave him ten pound for to hire knaves,
By some device to make away the churl;
When he is dead, he should have twenty more
And repossess his former lands again. 570
On this we ’greed, and he is ridden straight
To London, for to bring his death about.
Mosbie. But call you this good news?
Alice. Ay, sweetheart, be they not?
Mosbie. ’Twere cheerful news to hear the churl were dead;
But trust me, Alice, I take it passing ill
You would be so forgetful of our state
To make recount of it to every groom.
What! to acquaint each stranger with our drifts,
Chiefly in case of murder, why, ’tis the way 580
To make it open unto Arden’s self
And bring thyself and me to ruin both.
Forewarned, forearmed; who threats his enemy,
Lends him a sword to guard himself withal.
Alice. I did it for the best.
Mosbie. Well, seeing ’tis done, cheerly let it pass.
You know this Greene; is he not religious?
A man, I guess, of great devotion?
Alice. He is.
Mosbie. Then, sweet Alice, let it pass: I have a drift 590
Will quiet all, whatever is amiss.
Here enters Clarke and Susan.
Alice. How now, Clarke? have you found me false?
Did I not plead the matter hard for you?
Clarke. You did.
Mosbie. And what? wilt be a match?
Clarke. A match, i’ faith, sir: ay, the day is mine.
The painter lays his colours to the life,
His pencil draws no shadows in his love.
Susan is mine.
Alice. You make her blush. 600
Mosbie. What, sister, is it Clarke must be the man?
Susan. It resteth in your grant; some words are past,
And haply we be grown unto a match,
If you be willing that it shall be so.
Mosbie. Ah, Master Clarke, it resteth at my grant:
You see my sister’s yet at my dispose,
But, so you’ll grant me one thing I shall ask,
I am content my sister shall be yours.
Clarke. What is it, Master Mosbie?
Mosbie. I do remember once in secret talk 610
You told me how you could compound by art
A crucifix impoisoned,
That whoso look upon it should wax blind
And with the scent be stifled, that ere long
He should die poisoned that did view it well.
I would have you make me such a crucifix.
And then I’ll grant my sister shall be yours.
Clarke. Though I am loth, because it toucheth life,
Yet, rather or I’ll leave sweet Susan’s love,
I’ll do it, and with all the haste I may. 620
But for whom is it?
Alice. Leave that to us. Why, Clarke, is it possible
That you should paint and draw it out yourself,
The colours being baleful and impoisoned,
And no ways prejudice yourself withal?
Mosbie. Well questioned, Alice; Clarke, how answer you that?
Clarke. Very easily: I’ll tell you straight
How I do work of these impoisoned drugs.
I fasten on my spectacles so close
As nothing can any way offend my sight; 630
Then, as I put a leaf within my nose,
So put I rhubarb to avoid the smell,
And softly as another work I paint.
Mosbie. ’Tis very well; but against when shall I have it?
Clarke. Within this ten days.
Mosbie. ’Twill serve the turn.
Now, Alice, let’s in and see what cheer you keep.
I hope, now Master Arden is from home,
You’ll give me leave to play your husband’s part.
Alice. Mosbie, you know, who’s master of my heart,
He well may be the master of the house. 640
I. i. 4. Patents; the plural is always used in A, cf. Richard II. II. i. 202; II. iii. 130.
I. i. 14. Contrast Holinshed:—‘He, i.e. Arden, was contented to wink at her filthy disorder,’ and Wardmote Book:—‘All which things the said Ardern did well know and wilfully did permit and suffer the same.’ He was afraid to offend Lord North, ‘father-in-law unto Alice Ardern,’ whose servant Mosbie had been. This North was the father of the translator of Plutarch.
I. i. 15. Pass; so Bullen for past, A, B, C.
I. i. 25. Botcher, is not ‘butcher,’ but a mender of old clothes.
I. i. 48. Jealous: spelt jelyouse, and pronounced so throughout the play.
I. i. 60. The reference is to Ovid’s Elegy, ‘Ad Auroram ne properet.’—Amor. i. 13.
I. i. 61. Most editions reject often. If we retain it the line is an Alexandrine. Cf. i. 153, 167, 238, 479; III. v. 73, etc.
I. i. 105. Flower-de-luce. ‘An inn, formerly situated in Abbey Street, nearly opposite Arden’s house.’ C. E. Donne, An Essay on the Tragedy of Arden of Faversham, 1873.
I. i. 117. thy house of force, i.e. ‘fortified house.’
I. i. 135. narrow: so all editors; but the marrow-prying of A may be correct. Blab is either a verb with and omitted after it, or a noun, the subject of hinder.
I. i. 154. An allusion to verses or inscriptions on tapestry hangings.
I. i. 159. Cf. ‘I’ll write to him a very taunting letter.’—As You Like It, III. v. 134.
I. i. 167. ‘It was popularly supposed that a virgin might save a criminal from the gallows by offering to marry him.—See note to my edition of Marston, III. 190-1.’—Bullen.
I. i. 172. Perhaps worth should be omitted.
I. i. 174. Bolton is ‘Boughton, looking down on Canterbury.’—Donne.
I. i. 247. The name ‘Clarke’ is apparently our author’s invention, like the name and character of Franklin. The painter’s name was William Blackburn.
I. i. 266. Leave; Tyrrell reads love.
I. i. 278. makes: this singular with a plural subject is frequent in our play; cf. Enters in the stage directions with a plural, and I. 151, 437, 502; II. i. 1; III. i. 43 and 83; V. 38, etc. Consult Mr. Verity’s note on Edward II., I. iv. 362, Temple Dramatists.
I. i. 312. The statute in question was 37 Edward III. c. 9.
I. i. 314. ‘The making of Spanish needles was first taught in England by Elias Crowse a Germane about the eight yeere of Queene Elizabeth, and in Queen Marie’s time there was a Negro made fine Spanish needles in Cheapeside, but would never teach his art to any.’ Quoted by Bullen from Stowe, edition 1631, p. 1038.
I. i. 314. ‘Then Mosby having at his girdle a pressing iron of 14 pound weight stroke him on the head with the same so that he fell down and gave a great groan.’—Holinshed. Cf V. i. 241.
I. i. 323. Velvet drudge: an allusion to Mosbie’s tailoring.
I. i. 426. Populous: ‘perhaps used in the sense of thick, compact.’—Bullen. Webster quotes this passage and explains, ‘suitable to common people: hence common, inferior, vulgar.’ Delius proposes palpable.
I. i. 466. His in state, i.e. ‘his legally.’
I. i. 472. Cf. ‘To wring the widow from her customed right.’—2 Henry VI., V. i. 188.
I. i. 537. Tyrrell begins Act II. here.
I. i. 546. ‘The gentleman is not in your books.’—Much Ado, I. i. 79.
I. i. 548. make a gree, come to an agreement. Agree was used adverbially for at gree.
ACT II
SCENE I
Country between Feversham and London.
Enter Greene and Bradshaw.
Bradshaw. See you them that comes yonder, Master Greene?
Greene. Ay, very well: do you know them?
Here enters Black Will and Shakebag.
Bradshaw. The one I know not, but he seems a knave
Chiefly for bearing the other company;
For such a slave, so vile a rogue as he,
Lives not again upon the earth.
Black Will is his name. I tell you, Master Greene,
At Boulogne he and I were fellow-soldiers,
Where he played such pranks
As all the camp feared him for his villainy 10
I warrant you he bears so bad a mind
That for a crown he’ll murder any man.