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Title: Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois
Author: Chapman, George
Language: English
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Prefatory Note

In this volume an attempt is made for the first time to edit _Bussy
D'Ambois_ and _The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_ in a manner suitable to
the requirements of modern scholarship. Of the relations of this edition
to its predecessors some details are given in the Notes on the Text of
the two plays. But in these few prefatory words I should like to call
attention to one or two points, and make some acknowledgments.

The immediate source of _Bussy D'Ambois_ still remains undiscovered. But
the episodes in the career of Chapman's hero, vouched for by
contemporaries like Brantôme and Marguerite of Valois, and related in
some detail in my _Introduction_, are typical of the material which the
dramatist worked upon. And an important clue to the spirit in which he
handled it is the identification, here first made, of part of Bussy's
dying speech with lines put by Seneca into the mouth of Hercules in his
last agony on Mount Oeta. The exploits of D'Ambois were in Chapman's
imaginative vision those of a semi-mythical hero rather than of a
Frenchman whose life overlapped with his own.

On the _provenance_ of _The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_ I have been
fortunately able, with valuable assistance from others, to cast much new
light. In an article in _The Athenæum_, Jan. 10, 1903, I showed that the
immediate source of many of the episodes in the play was Edward
Grimeston's translation (1607) of Jean de Serres's _Inventaire Général
de l'Histoire de France_. Since that date I owe to Mr. H. Richards,
Fellow of Wadham College, Oxford, the important discovery that a number
of speeches in the play are borrowed from the _Discourses_ of Epictetus,
from whom Chapman drew his conception of the character of Clermont
D'Ambois. My brother-in-law, Mr. S. G. Owen, Student of Christ Church,
has given me valuable help in explaining some obscure classical
allusions. Dr. J. A. H. Murray, the editor of the _New English
Dictionary_, has kindly furnished me with the interpretation of a
difficult passage in _Bussy D'Ambois_; and Mr. W. J. Craig, editor of
the _Arden_ Shakespeare, and Mr. Le Gay Brereton, of the University of
Sidney, have been good enough to proffer helpful suggestions. Finally I
am indebted to Professor George P. Baker, the General Editor of this
Series, for valuable advice and help on a large number of points, while
the proofs of this volume were passing through the press.

                                                           F. S. B.


George Chapman was probably born in the year after Elizabeth's
accession. Anthony Wood gives 1557 as the date, but the inscription on
his portrait, prefixed to the edition of _The Whole Works of Homer_ in
1616, points to 1559. He was a native of Hitchin in Hertfordshire, as we
learn from an allusion in his poem _Euthymiæ Raptus_ or _The Teares of
Peace_, and from W. Browne's reference to him in _Britannia's Pastorals_
as "the learned shepheard of faire Hitching Hill." According to Wood "in
1574 or thereabouts, he being well grounded in school learning was sent
to the University." Wood is uncertain whether he went first to Oxford or
to Cambridge, but he is sure, though he gives no authority for the
statement, that Chapman spent some time at the former "where he was
observed to be most excellent in the Latin & Greek tongues, but not in
logic or philosophy, and therefore I presume that that was the reason
why he took no degree there."

His life for almost a couple of decades afterwards is a blank, though it
has been conjectured on evidences drawn from _The Shadow of Night_ and
_Alphonsus Emperor of Germany_, respectively, that he served in one of
Sir F. Vere's campaigns in the Netherlands, and that he travelled in
Germany. _The Shadow of Night_, consisting of two "poeticall hymnes"
appeared in 1594, and is his first extant work. It was followed in 1595
by _Ovid's Banquet of Sence_, _The Amorous Zodiac_, and other poems.
These early compositions, while containing fine passages, are obscure
and crabbed in style.[v-1] In 1598 appeared Marlowe's fragmentary _Hero
and Leander_ with Chapman's continuation. By this year he had
established his position as a playwright, for Meres in his _Palladis
Tamia_ praises him both as a writer of tragedy and of comedy. We know
from Henslowe's _Diary_ that his earliest extant comedy _The Blinde
Begger of Alexandria_ was produced on February 12, 1596, and that for
the next two or three years he was working busily for this enterprising
manager. _An Humerous dayes Myrth_ (pr. 1599), and _All Fooles_ (pr.
1605) under the earlier title of _The World Runs on Wheels_,[vi-1] were
composed during this period.

Meanwhile he had begun the work with which his name is most closely
linked, his translation of Homer. The first instalment, entitled _Seaven
Bookes of the Iliades of Homere, Prince of Poets_, was published in
1598, and was dedicated to the Earl of Essex. After the Earl's execution
Chapman found a yet more powerful patron, for, as we learn from the
letters printed recently in _The Athenæum_ (cf. _Bibliography_, sec.
III), he was appointed about 1604 "sewer (i. e. cupbearer) in ordinary,"
to Prince Henry, eldest son of James I. The Prince encouraged him to
proceed with his translation, and about 1609 appeared the first twelve
books of the _Iliad_ (including the seven formerly published) with a
fine "Epistle Dedicatory," to "the high-born Prince of men, Henry." In
1611 the version of the _Iliad_ was completed, and that of the _Odyssey_
was, at Prince Henry's desire, now taken in hand. But the untimely death
of the Prince, on November 6th, 1612, dashed all Chapman's hopes of
receiving the anticipated reward of his labours. According to a petition
which he addressed to the Privy Council, the Prince had promised him on
the conclusion of his translation £300, and "uppon his deathbed a good
pension during my life." Not only were both of these withheld, but he
was deprived of his post of "sewer" by Prince Charles. Nevertheless he
completed the version of the _Odyssey_ in 1614, and in 1616 he published
a folio volume entitled _The Whole Works of Homer_. The translation, in
spite of its inaccuracies and its "conceits," is, by virtue of its
sustained dignity and vigour, one of the noblest monuments of
Elizabethan genius.

By 1605, if not earlier, Chapman had resumed his work for the stage. In
that year he wrote conjointly with Marston and Jonson the comedy of
_Eastward Hoe_. On account of some passages reflecting on the Scotch,
the authors were imprisoned. The details of the affair are obscure.
According to Jonson, in his conversation later with Drummond, Chapman
and Marston were responsible for the obnoxious passages, and he
voluntarily imprisoned himself with them. But in one of the recently
printed letters, which apparently refers to this episode, Chapman
declares that he and Jonson lie under the Kings displeasure for "two
clawses and both of them not our owne," i. e., apparently, written by
Marston.[vii-1] However this may be, the offenders were soon released,
and Chapman continued energetically his dramatic work. In 1606 appeared
two of his most elaborate comedies, _The Gentleman Usher_ and _Monsieur
D'Olive_, and in the next year was published his first and most
successful tragedy, _Bussy D'Ambois_. In 1608 were produced two
connected plays, _The Conspiracie and Tragedie of Charles, Duke of
Byron_, dealing with recent events in France, and based upon materials
in E. Grimeston's translation (1607) of Jean de Serres' History. Again
Chapman found himself in trouble with the authorities, for the French
ambassador, offended by a scene in which Henry IV's Queen was introduced
in unseemly fashion, had the performance of the plays stopped for a
time. Chapman had to go into hiding to avoid arrest, and when he came
out, he had great difficulty in getting the plays licensed for
publication, even with the omission of the offending episodes. His
fourth tragedy based on French history, _The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_,
appeared in 1613. It had been preceded by two comedies, _May-Day_
(1611), and _The Widdowes' Teares_ (1612). Possibly, as Mr Dobell
suggests (_Athenæum_, 23 March, 1901), the coarse satire of the latter
play may have been due to its author's annoyance at the apparent refusal
of his suit by a widow to whom some of the recently printed letters are
addressed. In 1613 he produced his _Maske of the Middle Temple and
Lyncolns Inne_, which was one of the series performed in honour of the
marriage of the Princess Elizabeth and the Elector Palatine. Another
hymeneal work, produced on a much less auspicious occasion, was an
allegorical poem, _Andromeda Liberata_, celebrating the marriage of the
Earl of Somerset with the divorced Lady Essex in December, 1613.

The year 1614, when the _Odyssey_ was completed, marks the culminating
point of Chapman's literary activity. Henceforward, partly perhaps owing
to the disappointment of his hopes through Prince Henry's death, his
production was more intermittent. Translations of the _Homeric Hymns_,
of the _Georgicks_ of Hesiod, and other classical writings, mainly
occupy the period till 1631. In that year he printed another tragedy,
_Cæsar and Pompey_, which, however, as we learn from the dedication, had
been written "long since." The remaining plays with which his name has
been connected did not appear during his lifetime. A comedy, _The Ball_,
licensed in 1632, but not published till 1639, has the names of Chapman
and Shirley on the title-page, but the latter was certainly its main
author. Another play, however, issued in the same year, and ascribed to
the same hands, _The Tragedie of Chabot, Admiral of France_ makes the
impression, from its subject-matter and its style, of being chiefly due
to Chapman. In 1654 two tragedies, _Alphonsus Emperour of Germany_ and
_The Revenge for Honour_, were separately published under Chapman's
name. Their authorship, however, is doubtful. There is nothing in the
style or diction of _Alphonsus_ which resembles Chapman's undisputed
work, and it is hard to believe that he had a hand in it. _The Revenge
for Honour_ is on an Oriental theme, entirely different from those
handled by Chapman in his other tragedies, and the versification is
marked by a greater frequency of feminine endings than is usual with
him; but phrases and thoughts occur which may be paralleled from his
plays, and the work may be from his hand.

On May 12, 1634, he died, and was buried in the churchyard of St.
Giles's in the Field, where his friend Inigo Jones erected a monument to
his memory. According to Wood, he was a person of "most reverend aspect,
religious and temperate, qualities rarely meeting in a poet." Though his
material success seems to have been small, he gained the friendship of
many of the most illustrious spirits of his time--Essex, Prince Henry,
Bacon, Jonson, Webster, among the number--and it has been his good
fortune to draw in after years splendid tributes from such successors in
the poetic art as Keats and A. C. Swinburne.


[v-1] This Biography was written before the appearance of Mr. Acheson's
volume, _Shakespeare and the Rival Poet_. Without endorsing all his
arguments or conclusions, I hold that Mr. Acheson has proved that
Shakespeare in a number of his Sonnets refers to these earlier poems of
Chapman's. He has thus brought almost conclusive evidence in support of
Minto's identification of Shakespeare's rival with Chapman--a conjecture
with which I, in 1896, expressed strong sympathy in my _Shakspere and
his Predecessors_.

[vi-1] This identification seems established by the entry in Henslowe's
_Diary_, under date 2 July 1599. "Lent unto thomas Dowton to paye Mr
Chapman, in full paymente for his boocke called the world rones a
whelles, and now all foolles, but the foolle, some of ______ xxxs."

[vii-1] See pp. 158-64, Jonson's _Eastward Hoe and Alchemist_, F. E.
Schelling (Belles Lettres Series, 1904).


The group of Chapman's plays based upon recent French history, to which
_Bussy D'Ambois_ and its sequel belong, forms one of the most unique
memorials of the Elizabethan drama. The playwrights of the period were
profoundly interested in the annals of their own country, and exploited
them for the stage with a magnificent indifference to historical
accuracy. Gorboduc and Locrine were as real to them as any Lancastrian
or Tudor prince, and their reigns were made to furnish salutary lessons
to sixteenth century "magistrates." Scarcely less interesting were the
heroes of republican Greece and Rome: Cæsar, Pompey, and Antony, decked
out in Elizabethan garb, were as familiar to the playgoers of the time
as their own national heroes, real or legendary. But the contemporary
history of continental states had comparatively little attraction for
the dramatists of the period, and when they handled it, they usually had
some political or religious end in view. Under a thin veil of allegory,
Lyly in _Midas_ gratified his audience with a scathing denunciation of
the ambition and gold-hunger of Philip II of Spain; and half a century
later Middleton in a still bolder and more transparent allegory, _The
Game of Chess_, dared to ridicule on the stage Philip's successor, and
his envoy, Gondomar. But both plays were suggested by the elements of
friction in the relations of England and Spain.

French history also supplied material to some of the London
playwrights, but almost exclusively as it bore upon the great conflict
between the forces of Roman Catholicism and Protestantism. The _Masaker
of France_, which Henslowe mentions as having been played on January 3,
1592-3, may or may not be identical with Marlowe's _The Massacre at
Paris_, printed towards the close of the sixteenth century, but in all
probability it expressed similarly the burning indignation of Protestant
England at the appalling events of the Eve of St. Bartholomew. Whatever
Marlowe's religious or irreligious views may have been, he acted on this
occasion as the mouthpiece of the vast majority of his countrymen, and
he founded on recent French history a play which, with all its defects,
is of special interest to our present inquiry. For Chapman, who finished
Marlowe's incompleted poem, _Hero and Leander_, must have been familiar
with this drama, which introduced personages and events that were partly
to reappear in the two _Bussy_ plays. A brief examination of _The
Massacre at Paris_ will, therefore, help to throw into relief the
special characteristics of Chapman's dramas.

It opens with the marriage, in 1572, of Henry of Navarre and Margaret,
sister of King Charles IX, which was intended to assuage the religious
strife. But the Duke of Guise, the protagonist of the play, is
determined to counterwork this policy, and with the aid of Catherine de
Medicis, the Queen-Mother, and the Duke of Anjou (afterwards Henry III),
he arranges the massacre of the Huguenots. Of the events of the fatal
night we get a number of glimpses, including the murder of a
Protestant, Scroune, by Mountsorrell (Chapman's Montsurry), who is
represented as one of the Guise's most fanatical adherents. Charles soon
afterwards dies, and is succeeded by his brother Henry, but "his mind
runs on his minions," and Catherine and the Guise wield all real power.
But there is one sphere which Guise cannot control--his wife's heart,
which is given to Mugeroun, one of the "minions" of the King. Another of
the minions, Joyeux, is sent against Henry of Navarre, and is defeated
and slain; but Henry, learning that Guise has raised an army against his
sovereign "to plant the Pope and Popelings in the realm," joins forces
with the King against the rebel, who is treacherously murdered and dies
crying, "_Vive la messe!_ perish Huguenots!" His brother, the Cardinal,
meets a similar fate, but the house of Lorraine is speedily revenged by
a friar, who stabs King Henry. He dies, vowing vengeance upon Rome, and
sending messages to Queen Elizabeth, "whom God hath bless'd for hating

It is easy to see how a play on these lines would have appealed to an
Elizabethan audience, while Marlowe, whether his religious sympathies
were engaged or not, realized the dramatic possibilities of the figure
of the Guise, one of the lawlessly aspiring brotherhood that had so
irresistible a fascination for his genius. But it is much more difficult
to understand why, soon after the accession of James I, Chapman should
have gone back to the same period of French history, and reintroduced a
number of the same prominent figures, Henry III, Guise, his Duchess, and
Mountsorrell, not in their relation to great political and religious
outbreaks, but grouped round a figure who can scarcely have been very
familiar to the English theatre-going public--Louis de Clermont, Bussy

This personage was born in 1549, and was the eldest son of Jacques de
Clermont d'Amboise, seigneur de Bussy et de Saxe-Fontaine, by his first
wife, Catherine de Beauvais. He followed the career of arms, and in 1568
we hear of him as a commandant of a company. He was in Paris during the
massacre of St. Bartholomew, and took advantage of it to settle a
private feud. He had had a prolonged lawsuit with his cousin Antoine de
Clermont, a prominent Huguenot, and follower of the King of Navarre.
While his rival was fleeing for safety he had the misfortune to fall
into the hands of Bussy, who dispatched him then and there. He
afterwards distinguished himself in various operations against the
Huguenots, and by his bravery and accomplishments won the favour of the
Duke of Anjou, who, after the accession of Henry III in 1575, was heir
to the throne. The Duke in this year appointed him his _couronell_, and
henceforward he passed into his service. In 1576, as a reward for
negotiating "_la paix de Monsieur_" with the Huguenots, the Duke
received the territories of Anjou, Touraine, and Berry, and at once
appointed Bussy governor of Anjou. In November the new governor arrived
at Angers, the capital of the Duchy, and was welcomed by the citizens;
but the disorders and exactions of his troops soon aroused the anger of
the populace, and the King had to interfere in their behalf, though for
a time Bussy set his injunctions at defiance. At last he retired from
the city, and rejoined the Duke, in close intercourse with whom he
remained during the following years, accompanying him finally on his
unsuccessful expedition to the Low Countries in the summer of 1578. On
Anjou's return to court in January, 1579, Bussy, who seems to have
alienated his patron by his presumptuous behaviour, did not go with him,
but took up his residence again in the territory of Anjou. He was less
occupied, however, with his official duties than with his criminal
passion for Françoise de Maridort, wife of the Comte de Monsoreau, who
had been appointed _grand-veneur_ to the Duke. The favorite mansion of
the Comte was at La Coutancière, and it was here that Bussy ardently
pursued his intrigue with the Countess. But a jocular letter on the
subject, which he sent to the Duke of Anjou, was shown, according to the
historian, De Thou, by the Duke to the King, who, in his turn, passed it
on to Montsoreau. The latter thereupon forced his wife to make a
treacherous assignation with Bussy at the château on the night of the
18th of August, and on his appearance, with his companion in pleasure,
Claude Colasseau, they were both assassinated by the retainers of the
infuriated husband.

The tragic close of Bussy's life has given his career an interest
disproportionate to his historical importance. But the drama of La
Coutancière was only the final episode in a career crowded with romantic
incidents. The annalists and memoir-writers of the period prove that
Bussy's exploits as a duellist and a gallant had impressed vividly the
imagination of his contemporaries. Margaret of Valois, the wife of Henry
IV, Brantôme, who was a relative and friend of D'Ambois, and L'Estoile,
the chronicler and journalist, are amongst those who have left us their
impressions of this _beau sabreur_. Chapman must have had access to
memorials akin to theirs as a foundation for his drama, and though, for
chronological reasons, they cannot have been utilized by him, they
illustrate the materials which he employed.

The first two Acts of the play are chiefly occupied with Bussy's
arrival at court, his entry into the service of Monsieur, his quarrel
with Guise, and the duel between himself and Barrisor, with two
supporters on either side. Brantôme, in his _Discours sur les Duels_,
relates from personal knowledge an incident between Guise and Bussy,
which took place shortly after the accession of Henry III. The Duke took
occasion of a royal hunting party to draw Bussy alone into the forest,
and to demand certain explanations of him. D'Ambois gave these in a
satisfactory manner; but had he not done so, the Duke declared, in spite
of their difference of rank, he would have engaged in single combat with
him. The explanations demanded may well have concerned the honour of the
Duchess, and we get at any rate a hint for the episode in Chapman's play
(I, ii, 57-185).

For the duelling narrative (II, i, 35-137) we get considerably more than
a hint. Our chief authority is again Brantôme, in another work, the
_Discours sur les Couronnels de l'infanterie de France_. He tells us
that he was with Bussy at a play, when a dispute arose between him and
the Marquis of Saint-Phal as to whether the jet embroidery on a certain
muff represented XX or YY. The quarrel was appeased for the time being,
but on the following day Bussy, meeting Saint-Phal at the house of a
lady with whom he had had relations, and who was now the mistress of the
Marquis, renewed the dispute. An encounter took place between Bussy,
supported by five or six gentlemen, and Saint-Phal, assisted by an equal
number of Scotchmen of the Royal Guard, one of whom wounded Bussy's
hand. Thereupon Saint-Phal withdrew, but his fire-eating rival was
anxious at all hazards for another encounter. It was only with the
greatest difficulty, as Brantôme relates in entertaining fashion, that
the King was able to bring about a reconciliation between them. Such an
episode, reported with exaggeration of details, might well have
suggested the narrative in Act II of the triple encounter.

Brantôme further relates a midnight attack upon Bussy, about a month
later, by a number of his jealous rivals, when he had a narrow escape
from death. Of this incident another account has been given by Margaret
of Valois in her _Mémoires_. Margaret and her brother, the Duke of
Anjou, were devoted to one another, and Bussy was for a time a paramour
of the Queen of Navarre. Though she denies the liaison, she says of him
that there was not "_en ce siècle-là de son sexe et de sa qualité rien
de semblable en valeur, reputation, grace, et esprit_." Margaret,
L'Estoile, and Brantôme all relate similar incidents during Bussy's
sojourn at court in the year 1578, and the last-named adds:

     "_Si je voulois raconter toutes les querelles qu'il a eues,
     j'aurois beaucoup affaire; hélas! il en a trop eu, et toutes
     les a desmeslées à son très-grand honneur et heur. Il en
     vouloit souvant par trop à plusieurs, sans aucun respect; je
     luy ay dict cent fois; mais il se fioit tant en sa valeur qu'il
     mesprisoit tous les conseils de ses amis . . . Dieu ayt son âme!
     Mais il mourut (quand il trespassa) un preux trés vaillant et

It is plain, therefore, that Chapman in his picture of Bussy's quarrels
and encounters-at-arms was deviating little, except in details of names
and dates, from the actual facts of history. Bussy's career was so
romantic that it was impossible for even the most inventive dramatist to
embellish it. This was especially true of its closing episode, which
occupies the later acts of Chapman's drama--the intrigue with the
Countess of Montsoreau and the tragic fate which it involved. It is
somewhat singular that the earliest narratives of the event which have
come down to us were published subsequently to the play. The statement,
accepted for a long time, that De Thou's _Historiæ sui Temporis_ was the
basis of Chapman's tragedy, has been completely disproved. The passage
in which he narrates the story of Bussy's death does not occur in the
earlier editions of his work, and first found its way into the issue
published at Geneva in 1620. A similar narrative appeared in the
following year in L'Estoile's _Journal_, which first saw the light in
1621, ten years after its author's death. But under a thin disguise
there had already appeared a detailed history of Bussy's last _amour_
and his fall, though this, too, was later than Chapman's drama. A
novelist, François de Rosset, had published a volume of tales entitled
_Les Histoires Tragiques de Nostre Temps_. The earliest known edition is
one of 1615, though it was preceded, probably not long, by an earlier
edition full of "_fautes insupportables_," for which Rosset apologizes.
He is careful to state in his preface that he is relating "_des
histoires autant veritables que tristes et funestes. Les noms de la
pluspart des personnages sont seulement desguisez en ce Theatre, à fin
de n'affliger pas tant les familles de ceux qui en ont donné le sujet._"
The fate of Bussy forms the subject of the seventeenth history,
entitled "_De la mort pitoyable du valeureux Lysis_." Lysis was the name
under which Margaret of Valois celebrated the memory of her former lover
in a poem entitled "_L'esprit de Lysis disant adieu à sa Flore_." But
apart from this proof of identification, the details given by Rosset are
so full that there can be no uncertainty in the matter. Indeed, in some
of his statements, as in his account of the first meeting between the
lovers, Rosset probably supplies facts unrecorded by the historians of
the period.

From a comparison of these more or less contemporary records it is
evident that, whatever actual source Chapman may have used, he has given
in many respects a faithful portrait of the historical Bussy D'Ambois.
It happened that at the time of Bussy's death the Duke of Anjou, his
patron, was in London, laying ineffective siege to the hand of
Elizabeth. This coincidence may have given wider currency in England to
Bussy's tragic story than would otherwise have been the case. But a
quarter of a century later this adventitious interest would have
evaporated, and the success of Chapman's play would be due less to its
theme than to its qualities of style and construction. To these we must
therefore now turn.

With Chapman's enthusiasm for classical literature, it was natural that
he should be influenced by classical models, even when handling a
thoroughly modern subject. His Bussy is, in certain aspects, the _miles
gloriosus_ of Latin drama, while in the tragic crisis of his fate he
demonstrably borrows, as is shown in this edition for the first time,
the accents of the Senecan Hercules on Mount Oeta (cf. notes on v, iv,
100 and 109). Hence the technique of the work is largely of the
semi-Senecan type with which Kyd and his school had familiarized the
English stage. Thus Bussy's opening monologue serves in some sort as a
Prologue; the narrative by the _Nuntius_ in Act II, i, 35-137, is in the
most approved classical manner; an _Umbra_ or Ghost makes its regulation
entrance in the last Act, and though the accumulated horrors of the
closing scenes violate every canon of classical art, they had become
traditional in the semi-Senecan type of play, and were doubtless highly
acceptable to the audiences of the period. But while the Senecan and
semi-Senecan methods had their dangers, their effect on English
dramatists was in so far salutary that they necessitated care in
plot-construction. And it is doubtful whether Chapman has hitherto
received due credit for the ingenuity and skill with which he has woven
into the texture of his drama a number of varied threads. Bussy's life
was, as has been shown, crowded with incidents, and the final
catastrophe at La Coutancière had no direct relation with the duels and
intrigues of his younger days at Court. Chapman, however, has connected
the earlier and the later episodes with much ingenuity. Departing from
historical truth, he represents Bussy as a poor adventurer at Court,
whose fortunes are entirely made by the patronage of Monsieur. His
sudden elevation turns his head, and he insults the Duke of Guise by
courting his wife before his face, thus earning his enmity, and exciting
at the same time the ridicule of the other courtiers. Hence springs the
encounter with Barrisor and his companions, and this is made to serve as
an introduction to the _amour_ between Bussy and Tamyra, as Chapman
chooses to call the Countess of Montsurry. For Barrisor, we are told
(II, ii, 202 ff.), had long wooed the Countess, and the report was
spread that the "main quarrel" between him and Bussy "grew about her
love," Barrisor thinking that D'Ambois's courtship of the Duchess of
Guise was really directed towards "his elected mistress." On the advice
of a Friar named Comolet, to whom Chapman strangely enough assigns the
repulsive _rôle_ of go-between, Bussy wins his way at night into
Tamyra's chamber on the plea that he has come to reassure her that she
is in no way guilty of Barrisor's blood. Thus the main theme of the play
is linked with the opening incidents, and the action from first to last
is laid in Paris, whither the closing scenes of Bussy's career are
shifted. By another ingenious departure from historical truth the Duke
of Anjou, to whom Bussy owes his rise, is represented as the main agent
in his fall. He is angered at the favour shown by the King to the
follower whom he had raised to serve his own ends, and he conspires with
Guise for his overthrow. He is the more eagerly bent upon this when he
discovers through Tamyra's waiting-woman that the Countess, whose
favours he has vainly sought to win, has granted them to Bussy. It is he
who, by means of a paper, convinces Montsurry of his wife's guilt, and
it is he, together with Guise, who suggests to the Count the stratagem
by which Tamyra is forced to decoy her paramour to his doom. All this
is deftly contrived and does credit to Chapman's dramatic craftsmanship.
It is true that the last two Acts are spun out with supernatural
episodes of a singularly unconvincing type. The Friar's invocation of
Behemoth, who proves a most unserviceable spirit, and the vain attempts
of this scoundrelly ecclesiastic's ghost to shield D'Ambois from his
fate, strike us as wofully crude and mechanical excursions into the
occult. But they doubtless served their turn with audiences who had an
insatiable craving for such manifestations, and were not particular as
to the precise form they took.

In point of character-drawing the play presents a more complex problem.
Bussy is a typically Renaissance hero and appealed to the sympathies of
an age which set store above all things on exuberant vitality and
prowess, and was readier than our own to allow them full rein. The King
seems to be giving voice to Chapman's conception of Bussy's character,
when he describes him in III, ii, 90 ff. as

     "A man so good that only would uphold
     Man in his native noblesse, from whose fall
     All our dissentions arise," &c.

And in certain aspects Bussy does not come far short of the ideal thus
pictured. His bravery, versatility, frankness, and readiness of speech
are all vividly portrayed, while his mettlesome temper and his arrogance
are alike essential to his _rôle_, and are true to the record of the
historical D'Ambois. But there is a coarseness of fibre in Chapman's
creation, an occasional foul-mouthed ribaldry of utterance which robs
him of sympathetic charm. He has in him more of the swashbuckler and the
bully than of the courtier and the cavalier. Beaumont and Fletcher, one
cannot help feeling, would have invested him with more refinement and
grace, and would have given a tenderer note to the love-scenes between
him and Tamyra. Bussy takes the Countess's affections so completely by
storm, and he ignores so entirely the rights of her husband, that it is
difficult to accord him the measure of sympathy in his fall, which the
fate of a tragic hero should evoke.

Tamyra appeals more to us, because we see in her more of the conflict
between passion and moral obligation, which is the essence of drama. Her
scornful rejection of the advances of Monsieur (II, ii), though her
husband palliates his conduct as that of "a bachelor and a courtier, I,
and a prince," proves that she is no light o' love, and that her
surrender to Bussy is the result of a sudden and overmastering passion.
Even in the moment of keenest expectation she is torn between
conflicting emotions (II, ii, 169-182), and after their first interview,
Bussy takes her to task because her

                 "Conscience is too nice,
     And bites too hotly of the Puritane spice."

But she masters her scruples sufficiently to play the thorough-going
dissembler when she meets her husband, and she keeps up the pretence
when she declares to Bussy before the Court (III, ii, 138), "Y'are one I
know not," and speaks of him vaguely in a later scene as "the man." So,
too, when Montsurry first tells her of the suspicions which Monsieur
has excited in him, she protests with artfully calculated indignation
against the charge of wrong-doing with this "serpent." But the brutal
and deliberate violence of her husband when he knows the truth, and the
perfidious meanness with which he makes her the reluctant instrument of
her lover's ruin, win back for her much of our alienated sympathy. Yet
at the close her position is curiously equivocal. It is at her prayer
that Bussy has spared Montsurry when "he hath him down" in the final
struggle; but when her lover is mortally wounded by a pistol shot, she
implores his pardon for her share in bringing him to his doom. And when
the Friar's ghost seeks to reconcile husband and wife, the former is
justified in crying ironically (V, iv, 163-64):

     "See how she merits this, still kneeling by,
     And mourning his fall, more than her own fault!"

Montsurry's portraiture, indeed, suffers from the same lack of
consistency as his wife's. In his earlier relations with her he strikes
a tenderer note than is heard elsewhere in the play, and his first
outburst of fury, when his suspicions are aroused, springs, like
Othello's, from the depth of his love and trust (IV, i, 169-70):

                   "My whole heart is wounded,
     When any least thought in you is but touch'd."

But there is nothing of Othello's noble agony of soul, nor of his sense
that he is carrying out a solemn judicial act on the woman he still
loves, in Montsurry's long-drawn torture of his wife. Indeed a
comparison of the episodes brings into relief the restraint and purity
of Shakespeare's art when handling the most terrible of tragic themes.
Yet the Moor himself might have uttered Montsurry's cry (V, i, 183-85),

                 "Here, here was she
     That was a whole world without spot to me,
     Though now a world of spot."

And there is something of pathetic dignity in his final forgiveness of
his wife, coupled with the declaration that his honour demands that she
must fly his house for ever.

Monsieur and the Guise are simpler types. The former is the ambitious
villain of quality, chafing at the thought that there is but a thread
betwixt him and a crown, and prepared to compass his ends by any means
that fall short of the actual killing of the King. It is as a useful
adherent of his faction that he elevates Bussy, and when he finds him
favoured by Henry he ruthlessly strikes him down, all the more readily
that he is his successful rival for Tamyra's love. He is the typical
Renaissance politician, whose characteristics are expounded with
characteristically vituperative energy by Bussy in III, ii, 439-94.

Beside this arch-villain, the Guise, aspiring and factious though he be,
falls into a secondary place. Probably Chapman did not care to elaborate
a figure of whom Marlowe had given so powerful a sketch in the _Massacre
at Paris_. The influence of the early play may also be seen in the
handling of the King, who is portrayed with an indulgent pen, and who
reappears in the _rôle_ of an enthusiastic admirer of the English Queen
and Court. The other personages in the drama are colourless, though
Chapman succeeds in creating the general atmosphere of a frivolous and
dissolute society.

But the plot and portraiture in _Bussy D'Ambois_ are both less
distinctive than the "full and heightened" style, to which was largely
due its popularity with readers and theatre-goers of its period, but
which was afterwards to bring upon it such severe censure, when taste
had changed. Dryden's onslaught in his _Dedication to the Spanish Friar_
(1681) marks the full turn of the tide. The passage is familiar, but it
must be reproduced here:

     "I have sometimes wondered, in the reading, what has become of
     those glaring colours which annoyed me in _Bussy D'Ambois_
     upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what I supposed a
     fallen star, I found I had been cozened with a jelly; nothing
     but a cold dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was
     shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words,
     repetition in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross
     hyperboles; the sense of one line expanded prodigiously into
     ten; and, to sum up all, uncorrect English, and a hideous
     mingle of false poetry and true nonsense; or, at best, a
     scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning
     beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to
     sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil's _manes_; and I have
     indignation enough to burn a _D'Ambois_ annually to the memory
     of Jonson."

Dryden's critical verdicts are never lightly to be set aside. He is
singularly shrewd and unprejudiced in his judgements, and has a
remarkable faculty of hitting the right nail on the head. But Chapman,
in whom the barbarian and the pedant were so strongly commingled, was a
type that fell outside the wide range of Dryden's appreciation. The
Restoration writer fails, in the first place, to recognize that _Bussy
D'Ambois_ is pitched advisedly from first to last in a high key.
Throughout the drama men and women are playing for great stakes. No one
is ever at rest. Action and passion are both at fever heat. We move in
an atmosphere of duels and state intrigues by day, of assignations and
murders by night. Even the subordinate personages in the drama, the
stewards and waiting-women, partake of the restless spirit of their
superiors. They are constantly arguing, quarrelling, gossiping--their
tongues and wits are always on the move. Thus Chapman aimed throughout
at energy of expression at all costs. To this he sacrificed beauty of
phrase and rhythm, even lucidity. He pushed it often to exaggerated
extremes of coarseness and riotous fancy. He laid on "glaring colours"
till eye and brain are fatigued. To this opening phrase of Dryden no
exception can be taken. But can his further charges stand? Is it true to
say of _Bussy D'Ambois_ that it is characterised by "dwarfish thought
dressed up in gigantic words," that it is "a hideous mingle of false
poetry and true nonsense"? The accusation of "nonsense" recoils upon its
maker. Involved, obscure, inflated as Chapman's phrasing not
infrequently is, it is not mere rhodomontade, sound, and fury,
signifying nothing. There are some passages (as the Notes testify) where
the thread of his meaning seems to disappear amidst his fertile imagery,
but even here one feels not that sense is lacking, but that one has
failed to find the clue to the zigzag movements of Chapman's brain. Nor
is it fair to speak of Chapman as dressing up dwarfish thoughts in
stilted phrases. There is not the slightest tendency in the play to spin
out words to hide a poverty of ideas; in fact many of the difficulties
spring from excessive condensation. Where Chapman is really assailable
is in a singular incontinence of imagery. Every idea that occurs to him
brings with it a plethora of illustrations, in the way of simile,
metaphor, or other figure of speech; he seems impotent to check the
exuberant riot of his fancy till it has exhausted its whole store. The
underlying thought in many passages, though not deserving Dryden's
contemptuous epithet, is sufficiently obvious. Chapman was not dowered
with the penetrating imagination that reveals as by a lightning flash
unsuspected depths of human character or of moral law. But he has the
gnomic faculty that can convey truths of general experience in
aphoristic form, and he can wind into a debatable moral issue with
adroit casuistry. Take for instance the discussion (II, i, 149-79) on
the legitimacy of private vengeance, or (III, i, 10-30) on the nature
and effect of sin, or (V, ii) on Nature's "blindness" in her workings.
In lighter vein, but winged with the shafts of a caustic humour are
Bussy's invectives against courtly practices (I, i, 84-104) and
hypocrisy in high places (III, ii, 25-59), while the "flyting" between
him and Monsieur is perhaps the choicest specimen of Elizabethan
"Billingsgate" that has come down to us. It was a versatile pen that
could turn from passages like these to the epic narrative of the duel,
or Tamyra's lyric invocation of the "peaceful regents of the night" (II,
ii, 158), or Bussy's stately elegy upon himself, as he dies standing,
propped on his true sword.

It can only have been the ingrained prejudice of the Restoration period
against "metaphysical" verse that deadened Dryden's ear to the charm of
such passages as these. Another less notable poet and playwright of the
time showed more discrimination. This was Thomas D'Urfey, who in 1691
brought out a revised version of the play at the Theatre Royal. In a
dedication to Lord Carlisle which he prefixed to this version, on its
publication in the same year, he testifies to the great popularity of
the play after the reopening of the theatres.

     "About sixteen years since, when first my good or ill stars
     ordained me a Knight Errant in this fairy land of poetry, I
     saw the _Bussy d'Ambois_ of Mr. Chapman acted by Mr. Hart,
     which in spight of the obsolete phrases and intolerable
     fustian with which a great part of it was cramm'd, and which I
     have altered in these new sheets, had some extraordinary
     beauties, which sensibly charmed me; which being improved by
     the graceful action of that eternally renowned and best of
     actors, so attracted not only me, but the town in general,
     that they were obliged to pass by and excuse the gross errors
     in the writing, and allow it amongst the rank of the topping
     tragedies of that time."

Charles Hart, who was thus one of the long succession of actors to make
a striking reputation in the title part, died in 1683, and, according to
D'Urfey, "for a long time after" the play "lay buried in [his] grave."
But "not willing to have it quite lost, I presumed to revise it and
write the plot new." D'Urfey's main alteration was to represent Bussy
and Tamyra as having been betrothed before the play opens, and the
latter forced against her will into a marriage with the wealthy Count
Montsurry. This, he maintained, palliated the heroine's surrender to
passion and made her "distress in the last Act . . . much more liable to
pity." Whether morality is really a gainer by this well-meant variation
from the more primitive code of the original play is open to question,
but we welcome the substitution of Teresia the "governess" and
confidante of Tamyra for Friar Comolet as the envoy between the lovers.
Another notable change is the omission of the narrative of the
_Nuntius_, which is replaced by a short duelling scene upon the stage.
D'Urfey rejects, too, the supernatural machinery in Act IV, and the
details of the torture of the erring Countess, whom, at the close of the
play, he represents not as wandering from her husband's home, but as
stabbing herself in despair.

If Chapman's plot needed to be "writ new" at all, D'Urfey deserves
credit for having done his work with considerable skill and taste,
though he hints in his dedication that there were detractors who did not
view his version as favourably as Lord Carlisle. He had some difficulty,
he tells us, in finding an actor to undertake the part, but at last
prevailed upon Mountfort to do so, though he was diffident of appearing
in a _rôle_ in which Hart had made so great a reputation. Mrs.
Bracegirdle, as we learn from the list of _Dramatis Personæ_ prefixed to
the published edition, played Tamyra, and the revival seems to have been
a success. But Mountfort was assassinated in the Strand towards the
close of the following year, and apparently the career of _Bussy_ upon
the boards ended with his life.

In the same year as D'Urfey revised the play, Langbaine published his
_Account of the English Dramatick Poets_, wherein (p. 59) he mentions
that Bussy "has the preference" among all Chapman's writings and
vindicates it against Dryden's attack:

     "I know not how Mr. Dryden came to be so possest with
     indignation against this play, as to resolve to burn one
     annually to the memory of Ben Jonson: but I know very well
     that there are some who allow it a just commendation; and
     others that since have taken the liberty to promise a solemn
     annual sacrifice of _The Hind and Panther_ to the memory of
     Mr. Quarles and John Bunyan."

But neither D'Urfey nor Langbaine could secure for _Bussy D'Ambois_ a
renewal of its earlier popularity. During the eighteenth century it fell
into complete oblivion, and though (as the Bibliography testifies)
nineteenth-century critics and commentators have sought to atone for the
neglect of their predecessors, the faults of the play, obvious at a
glance, have hitherto impaired the full recognition of its distinctive
merits of design and thought. To bring these into clearer relief, and
trace the relation of its plot to the recorded episodes of Bussy's
career, has been the aim of the preceding pages. It must always count to
Chapman's credit that he, an Englishman, realized to the full the
fascination of the brilliant Renaissance figure, who had to wait till
the nineteenth century to be rediscovered for literary purposes by the
greatest romance-writer among his own countrymen. In Bussy, the man of
action, there was a Titanic strain that appealed to Chapman's
intractable and rough-hewn genius. To the dramatist he was the classical
Hercules born anew, accomplishing similar feats, and lured to a similar
treacherous doom. Thus the cardinal virtue of the play is a Herculean
energy of movement and of speech which borrows something of epic quality
from the Homeric translations on which Chapman was simultaneously
engaged, and thereby links _Bussy D'Ambois_ to his most triumphant
literary achievement.

Six years after the publication of the first Quarto of _Bussy D'Ambois_
Chapman issued a sequel, _The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_, which, as we
learn from the title-page, had been "often presented at the private
Playhouse in the White-Fryers." But in the interval he had written two
other plays based on recent French history, _Byrons Conspiracie_ and
_The Tragedie of Charles Duke of Byron_, and in certain aspects _The
Revenge_ is more closely related to these immediate forerunners than to
the piece of which it is the titular successor. The discovery which I
recently was fortunate enough to make of a common immediate source of
the two Byron plays and of _The Revenge_ accentuates the connection
between them, and at the same time throws fresh light on the problem of
the _provenance_ of the second D'Ambois drama.

In his scholarly monograph _Quellen Studien zu den Dramen George
Chapmans, Massingers, und Fords_ (1897), E. Koeppel showed that the
three connected plays were based upon materials taken from Jean de
Serres's _Inventaire Général de l'Histoire de France_ (1603), Pierre
Matthieu's _Histoire de France durant Sept Années de Paix du Regne de
Henri IV_ (1605), and P. V. Cayet's _Chronologie Septénaire de
l'Histoire de la Paix entre les Roys de France et d'Espagne_ (1605).
The picture suggested by Koeppel's treatise was of Chapman collating a
number of contemporary French historical works, and choosing from each
of them such portions as suited his dramatic purposes. But this
conception, as I have shown in the _Athenæum_ for Jan. 10, 1903, p. 51,
must now be abandoned. Chapman did not go to the French originals at
all, but to a more easily accessible source, wherein the task of
selection and rearrangement had already been in large measure performed.
In 1607 the printer, George Eld, published a handsome folio, of which
the British Museum possesses a fine copy (c. 66, b. 14), originally the
property of Prince Henry, eldest son of James I. Its title is: "_A
General Inventorie of the Historie of France, from the beginning of that
Monarchie, unto the Treatie of Vervins, in the Yeare 1598. Written by
Jhon de Serres. And continued unto these Times, out of the best Authors
which have written of that Subiect. Translated out of French into
English by Edward Grimeston, Gentleman._" This work, the popularity of
which is attested by the publication of a second, enlarged, edition in
1611, was the direct source of the "Byron" plays, and of _The Revenge_.

In a dedication addressed to the Earls of Suffolk and Salisbury,
Grimeston states that having retired to "private and domesticke cares"
after "some years expence in France, for the publike service of the
State," he has translated "this generall Historie of France written by
John de Serres." In a preface "to the Reader" he makes the further
important statement:

     "The History of John de Serres ends with the Treatie at
     Vervins betwixt France and Spaine in the yeare 1598. I have
     been importuned to make the History perfect, and to continue
     it unto these times, whereunto I have added (for your better
     satisfaction) what I could extract out of Peter Mathew and
     other late writers touching this subject. Some perchance will
     challenge me of indiscretion, that I have not translated Peter
     Mathew onely, being reputed so eloquent and learned a Writer.
     To them I answere first, that I found many things written by
     him that were not fit to be inserted, and some things
     belonging unto the Historie, related by others, whereof he
     makes no mention. Secondly his style is so full and his
     discourse so copious, as the worke would have held no
     proportion, for that this last addition of seven years must
     have exceeded halfe Serres Historie. Which considerations have
     made me to draw forth what I thought most materiall for the
     subject, and to leave the rest as unnecessarie."

From this we learn that Grimeston followed Jean de Serres till 1598, and
that from then till 1604 (his time-limit in his first edition) his
principal source was P. Matthieu's _Histoire de France_, rigorously
condensed, and, at the same time, supplemented from other authorities. A
collation of Grimeston's text with that of the "Byron" plays and _The
Revenge_ proves that every passage in which the dramatist draws upon
historical materials is to be found within the four corners of the folio
of 1607. The most striking illustrations of this are to be found in the
"Byron" plays, and I have shown elsewhere (_Athenæum_, _loc. cit._) that
though Chapman in handling the career of the ill-fated Marshal of France
is apparently exploiting Pierre Matthieu, Jean de Serres, and Cayet in
turn, he is really taking advantage of the labours of Grimeston, who had
rifled their stores for his skilful historical mosaic. Grimeston must
thus henceforward be recognized as holding something of the same
relation to Chapman as Sir T. North does to Shakespeare, with the
distinction that he not only provides the raw material of historical
tragedy, but goes some way in the refining process.

_The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_ follows historical lines less closely
than the "Byron" plays, but here, too, Grimeston's volume was Chapman's
inspiring source, and the perusal of its closing pages gives a clue to
the origin of this most singular of the dramatist's serious plays. The
final episode included in the folio of 1607 was the plot by which the
Count d'Auvergne, who had been one of Byron's fellow conspirators, and
who had fallen under suspicion for a second time in 1604, was
treacherously arrested by agents of the King while attending a review of
troops. The position of this narrative (translated from P. Matthieu) at
the close of the folio must have helped to draw Chapman's special
attention to it, and having expended his genius so liberally on the
career of the arch-conspirator of the period, he was apparently moved to
handle also that of his interesting confederate. But D'Auvergne's
fortunes scarcely furnished the stuff for a complete drama, on Chapman's
customary broad scale, and he seems therefore to have conceived the
ingenious idea of utilising them as the groundwork of a sequel to his
most popular play, _Bussy D'Ambois_.

He transformed the Count into an imaginary brother of his former hero.
For though D'Ambois had two younger brothers, Hubert, seigneur de
Moigneville, and Georges, baron de Bussy, it is highly improbable that
Chapman had ever heard of them, and there was nothing in the career of
either to suggest the figure of Clermont D'Ambois. The name given by
Chapman to this unhistorical addition to the family was, I believe, due
to a mere chance, if not a misunderstanding. In Grimeston's narrative of
the plot against D'Auvergne he mentions that one of the King's agents,
D'Eurre, "came to Clermont on Monday at night, and goes unto him
[D'Auvergne] where he supped." Here the name Clermont denotes, of
course, a place. But Chapman may have possibly misconceived it to refer
to the Count, and, in any case, its occurrence in this context probably
suggested its bestowal upon the hero of the second D'Ambois play.

A later passage in Grimeston's history gives an interesting glimpse of
D'Auvergne's character. We are told that after he had been arrested, and
was being conducted to Paris, "all the way he seemed no more afflicted,
then when he was at libertie. He tould youthfull and idle tales of his
love, and the deceiving of ladies. Hee shott in a harquebuse at birds,
wherein hee was so perfect and excellent, as hee did kill larkes as they
were flying."

From this hint of a personality serenely proof against the shocks of
adversity Chapman elaborated the figure of the "Senecall man," Clermont
D'Ambois. In developing his conception he drew, however, not primarily,
as this phrase suggests, from the writings of the Roman senator and
sage, but from those of the lowlier, though not less authoritative
exponent of Stoic doctrine, the enfranchised slave, Epictetus. As is
shown, for the first time, in the Notes to this edition, the
_Discourses_ of "the grave Greek moralist," known probably through a
Latin version (cf. II, i, 157), must have been almost as close to
Chapman's hand while he was writing _The Revenge_ as Grimeston's
compilation. Five long passages in the play (I, i, 336-42, II, i,
157-60, II, i, 211-32, III, iv, 58-75, and III, iv, 127-41) are
translated or adapted from specific _dicta_ in the _Discourses_, while
Epictetus's work in its whole ethical teaching furnished material for
the delineation of the ideal Stoic (IV, iv, 14-46) who

         "May with heavens immortall powers compare,
     To whom the day and fortune equall are;
     Come faire or foule, what ever chance can fall,
     Fixt in himselfe, hee still is one to all."

But in the character of Clermont there mingle other elements than those
derived from either the historical figure of D'Auvergne, or the ideal
man of Stoic speculation. Had Hamlet never faltered in the task of
executing justice upon the murderer of his father, it is doubtful if a
brother of Bussy would ever have trod the Jacobean stage. Not indeed
that the idea of vengeance being sought for D'Ambois's fate by one of
his nearest kith and kin was without basis in fact. But it was a sister,
not a brother, who had devoted her own and her husband's energies to the
task, though finally the matter had been compromised. De Thou, at the
close of his account of Bussy's murder, relates (vol. III, lib. LXVII,
p. 330):

     "_Inde odia capitalia inter Bussianos et Monsorellum exorta:
     quorum exercendorum onus in se suscepit Joannes Monlucius
     Balagnius, . . . ducta in matrimonium occisi Bussii sorore,
     magni animi foemina quae faces irae maritali subjiciebat:
     vixque post novennium certis conditionibus jussu regis inter
     eum et Monsorellum transactum fuit._"[xxxvii-1]

In a later passage (vol. V, lib. CXVIII, p. 558) he is even more
explicit. After referring to Bussy's treacherous assassination, he

     "_Quam injuriam Renata ejus soror, generosa foemina et supra
     sexum ambitiosa, a fratre proximisque neglectam, cum inultam
     manere impatientissime ferret, Balagnio se ultorem profitente,
     spretis suorum monitis in matrimonium cum ipso

As these passages first appeared in De Thou's History in the edition of
1620, they cannot have been known to Chapman, when he was writing _The
Revenge_. But the circumstances must have been familiar to him from some
other source, probably that which supplied the material for the earlier
play. He accordingly introduces Renée D'Ambois (whom he rechristens
Charlotte) with her husband into his drama, but with great skill he
makes her fiery passion for revenge at all costs a foil to the
scrupulous and deliberate procedure of the high-souled Clermont. Like
Hamlet, the latter has been commissioned by the ghost of his murdered
kinsman to the execution of a task alien to his nature.

Though he sends a challenge to Montsurry, and is not lacking in "the
D'Ambois spirit," the atmosphere in which he lingers with whole-hearted
zest is that of the philosophical schools. He is eager to draw every
chance comer into debate on the first principles of action. Absorbed in
speculation, he is indifferent to external circumstances. As Hamlet at
the crisis of his fate lets himself be shipped off to England, so
Clermont makes no demur when the King, who suspects him of complicity
with Guise's traitorous designs, sends him to Cambray, of which his
brother-in-law, Baligny, has been appointed Lieutenant. When on his
arrival, his sister, the Lieutenant's wife, upbraids him with
"lingering" their "dear brother's wreak," he makes the confession (III,
ii, 112-15):

                         "I repent that ever
     (By any instigation in th'appearance
     My brothers spirit made, as I imagin'd)
     That e'er I yeelded to revenge his murther."

Like Hamlet, too, Clermont, "generous and free from all contriving," is
slow to suspect evil in others, and though warned by an anonymous
letter--here Chapman draws the incidents from the story of Count
D'Auvergne--he lets himself be entrapped at a "muster" or review of
troops by the King's emissaries. But the intervention of Guise soon
procures his release. In the dialogue that follows between him and his
patron the influence of Shakespeare's tragedy is unmistakably patent.
The latter is confiding to Clermont his apprehensions for the future,
when the ghost of Bussy appears, and chides his brother for his delay in
righting his wrongs. That the _Umbra_ of the elder D'Ambois is here
merely emulating the attitude of the elder Hamlet's spirit would be
sufficiently obvious, even if it were not put beyond doubt by the
excited dialogue between Guise, to whom the Ghost is invisible, and
Clermont, which is almost a verbal echo of the parallel dialogue between
the Danish Prince and the Queen. This second visitation from the unseen
world at last stirs up Clermont to execute the long-delayed vengeance
upon Montsurry, though he is all but forestalled by Charlotte, who has
donned masculine disguise for the purpose. But hard upon the deed comes
the news of Guise's assassination, and impatient of the earthly barriers
that now sever him from his "lord," Clermont takes his own life in the
approved Stoic fashion. So passes from the scene one of the most
original and engaging figures in our dramatic literature, and the more
thorough our analysis of the curiously diverse elements out of which he
has been fashioned, the higher will be our estimate of Chapman's
creative power.

Was it primarily with the motive of providing Clermont with a plausible
excuse for suicide that Chapman so startlingly transformed the
personality of Henry of Guise? The Duke as he appears in _The Revenge_
has scarcely a feature in common either with the Guise of history or of
the earlier play. Instead of the turbulent and intriguing noble we see a
"true tenth worthy," who realizes that without accompanying virtues
"greatness is a shade, a bubble," and who drinks in from the lips of
Clermont doctrines "of stability and freedom." To such an extent does
Chapman turn apologist for Guise that in a well-known passage (II, i,
205 ff.) he goes out of his way to declare that the Massacre of St.
Bartholomew was "hainous" only "to a brutish sense, But not a manly
reason," and to argue that the blame lay not with "religious Guise," but
with those who had played false to "faith and true religion." So
astonishing is the dramatist's change of front that, but for the
complete lack of substantiating evidence, one would infer that, like
Dryden in the interval between _Religio Laici_ and _The Hind and
Panther_, he had joined the Church of Rome. In any case the change is
not due to the influence of Grimeston's volume, whence Chapman draws his
material for the account of Guise's last days. For Jean de Serres (whom
the Englishman is here translating) sums up the Duke's character in an
"appreciation," where virtues and faults are impartially balanced and
the latter are in no wise extenuated. It is another tribute to Chapman's
skill, which only close study of the play in relation to its source
brings out, that while he borrows, even to the most minute particulars,
from the annalist, he throws round the closing episodes of Guise's
career a halo of political martyrdom which there is nothing in the
original to suggest. This metamorphosis of Guise is all the more
remarkable, because Monsieur, his former co-partner in villany,
reappears, in the one scene where he figures, in the same ribald,
blustering vein as before, and his death is reported, at the close of
Act IV, as a fulfilment of Bussy's dying curse.

While Guise is transfigured, and Monsieur remains his truculent,
vainglorious self, Montsurry has suffered a strange degeneration. It is
sufficiently remarkable, to begin with, after his declaration at the
end of _Bussy D'Ambois_,

     "May both points of heavens strait axeltree
     Conjoyne in one, before thy selfe and me!"

to find him ready to receive back Tamyra as his wife, though her sole
motive in rejoining him is to precipitate vengeance on his head. Nor had
anything in the earlier play prepared us for the spectacle of him as a
poltroon, who has "barricado'd" himself in his house to avoid a
challenge, and who shrieks "murther!" at the entrance of an unexpected
visitor. In the light of such conduct it is difficult to regard as
merely assumed his pusillanimity in the final scene, where he at first
grovels before Clermont on the plea that by his baseness he will "shame"
the avenger's victory. And when he does finally nerve himself to the
encounter, and dies with words of forgiveness for Clermont and Tamyra on
his lips, the episode of reconciliation, though evidently intended to be
edifying, is so huddled and inconsecutive as to be well-nigh ridiculous.

Equally ineffective and incongruous are the moralising discourses of
which Bussy's ghost is made the spokesman. It does not seem to have
occurred to Chapman that vindications of divine justice, suitable on the
lips of the elder Hamlet, fell with singular infelicity from one who had
met his doom in the course of a midnight intrigue. In fact, wherever the
dramatist reintroduces the main figures of the earlier play, he falls to
an inferior level. He seems unable to revivify its nobler elements, and
merely repeats the more melodramatic and garish effects which refuse to
blend with the classic grace and pathos of Clermont's story. The
audiences before whom _The Revenge_ was produced evidently showed
themselves ill-affected towards such a medley of purely fictitious
creations, and of historical personages and incidents, treated in the
most arbitrary fashion. For Chapman in his dedicatory letter to Sir
Thomas Howard refers bitterly to the "maligners" with whom the play met
"in the scenicall presentation," and asks who will expect "the
autenticall truth of eyther person or action . . . in a poeme, whose
subject is not truth, but things like truth?" He forgets that "things
like truth" are not attained, when alien elements are forced into
mechanical union, or when well-known historical characters and events
are presented under radically false colours. But we who read the drama
after an interval of three centuries can afford to be less perturbed
than Jacobean playgoers at its audacious juggling with facts, provided
that it appeals to us in other ways. We are not likely indeed to adopt
Chapman's view that the elements that give it enduring value are
"materiall instruction, elegant and sententious excitation to vertue,
and deflection from her contrary." For these we shall assuredly look
elsewhere; it is not to them that _The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_ owes
its distinctive charm. The secret of that charm lies outside the spheres
of "autenticall truth," moral as well as historical. It consists, as it
seems to me, essentially in this--that the play is one of the most truly
spontaneous products of English "humanism" in its later phase. The same
passionate impulse--in itself so curiously "romantic"--to revitalise
classical life and ideals, which prompted Chapman's translation of
"Homer, Prince of Poets," is the shaping spirit of this singular
tragedy. Its hero, as we have seen, has strayed into the France of the
Catholic Reaction from some academe in Athens or in imperial Rome. He
is, in truth, far more really a spirit risen from the dead than the
materialised _Umbra_ of his brother. His pervasive influence works in
all around him, so that nobles and courtiers forget for a time the
strife of faction while they linger over some fragrant memory of the
older world. Epictetus with his doctrines of how to live and how to die;
the "grave Greeke tragedian" who drew "the princesse, sweet Antigone";
Homer with his "unmatched poem"; the orators Demetrius Phalerius and
Demades--these and their like cast a spell over the scene, and transport
us out of the troubled atmosphere of sixteenth-century vendetta into the
"ampler æther," the "diviner air," of "the glory that was Greece, the
grandeur that was Rome."

Thus the two _Bussy_ plays, when critically examined, are seen to be
essentially unlike in spite of their external similarity. The plot of
the one springs from that of the other; both are laid in the same period
and _milieu_; in technique they are closely akin. The diction and
imagery are, indeed, simpler, and the verse is of more liquid cadence in
_The Revenge_ than in _Bussy D'Ambois_. But the true difference lies
deeper,--in the innermost spirit of the two dramas. _Bussy D'Ambois_ is
begotten of "the very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind" of passion; it
throbs with the stress of an over-tumultuous life. _The Revenge_ is the
offspring of the meditative impulse, that averts its gaze from the
outward pageant of existence, to peer into the secrets of Man's ultimate
destiny, and his relation to the "Universal," of which he involuntarily
finds himself a part.

                                                 FREDERICK S. BOAS.


[xii-1] Through the kindness of Professor Baker I have seen an
unpublished paper of Mr. P. C. Hoyt, Instructor in Harvard University,
which first calls attention to the combined suggestiveness of three
entries in _Henslowe's Diary_ (Collier's ed.) for any discussion of the
date of _Bussy D'Ambois_. In Henslowe's "Enventorey of all the aparell
of the Lord Admirals men, taken the 13th of Marcher 1598," is an item,
"Perowes sewt, which Wm Sley were." (_Henslowe's Diary_, ed. Collier, p.
275.) In no extant play save _Bussy D'Ambois_ is a character called Pero
introduced. Moreover, Henslowe (pp. 113 and 110) has the following
entries: "Lent unto Wm Borne, the 19 of novembr 1598 . . . the some of
xijs, wch he sayd yt was to Imbrader his hatte for the Gwisse. Lent Wm
Birde, ales Borne, the 27 of novembr, to bye a payer of sylke stockens,
to playe the Gwisse in xxs." Taken by themselves these two allusions to
the "Gwisse" might refer, as Collier supposed, to Marlowe's _The
Massacre at Paris_. But when combined with the mention of Pero earlier
in the year, they may equally well refer to the Guise in _Bussy
D'Ambois_. Can _Bussy D'Ambois_ have been the unnamed "tragedie" by
Chapman, for the first three Acts of which Henslowe lent him iijli on
Jan. 4, 1598, followed by a similar sum on Jan. 8th, "in fulle payment
for his tragedie?" The words which Dekker quotes in _Satiromastix_, Sc 7
(1602), "For trusty D'Amboys now the deed is done," seem to be a line
from a play introducing D'Ambois. If, however, the play was written
circa 1598, it must have been considerably revised after the accession
of James I to the throne, for the allusions to Elizabeth as an "old
Queene" (1, 2, 12), and to Bussy as being mistaken for "a knight of the
new edition," must have been written after the accession of James I
(_Chronicle of the English Drama_, 1, 59). But Mr Fleay's further
statement that the words, "Tis leape yeere" (1, 2, 85), "must apply to
the date of production," and "fix the time of representation to 1604,"
is only an ingenious conjecture. If the words "Ile be your ghost to
haunt you," etc (1, 2, 243-244), refer to _Macbeth_, as I have suggested
in the note on the passage, they point to a revision of the play not
earlier than the latter part of 1606.

[xxxvii-1] "Hence a deadly feud arose between the kin of Bussy and
Montsurry. The task of carrying this into action was undertaken by Jean
Montluc Baligny, who had married the murdered man's sister, a
high-spirited woman who fanned the flame of her husband's wrath. With
difficulty, after a period of nine years, was an arrangement come to
between him and Montsurry on specified terms by the order of the King."

[xxxvii-2] "Renée, his sister, a high-souled woman, and of aspirations
loftier than those of her sex, brooked it very ill that this injury, of
which his brother and nearest kin took no heed, should remain unavenged.
When, therefore, Baligny profferred himself as an avenger, she agreed to
marry him, in defiance of the admonitions of her family."


_Bussy D'Ambois_ was first printed in quarto in 1607 by W. Aspley, and
was reissued in 1608. In 1641, seven years after Chapman's death, Robert
Lunne published another edition in quarto of the play, which, according
to the title-page, was "much corrected and amended by the Author before
his death." This quarto differs essentially from its predecessors. It
omits and adds numerous passages, and makes constant minor changes in
the text. The revised version is not appreciably superior to the
original draft, but, on the evidence of the title-page, it must be
accepted as authoritative. It was reissued by Lunne, with a different
imprint, in 1646, and by J. Kirton, with a new title-page, in 1657.
Copies of the 1641 quarto differ in unimportant details such as
_articular_, _articulat_, for evidently some errors were corrected as
the edition passed through the press. Some copies of the 1646 quarto
duplicate the uncorrected copies of the 1641 quarto.

In a reprint of Chapman's Tragedies and Comedies, published by J.
Pearson in 1873, the anonymous editor purported to "follow mainly" the
text of 1641, but collation with the originals shows that he transcribed
that of 1607, substituting the later version where the two quartos
differed, but retaining elsewhere the spelling of the earlier one. Nor
is his list of variants complete. There have been also three editions of
the play in modernized spelling by C. W. Dilke in 1814, R. H. Shepherd
in 1874, and W. L. Phelps in 1895, particulars of which are given in the
Bibliography. The present edition is therefore the first to reproduce
the authoritative text unimpaired. The original spelling has been
retained, though capitalization has been modernized, and the use of
italics for personal names has not been preserved. But the chaotic
punctuation has been throughout revised, though, except to remove
ambiguity, I have not interfered with one distinctive feature, an
exceptionally frequent use of brackets. In a few cases of doubtful
interpretation, the old punctuation has been given in the footnotes.

Dilke, though the earliest of the annotators, contributed most to the
elucidation of allusions and obsolete phrases. While seeking to
supplement his and his successors' labours in this direction, I have
also attempted a more perilous task--the interpretation of passages
where the difficulty arises from the peculiar texture of Chapman's
thought and style. Such a critical venture seems a necessary preliminary
if we are ever to sift truth from falsehood in Dryden's
indictment--indolently accepted by many critics as conclusive--of _Bussy

The group of quartos of 1641, 1646, and 1657, containing Chapman's
revised text, is denoted by the symbol "B"; those of 1607 and 1608 by
"A." In the footnotes all the variants contained in A are given except
in a few cases where the reading of A has been adopted in the text and
that of B recorded as a variant. I have preferred the reading of A to B,
when it gives an obviously better sense, or is metrically superior. I
have also included in the Text fifty lines at the beginning of Act II,
Scene 2, which are found only in A. Some slight conjectural emendations
have been attempted which are distinguished by "emend. ed." in the
footnotes. In these cases the reading of the quartos, if unanimous, is
denoted by "Qq."

In the quartos the play is simply divided into five Acts. These I have
subdivided into Scenes, within which the lines have been numbered to
facilitate reference. The stage directions in B are numerous and
precise, and I have made only a few additions, which are enclosed in
brackets. The quartos vary between _Bussy_ and _D'Ambois_, and between
_Behemoth_ and _Spiritus_, as a prefix to speeches. I have kept to the
former throughout in either case.

                                                           F. S. B.

Bussy D'Ambois:


As it hath been often Acted with
great Applause.

_Being much corrected and amended
by the Author before his death._


Printed by _A. N._ for _Robert Lunne_.


The immediate source of the play has not been identified, but in the
_Introduction_ attention has been drawn to passages in the writings of
Bussy's contemporaries, especially Brantôme and Marguerite de Valois,
which narrate episodes similar to those in the earlier Acts. Extracts
from De Thou's _Historiae sui temporis_ and Rosset's _Histoires
Tragiques_, which tell the tale of Bussy's amorous intrigue and his
assassination, have also been reprinted as an Appendix. But both these
narratives are later than the play. Seneca's representation in the
_Hercules Oetaeus_ of the Greek hero's destruction by treachery gave
Chapman suggestions for his treatment of the final episode in Bussy's
career (cf. V, 4, 100-108, and note).


  _Not out of confidence that none but wee
  Are able to present this tragedie,
  Nor out of envie at the grace of late
  It did receive, nor yet to derogate
  From their deserts, who give out boldly that                         5
  They move with equall feet on the same flat;
  Neither for all, nor any of such ends,
  We offer it, gracious and noble friends,
  To your review; wee, farre from emulation,
  And (charitably judge) from imitation,                              10
  With this work entertaine you, a peece knowne,
  And still beleev'd, in Court to be our owne.
  To quit our claime, doubting our right or merit,
  Would argue in us poverty of spirit
  Which we must not subscribe to: Field is gone,                      15
  Whose action first did give it name, and one
  Who came the neerest to him, is denide
  By his gray beard to shew the height and pride
  Of D'Ambois youth and braverie; yet to hold
  Our title still a foot, and not grow cold                           20
  By giving it o're, a third man with his best
  Of care and paines defends our interest;
  As Richard he was lik'd, nor doe wee feare,
  In personating D'Ambois, hee'le appeare
  To faint, or goe lesse, so your free consent,                       25
  As heretofore, give him encouragement._


              _Prologue._ The Prologue does not appear in A.

          10  (_charitably judge_). So punctuated by ed. B has:--

              _To your review, we farre from emulation
              (And charitably judge from imitation)
              With this work entertaine you, a peece knowne
              And still beleev'd in Court to be our owne,
              To quit our claime, doubting our right or merit,
              Would argue in us poverty of spirit
              Which we must not subscribe to._

          13  _doubting_. In some copies of B this is misprinted


  HENRY III, King of France.
  MONSIEUR, his brother.
  MONTSURRY, a Count.
  L'ANOU,   } Courtiers: enemies of D'AMBOIS.
  PYRHOT,   }
  BRISAC,     }
  MELYNELL,   } Courtiers: friends of D'AMBOIS.
  COMOLET, a Friar.
  MAFFE, steward to MONSIEUR.

  BEHEMOTH,    }
  CARTOPHYLAX, } Spirits.

  ELENOR, Duchess of Guise.
  TAMYRA, Countess of Montsurry.
  BEAUPRE, niece to ELENOR.
  ANNABLE, maid to ELENOR.
  PERO, maid to TAMYRA.
  PYRA, a court lady.
  Courtiers, Ladies, Pages, Servants, Spirits, &c.



[4:1] The Quartos contain no list of _Dramatis Personæ_. One is however
prefixed to D'Urfey's version (1691), with the names of the performers
added. C. W. Dilke prefixed a somewhat imperfect one to his edition in
vol. III of _Old English Plays_ (1814). W. L. Phelps, who did not know
of Dilke's list, supplied a more correct one in his edition in the
_Mermaid Series_ (1895). The subjoined list adds some fresh details,
especially concerning the subordinate characters.

[4:2] Many episodes in Bussy D'Ambois's career, which took place in the
Province of Anjou, are transferred in the play to Paris.

Bussy D'Ambois



  [_A glade, near the Court._]

          _Enter Bussy D'Ambois poore._

  [_Bussy._] Fortune, not Reason, rules the state of things,
  Reward goes backwards, Honor on his head,
  Who is not poore is monstrous; only Need
  Gives forme and worth to every humane seed.
  As cedars beaten with continuall stormes,                            5
  So great men flourish; and doe imitate
  Unskilfull statuaries, who suppose
  (In forming a Colossus) if they make him
  Stroddle enough, stroot, and look bigg, and gape,
  Their work is goodly: so men meerely great                          10
  In their affected gravity of voice,
  Sowrnesse of countenance, manners cruelty,
  Authority, wealth, and all the spawne of Fortune,
  Think they beare all the Kingdomes worth before them;
  Yet differ not from those colossick statues,                        15
  Which, with heroique formes without o're-spread,
  Within are nought but morter, flint and lead.
  Man is a torch borne in the winde; a dreame
  But of a shadow, summ'd with all his substance;
  And as great seamen using all their wealth                          20
  And skills in Neptunes deepe invisible pathes,
  In tall ships richly built and ribd with brasse,
  To put a girdle round about the world,
  When they have done it (comming neere their haven)
  Are faine to give a warning peece, and call                         25
  A poore staid fisher-man, that never past
  His countries sight, to waft and guide them in:
  So when we wander furthest through the waves
  Of glassie Glory, and the gulfes of State,
  Topt with all titles, spreading all our reaches,                    30
  As if each private arme would sphere the earth,
  Wee must to vertue for her guide resort,
  Or wee shall shipwrack in our safest port.           _Procumbit._

          [_Enter_] _Monsieur with two Pages._

  [_Monsieur._] There is no second place in numerous state
  That holds more than a cypher: in a King                            35
  All places are contain'd. His words and looks
  Are like the flashes and the bolts of Jove;
  His deeds inimitable, like the sea
  That shuts still as it opes, and leaves no tracts,
  Nor prints of president for meane mens facts:                       40
  There's but a thred betwixt me and a crowne;
  I would not wish it cut, unlesse by nature;
  Yet to prepare me for that possible fortune,
  'Tis good to get resolved spirits about mee.
  I follow'd D'Ambois to this greene retreat;                         45
  A man of spirit beyond the reach of feare,
  Who (discontent with his neglected worth)
  Neglects the light, and loves obscure abodes;
  But hee is young and haughty, apt to take
  Fire at advancement, to beare state, and flourish;                  50
  In his rise therefore shall my bounties shine:
  None lothes the world so much, nor loves to scoffe it,
  But gold and grace will make him surfet of it.
  What, D'Ambois!--

  _Buss._           He, sir.

  _Mons._                    Turn'd to earth, alive!
  Up man, the sunne shines on thee.

  _Buss._                           Let it shine:                     55
  I am no mote to play in't, as great men are.

  _Mons._ Callest thou men great in state, motes in the sunne?
  They say so that would have thee freeze in shades,
  That (like the grosse Sicilian gurmundist)
  Empty their noses in the cates they love,                           60
  That none may eat but they. Do thou but bring
  Light to the banquet Fortune sets before thee
  And thou wilt loath leane darknesse like thy death.
  Who would beleeve thy mettall could let sloth
  Rust and consume it? If Themistocles                                65
  Had liv'd obscur'd thus in th'Athenian State,
  Xerxes had made both him and it his slaves.
  If brave Camillus had lurckt so in Rome,
  He had not five times beene Dictator there,
  Nor foure times triumpht. If Epaminondas                            70
  (Who liv'd twice twenty yeeres obscur'd in Thebs)
  Had liv'd so still, he had beene still unnam'd,
  And paid his country nor himselfe their right:
  But putting forth his strength he rescu'd both
  From imminent ruine; and, like burnisht steele,                     75
  After long use he shin'd; for as the light
  Not only serves to shew, but render us
  Mutually profitable, so our lives
  In acts exemplarie not only winne
  Our selves good names, but doe to others give                       80
  Matter for vertuous deeds, by which wee live.

  _Buss._ What would you wish me?

  _Mons._                         Leave the troubled streames,
  And live where thrivers doe, at the well head.

  _Buss._ At the well head? Alas! what should I doe
  With that enchanted glasse? See devils there?                       85
  Or (like a strumpet) learne to set my looks
  In an eternall brake, or practise jugling,
  To keep my face still fast, my heart still loose;
  Or beare (like dames schoolmistresses their riddles)
  Two tongues, and be good only for a shift;                          90
  Flatter great lords, to put them still in minde
  Why they were made lords; or please humorous ladies
  With a good carriage, tell them idle tales,
  To make their physick work; spend a man's life
  In sights and visitations, that will make                           95
  His eyes as hollow as his mistresse heart:
  To doe none good, but those that have no need;
  To gaine being forward, though you break for haste
  All the commandements ere you break your fast;
  But beleeve backwards, make your period                            100
  And creeds last article, "I beleeve in God":
  And (hearing villanies preacht) t'unfold their art,
  Learne to commit them? Tis a great mans part.
  Shall I learne this there?

  _Mons._                    No, thou needst not learne;
  Thou hast the theorie; now goe there and practise.                 105

  _Buss._ I, in a thrid-bare suit; when men come there,
  They must have high naps, and goe from thence bare:
  A man may drowne the parts of ten rich men
  In one poore suit; brave barks, and outward glosse
  Attract Court loves, be in parts ne're so grosse.                  110

  _Mons._ Thou shalt have glosse enough, and all things fit
  T'enchase in all shew thy long smothered spirit:
  Be rul'd by me then. The old Scythians
  Painted blinde Fortunes powerfull hands with wings,
  To shew her gifts come swift and suddenly,                         115
  Which if her favorite be not swift to take,
  He loses them for ever. Then be wise;

          _Exit Mon[sieur] with Pages. Manet Buss[y]._

  Stay but a while here, and I'le send to thee.

  _Buss._ What will he send? some crowns? It is to sow them
  Upon my spirit, and make them spring a crowne                      120
  Worth millions of the seed crownes he will send.
  Like to disparking noble husbandmen,
  Hee'll put his plow into me, plow me up;
  But his unsweating thrift is policie,
  And learning-hating policie is ignorant                            125
  To fit his seed-land soyl; a smooth plain ground
  Will never nourish any politick seed.
  I am for honest actions, not for great:
  If I may bring up a new fashion,
  And rise in Court for vertue, speed his plow!                      130
  The King hath knowne me long as well as hee,
  Yet could my fortune never fit the length
  Of both their understandings till this houre.
  There is a deepe nicke in Times restlesse wheele
  For each mans good, when which nicke comes, it strikes;            135
  As rhetorick yet workes not perswasion,
  But only is a meane to make it worke:
  So no man riseth by his reall merit,
  But when it cries "clincke" in his raisers spirit.
  Many will say, that cannot rise at all,                            140
  Mans first houres rise is first step to his fall.
  I'le venture that; men that fall low must die,
  As well as men cast headlong from the skie.

          _Ent[er] Maffe._

  [_Maffe._] Humor of Princes! Is this wretch indu'd
  With any merit worth a thousand crownes?                           145
  Will my lord have me be so ill a steward
  Of his revenue, to dispose a summe
  So great, with so small cause as shewes in him?
  I must examine this. Is your name D'Ambois?

  _Buss._ Sir?

  _Maff._      Is your name D'Ambois?

  _Buss._                             Who have we here?              150
  Serve you the Monsieur?

  _Maff._                 How?

  _Buss._                      Serve you the Monsieur?

  _Maff._ Sir, y'are very hot. I doe serve the Monsieur;
  But in such place as gives me the command
  Of all his other servants: and because
  His Graces pleasure is to give your good                           155
  His passe through my command, me thinks you might
  Use me with more respect.

  _Buss._                   Crie you mercy!
  Now you have opened my dull eies, I see you,
  And would be glad to see the good you speake of:
  What might I call your name?

  _Maff._                      Monsieur Maffe.                       160

  _Buss._ Monsieur Maffe? Then, good Monsieur Maffe,
  Pray let me know you better.

  _Maff._                      Pray doe so,
  That you may use me better. For your selfe,
  By your no better outside, I would judge you
  To be some poet. Have you given my lord                            165
  Some pamphlet?

  _Buss._        Pamphlet!

  _Maff._                  Pamphlet, sir, I say.

  _Buss._ Did your great masters goodnesse leave the good,
  That is to passe your charge to my poore use,
  To your discretion?

  _Maff._             Though he did not, sir,
  I hope 'tis no rude office to aske reason                          170
  How that his Grace gives me in charge, goes from me?

  _Buss._ That's very perfect, sir.

  _Maff._                           Why, very good, sir;
  I pray, then, give me leave. If for no pamphlet,
  May I not know what other merit in you
  Makes his compunction willing to relieve you?                      175

  _Buss._ No merit in the world, sir.

  _Maff._                             That is strange.
  Y'are a poore souldier, are you?

  _Buss._                          That I am, sir.

  _Maff._ And have commanded?

  _Buss._                     I, and gone without, sir.

  _Maff._ I see the man: a hundred crownes will make him
  Swagger, and drinke healths to his Graces bountie,                 180
  And sweare he could not be more bountifull;
  So there's nine hundred crounes sav'd. Here, tall souldier,
  His Grace hath sent you a whole hundred crownes.

  _Buss._ A hundred, sir! Nay, doe his Highnesse right;
  I know his hand is larger, and perhaps                             185
  I may deserve more than my outside shewes.
  I am a poet as I am a souldier,
  And I can poetise; and (being well encourag'd)
  May sing his fame for giving; yours for delivering
  (Like a most faithfull steward) what he gives.                     190

  _Maff._ What shall your subject be?

  _Buss._                             I care not much
  If to his bounteous Grace I sing the praise
  Of faire great noses, and to you of long ones.
  What qualities have you, sir, (beside your chaine
  And velvet jacket)? Can your Worship dance?                        195

  _Maff._ A pleasant fellow, faith; it seemes my lord
  Will have him for his jester; and, berlady,
  Such men are now no fooles; 'tis a knights place.
  If I (to save his Grace some crounes) should urge him
  T'abate his bountie, I should not be heard;                        200
  I would to heaven I were an errant asse,
  For then I should be sure to have the eares
  Of these great men, where now their jesters have them.
  Tis good to please him, yet Ile take no notice
  Of his preferment, but in policie                                  205
  Will still be grave and serious, lest he thinke
  I feare his woodden dagger. Here, Sir Ambo!

  _Buss._ How, Ambo, Sir?

  _Maff._                      I, is not your name Ambo?

  _Buss._ You call'd me lately D'Amboys; has your Worship
  So short a head?

  _Maff._          I cry thee mercy, D'Amboys.                       210
  A thousand crownes I bring you from my lord;
  If you be thriftie, and play the good husband, you may make
  This a good standing living; 'tis a bountie,
  His Highnesse might perhaps have bestow'd better.

  _Buss._ Goe, y'are a rascall; hence, away, you rogue!
                                                   [_Strikes him._]  215

  _Maff._ What meane you, sir?

  _Buss._                           Hence! prate no more!
  Or, by thy villans bloud, thou prat'st thy last!
  A barbarous groome grudge at his masters bountie!
  But since I know he would as much abhorre
  His hinde should argue what he gives his friend,                   220
  Take that, Sir, for your aptnesse to dispute.             _Exit._

  _Maff._ These crownes are set in bloud; bloud be their fruit!


           5  _continuall_. A, incessant.

           8  _forming_. A, forging.

          10  _men meerely great_. A, our tympanouse statists.

          20  _wealth_. A, powers.

          25  _faine_. A, glad.

          31  _earth_. A, world.

          40  _meane_. A, poore.

          43  _possible_. A, likely.

          44  _good to_. A, fit I.

          57  _Callest_. A, Think'st.

          80  _doe_. A, doth.

          82  _me_? A, me doe.

          92  _humorous_. A, portly.

       102-3  _And . . . part_. Repunctuated by ed. Qq have:--

              And (hearing villanies preacht) t'unfold their Art
              Learne to commit them, Tis a great mans Part.

         110  _loves_. A, eies.

         113  _old_. A, rude.

         117  _be wise_. A, be rul'd.

     122-125  _Like . . . ignorant_. A omits.

         126  _To fit his seed-land soyl_. A, But hee's no husband

         130  _for_. A, with.

         153  After this line B inserts: Table, Chesbord & Tapers
              behind the Arras. This relates not to the present
              Scene, but to Scene 2, where the King and Guise play
              chess (cf. I, 2, 184). Either it has been inserted,
              by a printer's error, prematurely; or, more probably,
              it may be an instruction to the "prompter" to see
              that the properties needed in the next Scene are
              ready, which has crept from an acting version of the
              play into the Quartos.

         156  _His passe_. A, A passe.

         157  _respect_. A, good fashion.

         167  _your great masters goodnesse_. A, his wise

         170  _rude_. A, bad.

         180  _Graces_. A, highnes.

         192  _bounteous Grace_. A, excellence.

         193  _and to you of long ones_. A has:--

              And to your deserts
              The reverend vertues of a faithfull steward.

         196  _pleasant_. A, merrie.

         197  _berlady_. A, beleeve it.

         199  _his Grace_. A, my Lord.

     208-210. _How . . . D'Amboys_. A omits.

         212  _If you be thriftie, and_. A, Serve God.


  _A room in the Court._]

          _Henry, Guise, Montsurry, Elenor, Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero,
          Charlotte, Pyra, Annable._

  _Henry._ Duchesse of Guise, your Grace is much enricht
  In the attendance of that English virgin,
  That will initiate her prime of youth,
  (Dispos'd to Court conditions) under the hand
  Of your prefer'd instructions and command,                           5
  Rather than any in the English Court,
  Whose ladies are not matcht in Christendome
  For gracefull and confirm'd behaviours,
  More than the Court, where they are bred, is equall'd.

  _Guise._ I like not their Court-fashion; it is too crestfalne       10
  In all observance, making demi-gods
  Of their great nobles; and of their old Queene
  An ever-yong and most immortall goddesse.

  _Montsurry._ No question shee's the rarest Queene in Europe.

  _Guis._ But what's that to her immortality?                         15

  _Henr._ Assure you, cosen Guise, so great a courtier,
  So full of majestic and roiall parts,
  No Queene in Christendome may vaunt her selfe.
  Her Court approves it: that's a Court indeed,
  Not mixt with clowneries us'd in common houses;                     20
  But, as Courts should be th'abstracts of their Kingdomes,
  In all the beautie, state, and worth they hold,
  So is hers, amplie, and by her inform'd.
  The world is not contracted in a man,
  With more proportion and expression,                                25
  Than in her Court, her kingdome. Our French Court
  Is a meere mirror of confusion to it:
  The king and subject, lord and every slave,
  Dance a continuall haie; our roomes of state
  Kept like our stables; no place more observ'd                       30
  Than a rude market-place: and though our custome
  Keepe this assur'd confusion from our eyes,
  'Tis nere the lesse essentially unsightly,
  Which they would soone see, would they change their forme
  To this of ours, and then compare them both;                        35
  Which we must not affect, because in kingdomes,
  Where the Kings change doth breed the subjects terror,
  Pure innovation is more grosse than error.

  _Mont._ No question we shall see them imitate
  (Though a farre off) the fashions of our Courts,                    40
  As they have ever ap't us in attire;
  Never were men so weary of their skins,
  And apt to leape out of themselves as they;
  Who, when they travell to bring forth rare men,
  Come home delivered of a fine French suit:                          45
  Their braines lie with their tailors, and get babies
  For their most compleat issue; hee's sole heire
  To all the morall vertues that first greetes
  The light with a new fashion, which becomes them
  Like apes, disfigur'd with the attires of men.                      50

  _Henr._ No question they much wrong their reall worth
  In affectation of outlandish scumme;
  But they have faults, and we more: they foolish-proud
  To jet in others plumes so haughtely;
  We proud that they are proud of foolerie,                           55
  Holding our worthes more compleat for their vaunts.

          _Enter Monsieur, D'Ambois._

  _Monsieur._ Come, mine owne sweet heart, I will enter thee.
  Sir, I have brought a gentleman to court;
  And pray, you would vouchsafe to doe him grace.

  _Henr._ D'Ambois, I thinke.

  _Bussy._                    That's still my name, my lord,          60
  Though I be something altered in attire.

  _Henr._ We like your alteration, and must tell you,
  We have expected th'offer of your service;
  For we (in feare to make mild vertue proud)
  Use not to seeke her out in any man.                                65

  _Buss._ Nor doth she use to seeke out any man:
  He that will winne, must wooe her: she's not shameless.

  _Mons._ I urg'd her modestie in him, my lord,
  And gave her those rites that he sayes shee merits.

  _Henr._ If you have woo'd and won, then, brother, weare him.        70

  _Mons._ Th'art mine, sweet heart! See, here's the Guises Duches;
  The Countesse of Mountsurreaue, Beaupre.
  Come, I'le enseame thee. Ladies, y'are too many
  To be in counsell: I have here a friend
  That I would gladly enter in your graces.                           75

  _Buss._ 'Save you, ladyes!

  _Duchess._ If you enter him in our graces, my
  lord, me thinkes, by his blunt behaviour he should
  come out of himselfe.

  _Tamyra._ Has he never beene courtier, my                           80

  _Mons._ Never, my lady.

  _Beaupre._ And why did the toy take him inth'
  head now?

  _Buss._ Tis leape yeare, lady, and therefore very                   85
  good to enter a courtier.

  _Henr._ Marke, Duchesse of Guise, there is
  one is not bashfull.

  _Duch._ No my lord, he is much guilty of the
  bold extremity.                                                     90

  _Tam._ The man's a courtier at first sight.

  _Buss._ I can sing pricksong, lady, at first
  sight; and why not be a courtier as suddenly?

  _Beaup._ Here's a courtier rotten before he be
  ripe.                                                               95

  _Buss._ Thinke me not impudent, lady; I am
  yet no courtier; I desire to be one and would
  gladly take entrance, madam, under your
  princely colours.

          _Enter Barrisor, L'Anou, Pyrhot._

  _Duch._ Soft sir, you must rise by degrees, first                  100
  being the servant of some common Lady or
  Knights wife, then a little higher to a Lords
  wife; next a little higher to a Countesse; yet a
  little higher to a Duchesse, and then turne the
  ladder.                                                            105

  _Buss._ Doe you alow a man then foure mistresses,
  when the greatest mistresse is alowed
  but three servants?

  _Duch._ Where find you that statute sir.

  _Buss._ Why be judged by the groome-porters.                       110

  _Duch._ The groome-porters!

  _Buss._ I, madam, must not they judge of all
  gamings i'th' Court?

  _Duch._ You talke like a gamester.

  _Gui._ Sir, know you me?                                           115

  _Buss._ My lord!

  _Gui._ I know not you; whom doe you serve?

  _Buss._ Serve, my lord!

  _Gui._ Go to companion; your courtship's too
  saucie.                                                            120

  _Buss._ Saucie! Companion! tis the Guise,
  but yet those termes might have beene spar'd of
  the guiserd. Companion! He's jealous, by this
  light. Are you blind of that side, Duke? Ile
  to her againe for that. Forth, princely mistresse,                 125
  for the honour of courtship. Another riddle.

  _Gui._ Cease your courtshippe, or, by heaven,
  Ile cut your throat.

  _Buss._ Cut my throat? cut a whetstone, young
  Accius Noevius! Doe as much with your                              130
  tongue as he did with a rasor. Cut my throat!

  _Barrisor._ What new-come gallant have wee
  heere, that dares mate the Guise thus?

  _L'Anou._ Sfoot, tis D'Ambois! the Duke mistakes
  him (on my life) for some Knight of the                            135
  new edition.

  _Buss._ Cut my throat! I would the King
  fear'd thy cutting of his throat no more than I
  feare thy cutting of mine.

  _Gui._ Ile doe't, by this hand.                                    140

  _Buss._ That hand dares not doe't; y'ave cut
  too many throats already, Guise, and robb'd the
  realme of many thousand soules, more precious
  than thine owne. Come, madam, talk on. Sfoot,
  can you not talk? Talk on, I say. Another                          145

  _Pyrhot._ Here's some strange distemper.

  _Bar._ Here's a sudden transmigration with
  D'Ambois, out of the Knights ward into the
  Duches bed.                                                        150

  _L'An._ See what a metamorphosis a brave
  suit can work.

  _Pyr._ Slight! step to the Guise, and discover

  _Bar._ By no meanes; let the new suit work;                        155
  wee'll see the issue.

  _Gui._ Leave your courting.

  _Buss._ I will not. I say, mistresse, and I will
  stand unto it, that if a woman may have three
  servants, a man may have threescore mistresses.                    160

  _Gui._ Sirrha, Ile have you whipt out of the
  Court for this insolence.

  _Buss._ Whipt! Such another syllable out a
  th'presence, if thou dar'st, for thy Dukedome.

  _Gui._ Remember, poultron!                                         165

  _Mons._ Pray thee forbeare!

  _Buss._ Passion of death! Were not the King
  here, he should strow the chamber like a rush.

  _Mons._ But leave courting his wife then.

  _Buss._ I wil not: Ile court her in despight of                    170
  him. Not court her! Come madam, talk on;
  feare me nothing. [_To Guise._] Well mai'st
  thou drive thy master from the Court, but never

  _Mons._ His great heart will not down, tis like the sea,           175
  That partly by his owne internall heat,
  Partly the starrs daily and nightly motion,
  Their heat and light, and partly of the place
  The divers frames, but chiefly by the moone,
  Bristled with surges, never will be wonne,                         180
  (No, not when th'hearts of all those powers are burst)
  To make retreat into his setled home,
  Till he be crown'd with his owne quiet fome.

  _Henr._ You have the mate. Another?

  _Gui._                              No more.    _Flourish short._

          _Exit Guise; after him the King, Mons[ieur] whispering._

  _Bar._ Why here's the lion skar'd with the                         185
  throat of a dunghill cock, a fellow that has
  newly shak'd off his shackles; now does he
  crow for that victory.

  _L'An._ Tis one of the best jiggs that ever
  was acted.                                                         190

  _Pyr._ Whom does the Guise suppose him to
  be, troe?

  _L'An._ Out of doubt, some new denizond
  Lord, and thinks that suit newly drawne out a
  th' mercers books.                                                 195

  _Bar._ I have heard of a fellow, that by a fixt
  imagination looking upon a bulbaiting, had a
  visible paire of hornes grew out of his forhead:
  and I beleeve this gallant overjoyed with the
  conceit of Monsieurs cast suit, imagines himselfe                  200
  to be the Monsieur.

  _L'An._ And why not? as well as the asse
  stalking in the lions case, bare himselfe like a
  lion, braying all the huger beasts out of the
  forrest?                                                           205

  _Pyr._ Peace! he looks this way.

  _Bar._ Marrie, let him look, sir; what will you
  say now if the Guise be gone to fetch a blanquet
  for him?

  _L'An._ Faith, I beleeve it, for his honour sake.                  210

  _Pyr._ But, if D'Ambois carrie it cleane?        _Exeunt Ladies._

  _Bar._ True, when he curvets in the blanquet.

  _Pyr._ I, marrie, sir.

  _L'An._ Sfoot, see how he stares on's.

  _Bar._ Lord blesse us, let's away.                                 215

  _Buss._ Now, sir, take your full view: who
  does the object please ye?

  _Bar._ If you aske my opinion, sir, I think
  your suit sits as well as if't had beene made for
  you.                                                               220

  _Buss._ So, sir, and was that the subject of your
  ridiculous joylity?

  _L'An._ What's that to you, sir?

  _Buss._ Sir, I have observ'd all your fleerings;
  and resolve your selves yee shall give a strickt                   225
  account for't.

          _Enter Brisac, Melynell._

  _Bar._ O miraculous jealousie! Doe you think
  your selfe such a singular subject for laughter
  that none can fall into the matter of our merriment
  but you?                                                           230

  _L'An._ This jealousie of yours, sir, confesses
  some close defect in your selfe that wee never
  dream'd of.

  _Pyr._ Wee held discourse of a perfum'd asse,
  that being disguis'd in a lions case imagin'd                      235
  himself a lion: I hope that toucht not you.

  _Buss._ So, sir? Your descants doe marvellous
  well fit this ground; we shall meet where your
  buffonly laughters will cost ye the best blood in
  your bodies.                                                       240

  _Bar._ For lifes sake, let's be gone; hee'll kill's
  outright else.

  _Buss._ Goe, at your pleasures; Ile be your
  ghost to haunt you; and yee sleepe an't, hang
  me.                                                                245

  _L'An._ Goe, goe, sir; court your mistresse.

  _Pyr._ And be advis'd; we shall have odds
  against you.

  _Buss._ Tush, valour stands not in number: Ile
  maintaine it that one man may beat three boyes.                    250

  _Brisac._ Nay, you shall have no ods of him in
  number, sir; hee's a gentleman as good as the
  proudest of you, and yee shall not wrong him.

  _Bar._ Not, sir?

  _Melynell._ Not, sir; though he be not so rich,                    255
  hee's a better man than the best of you; and I
  will not endure it.

  _L'An._ Not you, sir?

  _Bris._ No, sir, nor I.

  _Buss._ I should thank you for this kindnesse,                     260
  if I thought these perfum'd musk-cats (being
  out of this priviledge) durst but once mew at us.

  _Bar._ Does your confident spirit doubt that,
  sir? Follow us and try.

  _L'An._ Come, sir, wee'll lead you a dance.                        265

          _Finis Actus Primi._


           2  _that_. A, this.

           4  _the_. A omits.

          10  _Court-fashion_. A, Court forme.

          11  _demi-gods_. A, semi-gods.

       14-15  _No question . . . immortality_. A omits.

          18  _vaunt_. A, boast.

          20  _clowneries_. A, rudenesse.

          32  _confusion_. A, deformitie.

          47  _sole heire_. A, first borne.

          53  _more_. A omits.

          54  _To jet . . . haughtely_. A, To be the pictures of
              our vanitie.

          56  _Holding . . . vaunts_. A omits.

          58  _a_. A, this. _to court_. A, t'attend you.

       60-61  _That's . . . attire_. Printed as prose in Qq.

      62, 63  _We_. A, I.

          67  So in A: B has only: They that will winne, must wooe

          71  _sweet heart_. A, my love.

       68-75. _I urg'd . . . graces_. Printed as prose in Qq.

          76  _'Save you, ladyes_! A omits.

       87-90  _Marke . . . extremity_. A omits.

              _Enter . . . Pyrhot_. After l. 146 in A.

     100-114  _Soft . . . gamester_. A omits.

         124  _Duke_. A, Sir.

         125  _princely mistresse_. A, madam.

         126  _Another riddle_. A omits.

         129  _young_. A, good.

     132-139, and an additional line: "_Gui._ So, sir, so,"
              inserted after l. 146 in A.

     141-145  Set as verse in B, the lines ending in _many_, _of_,
              _owne_, _talk_.

     145-146  _Another riddle_. A, More courtship, as you love it.

         178  _Their heat_. A, Ardor.

         204  _braying_. A, roaring.

         227  _miraculous jealousie_. A, strange credulitie.

         229  _the matter of_. A omits.

     227-231  _O . . . you_. Printed as three lines of verse,
              ending in _selfe_, _into_, _you_.

         235  _in_. A, with.

         241  _else_. A omits.


  [_A Room in the Court._]

          _Henry, Guise, Montsurry, and Attendants._

  _Henry._ This desperate quarrell sprung out of their envies
  To D'Ambois sudden bravery, and great spirit.

  _Guise._ Neither is worth their envie.

  _Henr._                                Lesse than either
  Will make the gall of envie overflow;
  She feeds on outcast entrailes like a kite:                          5
  In which foule heape, if any ill lies hid,
  She sticks her beak into it, shakes it up,
  And hurl's it all abroad, that all may view it.
  Corruption is her nutriment; but touch her
  With any precious oyntment, and you kill her.                       10
  Where she finds any filth in men, she feasts,
  And with her black throat bruits it through the world
  Being sound and healthfull; but if she but taste
  The slenderest pittance of commended vertue,
  She surfets of it, and is like a flie                               15
  That passes all the bodies soundest parts,
  And dwels upon the sores; or if her squint eie
  Have power to find none there, she forges some:
  She makes that crooked ever which is strait;
  Calls valour giddinesse, justice tyrannie:                          20
  A wise man may shun her, she not her selfe;
  Whither soever she flies from her harmes,
  She beares her foe still claspt in her own armes:
  And therefore, cousen Guise, let us avoid her.

          _Enter Nuncius._

  _Nuncius._ What Atlas or Olympus lifts his head                     25
  So farre past covert, that with aire enough
  My words may be inform'd, and from their height
  I may be seene and heard through all the world?
  A tale so worthy, and so fraught with wonder,
  Sticks in my jawes, and labours with event.                         30

  _Henr._ Com'st thou from D'Ambois?

  _Nun._                                  From him, and the rest,
  His friends and enemies; whose sterne fight I saw,
  And heard their words before, and in the fray.

  _Henr._ Relate at large what thou hast seene and heard.

  _Nun._ I saw fierce D'Ambois and his two brave friends              35
  Enter the field, and at their heeles their foes;
  Which were the famous souldiers, Barrisor,
  L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of armes.
  All which arriv'd at the evenest peece of earth
  The field afforded, the three challengers                           40
  Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood ranck't;
  When face to face the three defendants met them,
  Alike prepar'd, and resolute alike.
  Like bonfires of contributorie wood
  Every mans look shew'd, fed with eithers spirit;                    45
  As one had beene a mirror to another,
  Like formes of life and death each took from other;
  And so were life and death mixt at their heights,
  That you could see no feare of death, for life,
  Nor love of life, for death: but in their browes                    50
  Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone:
  That life and death in all respects are one.

  _Henr._ Past there no sort of words at their encounter?

  _Nun._ As Hector, twixt the hosts of Greece and Troy,
  (When Paris and the Spartane King should end                        55
  The nine yeares warre) held up his brasen launce
  For signall that both hosts should cease from armes,
  And heare him speak; so Barrisor (advis'd)
  Advanc'd his naked rapier twixt both sides,
  Ript up the quarrell, and compar'd six lives                        60
  Then laid in ballance with six idle words;
  Offer'd remission and contrition too,
  Or else that he and D'Ambois might conclude
  The others dangers. D'Ambois lik'd the last;
  But Barrisors friends (being equally engag'd                        65
  In the maine quarrell) never would expose
  His life alone to that they all deserv'd.
  And for the other offer of remission
  D'Ambois (that like a lawrell put in fire
  Sparkl'd and spit) did much much more than scorne                   70
  That his wrong should incense him so like chaffe,
  To goe so soone out, and like lighted paper
  Approve his spirit at once both fire and ashes.
  So drew they lots, and in them Fates appointed,
  That Barrisor should fight with firie D'Ambois;                     75
  Pyrhot with Melynell, with Brisac L'Anou;
  And then, like flame and powder, they commixt
  So spritely, that I wisht they had beene spirits,
  That the ne're shutting wounds they needs must open
  Might, as they open'd, shut, and never kill.                        80
  But D'Ambois sword (that lightned as it flew)
  Shot like a pointed comet at the face
  Of manly Barrisor, and there it stucke:
  Thrice pluckt he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts
  From him that of himselfe was free as fire,                         85
  Who thrust still as he pluckt; yet (past beliefe!)
  He with his subtile eye, hand, body, scap't.
  At last, the deadly bitten point tugg'd off,
  On fell his yet undaunted foe so fiercely,
  That (only made more horrid with his wound)                         90
  Great D'Ambois shrunke, and gave a little ground;
  But soone return'd, redoubled in his danger,
  And at the heart of Barrisor seal'd his anger.
  Then, as in Arden I have seene an oke
  Long shooke with tempests, and his loftie toppe                     95
  Bent to his root, which being at length made loose
  (Even groaning with his weight), he gan to nodde
  This way and that, as loth his curled browes
  (Which he had oft wrapt in the skie with stormes)
  Should stoope: and yet, his radicall fivers burst,                 100
  Storme-like he fell, and hid the feare-cold earth--
  So fell stout Barrisor, that had stood the shocks
  Of ten set battels in your Highnesse warre,
  'Gainst the sole souldier of the world, Navarre.

  _Gui._ O pitious and horrid murther!

  [_Montsurry._]                       Such a life                   105
  Me thinks had mettall in it to survive
  An age of men.

  _Henr._        Such often soonest end.--
  Thy felt report cals on; we long to know
  On what events the other have arriv'd.

  _Nun._ Sorrow and fury, like two opposite fumes                    110
  Met in the upper region of a cloud,
  At the report made by this worthies fall,
  Brake from the earth, and with them rose Revenge,
  Entring with fresh powers his two noble friends;
  And under that ods fell surcharg'd Brisac,                         115
  The friend of D'Ambois, before fierce L'Anou;
  Which D'Ambois seeing, as I once did see,
  In my young travels through Armenia,
  An angrie unicorne in his full cariere
  Charge with too swift a foot a jeweller,                           120
  That watcht him for the treasure of his brow,
  And, ere he could get shelter of a tree,
  Naile him with his rich antler to the earth:
  So D'Ambois ranne upon reveng'd L'Anou,
  Who eying th'eager point borne in his face,                        125
  And giving backe, fell back; and, in his fall,
  His foes uncurbed sword stopt in his heart:
  By which time all the life strings of th'tw'other
  Were cut, and both fell, as their spirit flew,
  Upwards, and still hunt Honour at the view.                        130
  And now (of all the six) sole D'Ambois stood
  Untoucht, save only with the others bloud.

  _Henr._ All slaine outright?

  _Nun._                       All slaine outright but he,
  Who kneeling in the warme life of his friends,
  (All freckled with the bloud his rapier raind)                     135
  He kist their pale lips, and bade both farewell:
  And see the bravest man the French earth beares!
                                                  [_Exit Nuntius._]

          _Enter Monsieur, D'Amb[ois] bare._

  _Bussy._ Now is the time; y'are princely vow'd my friend;
  Perform it princely, and obtaine my pardon.

  _Monsieur._ Else Heaven forgive not me! Come on, brave friend!     140
  If ever Nature held her selfe her owne,
  When the great triall of a King and subject
  Met in one bloud, both from one belly springing,
  Now prove her vertue and her greatnesse one,
  Or make the t'one the greater with the t'other,                    145
  (As true Kings should) and for your brothers love
  (Which is a speciall species of true vertue)
  Doe that you could not doe, not being a King.

  _Henr._ Brother, I know your suit; these wilfull murthers
  Are ever past our pardon.

  _Mons._                   Manly slaughter                          150
  Should never beare th'account of wilfull murther,
  It being a spice of justice, where with life
  Offending past law equall life is laid
  In equall ballance, to scourge that offence
  By law of reputation, which to men                                 155
  Exceeds all positive law; and what that leaves
  To true mens valours (not prefixing rights
  Of satisfaction suited to their wrongs)
  A free mans eminence may supply and take.

  _Henr._ This would make every man that thinks him wrong'd,         160
  Or is offended, or in wrong or right,
  Lay on this violence; and all vaunt themselves
  Law-menders and supplyers, though meere butchers,
  Should this fact, though of justice, be forgiven.

  _Mons._ O no, my Lord! it would make cowards feare                 165
  To touch the reputations of true men.
  When only they are left to impe the law,
  Justice will soone distinguish murtherous minds
  From just revengers. Had my friend beene slaine,
  His enemy surviving, he should die,                                170
  Since he had added to a murther'd fame
  (Which was in his intent) a murthered man;
  And this had worthily beene wilfull murther;
  But my friend only sav'd his fames deare life,
  Which is above life, taking th'under value                         175
  Which in the wrong it did was forfeit to him;
  And in this fact only preserves a man
  In his uprightnesse, worthy to survive
  Millions of such as murther men alive.

  _Henr._ Well, brother, rise, and raise your friend withall         180
  From death to life: and, D'Ambois, let your life
  (Refin'd by passing through this merited death)
  Be purg'd from more such foule pollution;
  Nor on your scape, nor valour, more presuming
  To be again so violent.

  _Buss._                 My Lord,                                   185
  I lothe as much a deed of unjust death,
  As law it selfe doth; and to tyrannise,
  Because I have a little spirit to dare,
  And power to doe, as to be tyranniz'd.
  This is a grace that (on my knees redoubled)                       190
  I crave, to double this my short lifes gift,
  And shall your royal bountie centuple,
  That I may so make good what Law and Nature
  Have given me for my good: since I am free,
  (Offending no just law) let no law make,                           195
  By any wrong it does, my life her slave:
  When I am wrong'd, and that Law failes to right me,
  Let me be King my selfe (as man was made)
  And doe a justice that exceeds the Law:
  If my wrong passe the power of single valour                       200
  To right and expiate, then be you my King,
  And doe a right, exceeding Law and Nature.
  Who to himselfe is law, no law doth need,
  Offends no law, and is a King indeed.

  _Henr._ Enjoy what thou intreat'st, we give but ours.              205

  _Buss._ What you have given, my lord, is ever yours.
                                        _Exit Rex cum [Montsurry.]_

  _Gui._ _Mort dieu_, who would have pardon'd such a murther?

  _Mons._ Now vanish horrors into Court attractions
  For which let this balme make thee fresh and faire!
  And now forth with thy service to the Duchesse,                    210
  As my long love will to Monsurries Countesse.             _Exit._

  _Buss._ To whom my love hath long been vow'd in heart,
  Although in hand, for shew, I held the Duchesse.
  And now through bloud and vengeance, deeds of height,
  And hard to be atchiev'd, tis fit I make                           215
  Attempt of her perfection. I need feare
  No check in his rivality, since her vertues
  Are so renown'd, and hee of all dames hated.              _Exit._


              _Montsurry, and Attendants._ A, Beaumond, Nuncius.

          11  _Where_. A, When.

          27  _their_. A, his.

          70  _Sparkl'd_. So in A; B, Spakl'd.

         105  [_Montsurry._] Emend. ed.: Beau. Qq; see note 30, p.

         120  _a foot_. A, an eie.

         128  _th'_. A, the.

         129  _spirit_. A, spirits.

         133  _All slaine outright_? So in A; B, All slaine
              outright but hee?

         135  _freckled_. A, feebled.

         166  _true_. A, full.

         185  _violent_. So in A; B, daring.

         204  _law_. A, King.

         206  _cum [Montsurry.]_ Emend. ed.: Qq, cum Beau. See note
              30, p. 149.

         207  _Mort dieu_. A; B omits.

     210-218  _And now . . . hated_. A omits, inserting instead:

                _Buss._ How shall I quite your love?

                _Mons._                              Be true to the
                I have obtained a kingdome with my friend.


  _A Room in Montsurry's House._]

          _Montsur[ry], Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero, Charlotte, Pyrha._

  _Montsurry._ He will have pardon, sure.

  _Tamyra._                               Twere pittie else:
  For though his great spirit something overflow,
  All faults are still borne, that from greatnesse grow:
  But such a sudden courtier saw I never.

  _Beaupre._ He was too sudden, which indeed was rudenesse.            5

  _Tam._ True, for it argued his no due conceit
  Both of the place, and greatnesse of the persons,
  Nor of our sex: all which (we all being strangers
  To his encounter) should have made more maners
  Deserve more welcome.

  _Mont._               All this fault is found                       10
  Because he lov'd the Duchesse and left you.

  _Tam._ Ahlas, love give her joy! I am so farre
  From envie of her honour, that I sweare,
  Had he encounterd me with such proud sleight,
  I would have put that project face of his                           15
  To a more test than did her Dutchesship.

  _Beau._ Why (by your leave, my lord) Ile speake it heere,
  (Although she be my ante) she scarce was modest,
  When she perceived the Duke, her husband, take
  Those late exceptions to her servants courtship,                    20
  To entertaine him.

  _Tam._             I, and stand him still,
  Letting her husband give her servant place:
  Though he did manly, she should be a woman.

          _Enter Guise._

  [_Guise._] D'Ambois is pardond! wher's a King? where law?
  See how it runnes, much like a turbulent sea;                       25
  Heere high and glorious, as it did contend
  To wash the heavens, and make the stars more pure;
  And heere so low, it leaves the mud of hell
  To every common view. Come, Count Montsurry,
  We must consult of this.

  _Tam._                   Stay not, sweet lord.                      30

  _Mont._ Be pleased; Ile strait returne.         _Exit cum Guise._

  _Tam._                                  Would that would please me!

  _Beau._ Ile leave you, madam, to your passions;
  I see ther's change of weather in your lookes.    _Exit cum suis._

  _Tam._ I cannot cloake it; but, as when a fume,
  Hot, drie, and grosse, within the wombe of earth                    35
  Or in her superficies begot,
  When extreame cold hath stroke it to her heart,
  The more it is comprest, the more it rageth,
  Exceeds his prisons strength that should containe it,
  And then it tosseth temples in the aire,                            40
  All barres made engines to his insolent fury:
  So, of a sudden, my licentious fancy
  Riots within me: not my name and house,
  Nor my religion to this houre observ'd,
  Can stand above it; I must utter that                               45
  That will in parting breake more strings in me,
  Than death when life parts; and that holy man
  That, from my cradle, counseld for my soule,
  I now must make an agent for my bloud.

          _Enter Monsieur._

  _Monsieur._ Yet is my mistresse gratious?

  _Tam._                                    Yet unanswered?           50

  _Mons._ Pray thee regard thine owne good, if not mine,
  And cheere my love for that: you doe not know
  What you may be by me, nor what without me;
  I may have power t'advance and pull downe any.

  _Tam._ That's not my study. One way I am sure                       55
  You shall not pull downe me; my husbands height
  Is crowne to all my hopes, and his retiring
  To any meane state, shall be my aspiring.
  Mine honour's in mine owne hands, spite of kings.

  _Mons._ Honour, what's that? your second maydenhead:                60
  And what is that? a word: the word is gone,
  The thing remaines; the rose is pluckt, the stalk
  Abides: an easie losse where no lack's found.
  Beleeve it, there's as small lack in the losse
  As there is paine ith' losing. Archers ever                         65
  Have two strings to a bow, and shall great Cupid
  (Archer of archers both in men and women)
  Be worse provided than a common archer?
  A husband and a friend all wise wives have.

  _Tam._ Wise wives they are that on such strings depend,             70
  With a firme husband joyning a lose friend.

  _Mons._ Still you stand on your husband; so doe all
  The common sex of you, when y'are encounter'd
  With one ye cannot fancie: all men know
  You live in Court here by your owne election,                       75
  Frequenting all our common sports and triumphs,
  All the most youthfull company of men.
  And wherefore doe you this? To please your husband?
  Tis grosse and fulsome: if your husbands pleasure
  Be all your object, and you ayme at honour                          80
  In living close to him, get you from Court,
  You may have him at home; these common put-ofs
  For common women serve: "my honour! husband!"
  Dames maritorious ne're were meritorious:
  Speak plaine, and say "I doe not like you, sir,                     85
  Y'are an ill-favour'd fellow in my eye,"
  And I am answer'd.

  _Tam._             Then I pray be answer'd:
  For in good faith, my lord, I doe not like you
  In that sort you like.

  _Mons._                Then have at you here!
  Take (with a politique hand) this rope of pearle;                   90
  And though you be not amorous, yet be wise:
  Take me for wisedom; he that you can love
  Is nere the further from you.

  _Tam._                        Now it comes
  So ill prepar'd, that I may take a poyson
  Under a medicine as good cheap as it:                               95
  I will not have it were it worth the world.

  _Mons._ Horror of death! could I but please your eye,
  You would give me the like, ere you would loose me.
  "Honour and husband!"

  _Tam._                By this light, my lord,
  Y'are a vile fellow; and Ile tell the King                         100
  Your occupation of dishonouring ladies,
  And of his Court. A lady cannot live
  As she was borne, and with that sort of pleasure
  That fits her state, but she must be defam'd
  With an infamous lords detraction:                                 105
  Who would endure the Court if these attempts,
  Of open and profest lust must be borne?--
  Whose there? come on, dame, you are at your book
  When men are at your mistresse; have I taught you
  Any such waiting womans quality?                                   110

  _Mons._ Farewell, good "husband"!              _Exit Mons[ieur]._

  _Tam._                            Farewell, wicked lord!

          _Enter Mont[surry]._

  _Mont._ Was not the Monsieur here?

  _Tam._                             Yes, to good purpose;
  And your cause is as good to seek him too,
  And haunt his company.

  _Mont._                Why, what's the matter?

  _Tam._ Matter of death, were I some husbands wife:                 115
  I cannot live at quiet in my chamber
  For oportunities almost to rapes
  Offerd me by him.

  _Mont._           Pray thee beare with him:
  Thou know'st he is a bachelor, and a courtier,
  I, and a Prince: and their prerogatives                            120
  Are to their lawes, as to their pardons are
  Their reservations, after Parliaments--
  One quits another; forme gives all their essence.
  That Prince doth high in vertues reckoning stand
  That will entreat a vice, and not command:                         125
  So farre beare with him; should another man
  Trust to his priviledge, he should trust to death:
  Take comfort then (my comfort), nay, triumph,
  And crown thy selfe; thou part'st with victory:
  My presence is so onely deare to thee                              130
  That other mens appeare worse than they be:
  For this night yet, beare with my forced absence:
  Thou know'st my businesse; and with how much weight
  My vow hath charged it.

  _Tam._                  True, my lord, and never
  My fruitlesse love shall let your serious honour;                  135
  Yet, sweet lord, do no stay; you know my soule
  Is so long time with out me, and I dead,
  As you are absent.

  _Mont._            By this kisse, receive
  My soule for hostage, till I see my love.

  _Tam._ The morne shall let me see you?

  _Mont._                                With the sunne              140
  Ile visit thy more comfortable beauties.

  _Tam._ This is my comfort, that the sunne hath left
  The whole worlds beauty ere my sunne leaves me.

  _Mont._ Tis late night now, indeed: farewell, my light!   _Exit._

  _Tam._ Farewell, my light and life! but not in him,                145
  In mine owne dark love and light bent to another.
  Alas! that in the wane of our affections
  We should supply it with a full dissembling,
  In which each youngest maid is grown a mother.
  Frailty is fruitfull, one sinne gets another:                      150
  Our loves like sparkles are that brightest shine
  When they goe out; most vice shewes most divine.
  Goe, maid, to bed; lend me your book, I pray,
  Not, like your selfe, for forme. Ile this night trouble
  None of your services: make sure the dores,                        155
  And call your other fellowes to their rest.

  _Per._ I will--yet I will watch to know why you watch.    _Exit._

  _Tam._ Now all yee peacefull regents of the night,
  Silently-gliding exhalations,
  Languishing windes, and murmuring falls of waters,                 160
  Sadnesse of heart, and ominous securenesse,
  Enchantments, dead sleepes, all the friends of rest,
  That ever wrought upon the life of man,
  Extend your utmost strengths, and this charm'd houre
  Fix like the Center! make the violent wheeles                      165
  Of Time and Fortune stand, and great Existens,
  (The Makers treasurie) now not seeme to be
  To all but my approaching friends and me!
  They come, alas, they come! Feare, feare and hope
  Of one thing, at one instant, fight in me:                         170
  I love what most I loath, and cannot live,
  Unlesse I compasse that which holds my death;
  For life's meere death, loving one that loathes me,
  And he I love will loath me, when he sees
  I flie my sex, my vertue, my renowne,                              175
  To runne so madly on a man unknowne.           _The Vault opens._
  See, see, a vault is opening that was never
  Knowne to my lord and husband, nor to any
  But him that brings the man I love, and me.
  How shall I looke on him? how shall I live,                        180
  And not consume in blushes? I will in;
  And cast my selfe off, as I ne're had beene.              _Exit._

          _Ascendit Frier and D'Ambois._

  _Friar._ Come, worthiest sonne, I am past measure glad
  That you (whose worth I have approv'd so long)
  Should be the object of her fearefull love;                        185
  Since both your wit and spirit can adapt
  Their full force to supply her utmost weaknesse.
  You know her worths and vertues, for report
  Of all that know is to a man a knowledge:
  You know besides that our affections storme,                       190
  Rais'd in our blood, no reason can reforme.
  Though she seeke then their satisfaction
  (Which she must needs, or rest unsatisfied)
  Your judgement will esteeme her peace thus wrought
  Nothing lesse deare than if your selfe had sought:                 195
  And (with another colour, which my art
  Shall teach you to lay on) your selfe must seeme
  The only agent, and the first orbe move
  In this our set and cunning world of love.

  _Bussy._ Give me the colour (my most honour'd father)              200
  And trust my cunning then to lay it on.

  _Fri._ Tis this, good sonne:--Lord Barrisor (whom you slew)
  Did love her dearely, and with all fit meanes
  Hath urg'd his acceptation, of all which
  Shee keepes one letter written in his blood:                       205
  You must say thus, then: that you heard from mee
  How much her selfe was toucht in conscience
  With a report (which is in truth disperst)
  That your maine quarrell grew about her love,
  Lord Barrisor imagining your courtship                             210
  Of the great Guises Duchesse in the Presence
  Was by you made to his elected mistresse:
  And so made me your meane now to resolve her,
  Chosing by my direction this nights depth,
  For the more cleare avoiding of all note                           215
  Of your presumed presence. And with this
  (To cleare her hands of such a lovers blood)
  She will so kindly thank and entertaine you
  (Me thinks I see how), I, and ten to one,
  Shew you the confirmation in his blood,                            220
  Lest you should think report and she did faine,
  That you shall so have circumstantiall meanes
  To come to the direct, which must be used:
  For the direct is crooked; love comes flying;
  The height of love is still wonne with denying.                    225

  _Buss._ Thanks, honoured father.

  _Fri._                           Shee must never know
  That you know any thing of any love
  Sustain'd on her part: for, learne this of me,
  In any thing a woman does alone,
  If she dissemble, she thinks tis not done;                         230
  If not dissemble, nor a little chide,
  Give her her wish, she is not satisfi'd;
  To have a man think that she never seekes
  Does her more good than to have all she likes:
  This frailty sticks in them beyond their sex,                      235
  Which to reforme, reason is too perplex:
  Urge reason to them, it will doe no good;
  Humour (that is the charriot of our food
  In every body) must in them be fed,
  To carrie their affections by it bred.                             240
  Stand close!

          _Enter Tamyra with a book._

  _Tam._ Alas, I fear my strangenesse will retire him.
  If he goe back, I die; I must prevent it,
  And cheare his onset with my sight at least,
  And that's the most; though every step he takes                    245
  Goes to my heart. Ile rather die than seeme
  Not to be strange to that I most esteeme.

  _Fri._ Madam!

  _Tam._        Ah!

  _Fri._            You will pardon me, I hope,
  That so beyond your expectation,
  (And at a time for visitants so unfit)                             250
  I (with my noble friend here) visit you:
  You know that my accesse at any time
  Hath ever beene admitted; and that friend,
  That my care will presume to bring with me,
  Shall have all circumstance of worth in him                        255
  To merit as free welcome as myselfe.

  _Tam._ O father, but at this suspicious houre
  You know how apt best men are to suspect us
  In any cause that makes suspicious shadow
  No greater than the shadow of a haire;                             260
  And y'are to blame. What though my lord and husband
  Lie forth to night, and since I cannot sleepe
  When he is absent I sit up to night;
  Though all the dores are sure, and all our servants
  As sure bound with their sleepes; yet there is One                 265
  That wakes above, whose eye no sleepe can binde:
  He sees through dores, and darknesse, and our thoughts;
  And therefore as we should avoid with feare
  To think amisse our selves before his search,
  So should we be as curious to shunne                               270
  All cause that other think not ill of us.

  _Buss._ Madam, 'tis farre from that: I only heard
  By this my honour'd father that your conscience
  Made some deepe scruple with a false report
  That Barrisors blood should something touch your honour,           275
  Since he imagin'd I was courting you
  When I was bold to change words with the Duchesse,
  And therefore made his quarrell, his long love
  And service, as I heare, beeing deepely vowed
  To your perfections; which my ready presence,                      280
  Presum'd on with my father at this season
  For the more care of your so curious honour,
  Can well resolve your conscience is most false.

  _Tam._ And is it therefore that you come, good sir?
  Then crave I now your pardon and my fathers,                       285
  And sweare your presence does me so much good
  That all I have it bindes to your requitall.
  Indeed sir, 'tis most true that a report
  Is spread, alleadging that his love to me
  Was reason of your quarrell; and because                           290
  You shall not think I faine it for my glory
  That he importun'd me for his Court service,
  I'le shew you his own hand, set down in blood,
  To that vaine purpose: good sir, then come in.
  Father, I thank you now a thousand fold.                           295
                                      _Exit Tamyra and D'Amb[ois]._

  _Fri._ May it be worth it to you, honour'd daughter!
                                                 _Descendit Fryar._

          _Finis Actus Secundi._


        1-49  _He will . . . bloud_. These lines and the direction,
              _Montsur . . . Pyrha_, are found in A only.

          50  B, which begins the scene with this line, inserts
              before it: _Enter Monsieur, Tamyra, and Pero with a

          71  _joyning a lose_. A, weighing a dissolute.

          76  _common_. A, solemne.

         135  _honour_. A, profit.

         146  _In . . . another_. A omits.

         147  _wane_. Emend., Dilke; Qq, wave.

         158  _yee_. A, the.

         172  _which_. A, that.

         173  _For life's . . . me_. A, For love is hatefull
              without love againe.

              _The Vault opens_. B places this after 173; A omits.

     177-181  _See . . . in_. Instead of these lines, A has:--

                See, see the gulfe is opening that will
                Me and my fame forever; I will in.

              _with a book_. A omits.

         266  _wakes_. A, sits.

         274  _Made some deepe scruple_. A, Was something troubled.

         275  _honour_. A, hand.

     278-280  _his long love . . . perfections_. A omits.

         280  _ready_. A omits.

         286  _good_. A, comfort.


  [_A Room in Montsurry's House._]

          _Enter D'Ambois, Tamyra, with a chaine of pearle._

  _Bussy._ Sweet mistresse, cease! your conscience is too nice,
  And bites too hotly of the Puritane spice.

  _Tamyra._ O, my deare servant, in thy close embraces
  I have set open all the dores of danger
  To my encompast honour, and my life:                                 5
  Before I was secure against death and hell;
  But now am subject to the heartlesse feare
  Of every shadow, and of every breath,
  And would change firmnesse with an aspen leafe:
  So confident a spotlesse conscience is,                             10
  So weake a guilty. O, the dangerous siege
  Sinne layes about us, and the tyrannie
  He exercises when he hath expugn'd!
  Like to the horror of a winter's thunder,
  Mixt with a gushing storme, that suffer nothing                     15
  To stirre abroad on earth but their own rages,
  Is sinne, when it hath gathered head above us;
  No roofe, no shelter can secure us so,
  But he will drowne our cheeks in feare or woe.

  _Buss._ Sin is a coward, madam, and insults                         20
  But on our weaknesse, in his truest valour:
  And so our ignorance tames us, that we let
  His shadowes fright us: and like empty clouds
  In which our faulty apprehensions forge
  The formes of dragons, lions, elephants,                            25
  When they hold no proportion, the slie charmes
  Of the witch policy makes him like a monster
  Kept onely to shew men for servile money:
  That false hagge often paints him in her cloth
  Ten times more monstrous than he is in troth.                       30
  In three of us the secret of our meeting
  Is onely guarded, and three friends as one
  Have ever beene esteem'd, as our three powers
  That in our one soule are as one united:
  Why should we feare then? for my selfe, I sweare,                   35
  Sooner shall torture be the sire to pleasure,
  And health be grievous to one long time sick,
  Than the deare jewell of your fame in me
  Be made an out-cast to your infamy;
  Nor shall my value (sacred to your vertues)                         40
  Onely give free course to it from my selfe,
  But make it flie out of the mouths of Kings
  In golden vapours, and with awfull wings.

  _Tam._ It rests as all Kings seales were set in thee.
  Now let us call my father, whom I sweare                            45
  I could extreamly chide, but that I feare
  To make him so suspicious of my love,
  Of which (sweet servant) doe not let him know
  For all the world.

  _Buss._            Alas! he will not think it.

  _Tam._ Come then--ho! Father, ope and take your friend.             50

          _Ascendit Frier._

  _Fri._ Now, honour'd daughter, is your doubt resolv'd?

  _Tam._ I, father, but you went away too soone.

  _Fri._ Too soone!

  _Tam._            Indeed you did; you should have stayed;
  Had not your worthy friend beene of your bringing,
  And that containes all lawes to temper me,                          55
  Not all the fearefull danger that besieged us
  Had aw'd my throat from exclamation.

  _Fri._ I know your serious disposition well.
  Come, sonne, the morne comes on.

  _Buss._                          Now, honour'd mistresse,
  Till farther service call, all blisse supply you!                   60

  _Tam._ And you this chaine of pearle, and my love onely!
                                  _Descendit Frier and D'Amb[ois]._
  It is not I, but urgent destiny
  That (as great states-men for their generall end
  In politique justice make poore men offend)
  Enforceth my offence to make it just.                               65
  What shall weak dames doe, when th' whole work of Nature
  Hath a strong finger in each one of us?
  Needs must that sweep away the silly cobweb
  Of our still-undone labours, that layes still
  Our powers to it, as to the line, the stone,                        70
  Not to the stone, the line should be oppos'd.
  We cannot keepe our constant course in vertue:
  What is alike at all parts? every day
  Differs from other, every houre and minute;
  I, every thought in our false clock of life                         75
  Oft times inverts the whole circumference:
  We must be sometimes one, sometimes another.
  Our bodies are but thick clouds to our soules,
  Through which they cannot shine when they desire.
  When all the starres, and even the sunne himselfe,                  80
  Must stay the vapours times that he exhales
  Before he can make good his beames to us,
  O how can we, that are but motes to him,
  Wandring at random in his ordered rayes,
  Disperse our passions fumes, with our weak labours,                 85
  That are more thick and black than all earths vapours?

          _Enter Mont[surry]._

  _Mont._ Good day, my love! what, up and ready too!

  _Tam._ Both (my deare lord): not all this night made I
  My selfe unready, or could sleep a wink.

  _Mont._ Alas, what troubled my true love, my peace,                 90
  From being at peace within her better selfe?
  Or how could sleepe forbeare to seize thine eyes,
  When he might challenge them as his just prise?

  _Tam._ I am in no powre earthly, but in yours.
  To what end should I goe to bed, my lord,                           95
  That wholly mist the comfort of my bed?
  Or how should sleepe possesse my faculties,
  Wanting the proper closer of mine eyes?

  _Mont._ Then will I never more sleepe night from thee:
  All mine owne businesse, all the Kings affaires,                   100
  Shall take the day to serve them; every night
  Ile ever dedicate to thy delight.

  _Tam._ Nay, good my lord, esteeme not my desires
  Such doters on their humours that my judgement
  Cannot subdue them to your worthier pleasure:                      105
  A wives pleas'd husband must her object be
  In all her acts, not her sooth'd fantasie.

  _Mont._ Then come, my love, now pay those rites to sleepe
  Thy faire eyes owe him: shall we now to bed?

  _Tam._ O no, my lord! your holy frier sayes                        110
  All couplings in the day that touch the bed
  Adulterous are, even in the married;
  Whose grave and worthy doctrine, well I know,
  Your faith in him will liberally allow.

  _Mont._ Hee's a most learned and religious man.                    115
  Come to the Presence then, and see great D'Ambois
  (Fortunes proud mushrome shot up in a night)
  Stand like an Atlas under our Kings arme;
  Which greatnesse with him Monsieur now envies
  As bitterly and deadly as the Guise.                               120

  _Tam._ What! he that was but yesterday his maker,
  His raiser, and preserver?

  _Mont._                    Even the same.
  Each naturall agent works but to this end,
  To render that it works on like it selfe;
  Which since the Monsieur in his act on D'Ambois                    125
  Cannot to his ambitious end effect,
  But that (quite opposite) the King hath power
  (In his love borne to D'Ambois) to convert
  The point of Monsieurs aime on his owne breast,
  He turnes his outward love to inward hate:                         130
  A princes love is like the lightnings fume,
  Which no man can embrace, but must consume.             _Exeunt._


              _Enter D'Ambois . . . pearle_. A, Bucy, Tamyra.

         1-2  _Sweet . . . spice_. A omits.

          28  _servile_. A, Goddesse.

          34  _our one_. So in A: B omits _our_.

          35  _selfe_. A, truth.

          37  _one_. A, men.

       45-61  _Now let . . . Descendit Frier and D'Amb[ois]_. A

          92  _thine eies_. A, thy beauties.

         118  _under our Kings arme_. A, underneath the King.


  _A room in the Court._]

          _Henry, D'Ambois, Monsieur, Guise, Dutches, Annabell,
          Charlot, Attendants._

  _Henry._ Speak home, my Bussy! thy impartiall words
  Are like brave faulcons that dare trusse a fowle
  Much greater than themselves; flatterers are kites
  That check at sparrowes; thou shalt be my eagle,
  And beare my thunder underneath thy wings:                           5
  Truths words like jewels hang in th'eares of kings.

  _Bussy_. Would I might live to see no Jewes hang there
  In steed of jewels--sycophants, I meane,
  Who use Truth like the Devill, his true foe,
  Cast by the angell to the pit of feares,                            10
  And bound in chaines; Truth seldome decks kings eares.
  Slave flattery (like a rippiers legs rowl'd up
  In boots of hay-ropes) with kings soothed guts
  Swadled and strappl'd, now lives onely free.
  O, tis a subtle knave; how like the plague                          15
  Unfelt he strikes into the braine of man,
  And rageth in his entrailes when he can,
  Worse than the poison of a red hair'd man.

  _Henr._ Fly at him and his brood! I cast thee off,
  And once more give thee surname of mine eagle.                      20

  _Buss._ Ile make you sport enough, then. Let me have
  My lucerns too, or dogs inur'd to hunt
  Beasts of most rapine, but to put them up,
  And if I trusse not, let me not be trusted.
  Shew me a great man (by the peoples voice,                          25
  Which is the voice of God) that by his greatnesse
  Bumbasts his private roofes with publique riches;
  That affects royaltie, rising from a clapdish;
  That rules so much more than his suffering King,
  That he makes kings of his subordinate slaves:                      30
  Himselfe and them graduate like woodmongers
  Piling a stack of billets from the earth,
  Raising each other into steeples heights;
  Let him convey this on the turning props
  Of Protean law, and (his owne counsell keeping)                     35
  Keepe all upright--let me but hawlk at him,
  Ile play the vulture, and so thump his liver
  That (like a huge unlading Argosea)
  He shall confesse all, and you then may hang him.
  Shew me a clergie man that is in voice                              40
  A lark of heaven, in heart a mowle of earth;
  That hath good living, and a wicked life;
  A temperate look, and a luxurious gut;
  Turning the rents of his superfluous cures
  Into your phesants and your partriches;                             45
  Venting their quintessence as men read Hebrew--
  Let me but hawlk at him, and like the other,
  He shall confesse all, and you then may hang him.
  Shew me a lawyer that turnes sacred law
  (The equall rendrer of each man his owne,                           50
  The scourge of rapine and extortion,
  The sanctuary and impregnable defence
  Of retir'd learning and besieged vertue)
  Into a Harpy, that eates all but's owne,
  Into the damned sinnes it punisheth,                                55
  Into the synagogue of theeves and atheists;
  Blood into gold, and justice into lust:--
  Let me but hawlk at him, as at the rest,
  He shall confesse all, and you then may hang him.

          _Enter Mont-surrey, Tamira and Pero._

  _Gui._ Where will you find such game as you would hawlk at?         60

  _Buss._ Ile hawlk about your house for one of them.

  _Gui._ Come, y'are a glorious ruffin and runne proud
  Of the Kings headlong graces; hold your breath,
  Or, by that poyson'd vapour, not the King
  Shall back your murtherous valour against me.                       65

  _Buss._ I would the King would make his presence free
  But for one bout betwixt us: by the reverence
  Due to the sacred space twixt kings and subjects,
  Here would I make thee cast that popular purple
  In which thy proud soule sits and braves thy soveraigne.            70

  _Mons._ Peace, peace, I pray thee, peace!

  _Buss._                                   Let him peace first
  That made the first warre.

  _Mons._                    He's the better man.

  _Buss._ And, therefore, may doe worst?

  _Mons._                                He has more titles.

  _Buss._ So Hydra had more heads.

  _Mons._                          He's greater knowne.

  _Buss._ His greatnesse is the peoples, mine's mine owne.            75

  _Mons._ He's noblier borne.

  _Buss._                     He is not; I am noble,
  And noblesse in his blood hath no gradation,
  But in his merit.

  _Gui._            Th'art not nobly borne,
  But bastard to the Cardinall of Ambois.

  _Buss._ Thou liest, proud Guiserd; let me flie, my Lord!            80

  _Henr._ Not in my face, my eagle! violence flies
  The sanctuaries of a princes eyes.

  _Buss._ Still shall we chide, and fome upon this bit?
  Is the Guise onely great in faction?
  Stands he not by himselfe? Proves he th'opinion                     85
  That mens soules are without them? Be a duke,
  And lead me to the field.

  _Guis._                   Come, follow me.

  _Henr._ Stay them! stay, D'Ambois! Cosen Guise, I wonder
  Your honour'd disposition brooks so ill
  A man so good that only would uphold                                90
  Man in his native noblesse, from whose fall
  All our dissentions rise; that in himselfe
  (Without the outward patches of our frailty,
  Riches and honour) knowes he comprehends
  Worth with the greatest. Kings had never borne                      95
  Such boundlesse empire over other men,
  Had all maintain'd the spirit and state of D'Ambois;
  Nor had the full impartiall hand of Nature,
  That all things gave in her originall
  Without these definite terms of Mine and Thine,                    100
  Beene turn'd unjustly to the hand of Fortune,
  Had all preserv'd her in her prime like D'Ambois;
  No envie, no disjunction had dissolv'd,
  Or pluck'd one stick out of the golden faggot
  In which the world of Saturne bound our lifes,                     105
  Had all beene held together with the nerves,
  The genius, and th'ingenious soule of D'Ambois.
  Let my hand therefore be the Hermean rod
  To part and reconcile, and so conserve you,
  As my combin'd embracers and supporters.                           110

  _Buss._ Tis our Kings motion, and we shall not seeme
  To worst eies womanish, though we change thus soone
  Never so great grudge for his greater pleasure.

  _Gui._ I seale to that, and so the manly freedome,
  That you so much professe, hereafter prove not                     115
  A bold and glorious licence to deprave,
  To me his hand shall hold the Hermean vertue
  His grace affects, in which submissive signe
  On this his sacred right hand I lay mine.

  _Buss._ Tis well, my lord, and so your worthy greatnesse           120
  Decline not to the greater insolence,
  Nor make you think it a prerogative
  To rack mens freedomes with the ruder wrongs,
  My hand (stuck full of lawrell, in true signe
  Tis wholly dedicate to righteous peace)                            125
  In all submission kisseth th'other side.

  _Henr._ Thanks to ye both: and kindly I invite ye
  Both to a banquet where weele sacrifice
  Full cups to confirmation of your loves;
  At which (faire ladies) I entreat your presence;                   130
  And hope you, madam, will take one carowse
  For reconcilement of your lord and servant.

  _Duchess._ If I should faile, my lord, some other lady
  Would be found there to doe that for my servant.

  _Mons._ Any of these here?

  _Duch._                    Nay, I know not that.                   135

  _Buss._ Think your thoughts like my mistresse, honour'd lady?

  _Tamyra._ I think not on you, sir; y'are one I know not.

  _Buss._ Cry you mercy, madam!

  _Montsurry._                  Oh sir, has she met you?
                                _Exeunt Henry, D'Amb[ois], Ladies._

  _Mons._ What had my bounty drunk when it rais'd him?

  _Gui._ Y'ave stuck us up a very worthy flag,                       140
  That takes more winde than we with all our sailes.

  _Mons._ O, so he spreds and flourishes.

  _Gui._                                  He must downe;
  Upstarts should never perch too neere a crowne.

  _Mons._ Tis true, my lord; and as this doting hand
  Even out of earth (like Juno) struck this giant,                   145
  So Joves great ordinance shall be here implide
  To strike him under th'Ætna of his pride.
  To which work lend your hands, and let us cast
  Where we may set snares for his ranging greatnes.
  I think it best, amongst our greatest women:                       150
  For there is no such trap to catch an upstart
  As a loose downfall; for, you know, their falls
  Are th'ends of all mens rising. If great men
  And wise make scapes to please advantage,
  Tis with a woman--women that woorst may                            155
  Still hold mens candels: they direct and know
  All things amisse in all men, and their women
  All things amisse in them; through whose charm'd mouthes
  We may see all the close scapes of the Court.
  When the most royall beast of chase, the hart,                     160
  Being old, and cunning in his layres and haunts,
  Can never be discovered to the bow,
  The peece, or hound--yet where, behind some queich,
  He breaks his gall, and rutteth with his hinde,
  The place is markt, and by his venery                              165
  He still is taken. Shall we then attempt
  The chiefest meane to that discovery here,
  And court our greatest ladies chiefest women
  With shewes of love, and liberall promises?
  Tis but our breath. If something given in hand                     170
  Sharpen their hopes of more, 'twill be well ventur'd.

  _Gui._ No doubt of that: and 'tis the cunningst point
  Of our devis'd investigation.

  _Mons._                       I have broken
  The yce to it already with the woman
  Of your chast lady, and conceive good hope                         175
  I shall wade thorow to some wished shore
  At our next meeting.

  _Mont._              Nay, there's small hope there.

  _Gui._ Take say of her, my lord, she comes most fitly.

  _Mons._ Starting back?

          _Enter Charlot, Anable, Pero._

  _Gui._ Y'are ingag'd indeed.                                       180

  _Annable._ Nay pray, my lord, forbeare.

  _Mont._ What, skittish, servant?

  _An._ No, my lord, I am not so fit for your service.

  _Charlotte._ Nay, pardon me now, my lord; my lady expects me.      185

  _Gui._ Ile satisfie her expectation, as far as an unkle may.

  _Mons._ Well said! a spirit of courtship of all
  hands. Now, mine owne Pero, hast thou remembred                    190
  me for the discovery I entreated thee
  to make of thy mistresse? Speak boldly, and be
  sure of all things I have sworne to thee.

  _Pero._ Building on that assurance (my lord) I
  may speak; and much the rather because my                          195
  lady hath not trusted me with that I can tell
  you; for now I cannot be said to betray her.

  _Mons._ That's all one, so wee reach our
  objects: forth, I beseech thee.

  _Per._ To tell you truth, my lord, I have made                     200
  a strange discovery.

  _Mons._ Excellent Pero, thou reviv'st me; may I
  sink quick to perdition if my tongue discover it!

  _Per._ Tis thus, then: this last night my lord
  lay forth, and I, watching my ladies sitting up,                   205
  stole up at midnight from my pallat, and (having
  before made a hole both through the wall and
  arras to her inmost chamber) I saw D'Ambois
  and her selfe reading a letter!

  _Mons._ D'Ambois!                                                  210

  _Per._ Even he, my lord.

  _Mons._ Do'st thou not dreame, wench?

  _Per._ I sweare he is the man.

  _Mons._ The devill he is, and thy lady his dam!
  Why this was the happiest shot that ever flewe;                    215
  the just plague of hypocrisie level'd it. Oh, the
  infinite regions betwixt a womans tongue and
  her heart! is this our Goddesse of chastity? I
  thought I could not be so sleighted, if she had
  not her fraught besides, and therefore plotted this                220
  with her woman, never dreaming of D'Amboys.
  Deare Pero, I will advance thee for ever: but
  tell me now--Gods pretious, it transformes mee
  with admiration--sweet Pero, whom should she
  trust with this conveyance? Or, all the dores                      225
  being made sure, how should his conveyance be

  _Per._ Nay, my lord, that amazes me: I cannot
  by any study so much as guesse at it.

  _Mons._ Well, let's favour our apprehensions                       230
  with forbearing that a little; for, if my heart
  were not hoopt with adamant, the conceipt of
  this would have burst it: but heark thee.             _Whispers._

  _Mont._ I pray thee, resolve mee: the Duke
  will never imagine that I am busie about's wife:                   235
  hath D'Ambois any privy accesse to her?

  _An._ No, my lord, D'Ambois neglects her (as
  shee takes it) and is therefore suspicious that
  either your lady, or the lady Beaupre, hath
  closely entertain'd him.                                           240

  _Mont._ Ber lady, a likely suspition, and very
  neere the life--especially of my wife.

  _Mons._ Come, we'l disguise all with seeming
  onely to have courted.--Away, dry palm! sh'as
  a livor as dry as a bisket; a man may goe a                        245
  whole voyage with her, and get nothing but
  tempests from her windpipe.

  _Gui._ Here's one (I think) has swallowed a
  porcupine, shee casts pricks from her tongue so.

  _Mont._ And here's a peacock seemes to have                        250
  devour'd one of the Alpes, she has so swelling
  a spirit, & is so cold of her kindnes.

  _Char._ We are no windfalls, my lord; ye must
  gather us with the ladder of matrimony, or we'l
  hang till we be rotten.                                            255

  _Mons._ Indeed, that's the way to make ye right
  openarses. But, alas, ye have no portions fit for
  such husbands as we wish you.

  _Per._ Portions, my lord! yes, and such portions
  as your principality cannot purchase.                              260

  _Mons._ What, woman, what are those portions?

  _Per._ Riddle my riddle, my lord.

  _Mons._ I, marry, wench, I think thy portion
  is a right riddle; a man shall never finde it out:
  but let's heare it.                                                265

  _Per._ You shall, my lord.
  _What's that, that being most rar's most cheap?
  That when you sow, you never reap?
  That when it growes most, most you [th]in it,
  And still you lose it, when you win it?                            270
  That when tis commonest, tis dearest,
  And when tis farthest off, 'tis neerest?_

  _Mons._ Is this your great portion?

  _Per._ Even this, my lord.

  _Mons._ Beleeve me, I cannot riddle it.                            275

  _Per._ No, my lord; tis my chastity, which you
  shall neither riddle nor fiddle.

  _Mons._ Your chastity! Let me begin with the
  end of it; how is a womans chastity neerest
  man, when tis furthest off?                                        280

  _Per._ Why, my lord, when you cannot get it,
  it goes to th'heart on you; and that I think comes
  most neere you: and I am sure it shall be farre
  enough off. And so wee leave you to our mercies.  _Exeunt Women._

  _Mons._ Farewell, riddle.                                          285

  _Gui._ Farewell, medlar.

  _Mont._ Farewell, winter plum.

  _Mons._ Now, my lords, what fruit of our inquisition?
  feele you nothing budding yet? Speak,
  good my lord Montsurry.                                            290

  _Mont._ Nothing but this: D'Ambois is thought
  negligent in observing the Duchesse, and therefore
  she is suspicious that your neece or my wife
  closely entertaines him.

  _Mons._ Your wife, my lord! Think you that                         295

  _Mont._ Alas, I know she flies him like her
  last houre.

  _Mons._ Her last houre? Why that comes upon
  her the more she flies it. Does D'Ambois so,                       300
  think you?

  _Mont._ That's not worth the answering. Tis
  miraculous to think with what monsters womens
  imaginations engrosse them when they are once
  enamour'd, and what wonders they will work                         305
  for their satisfaction. They will make a sheepe
  valiant, a lion fearefull.

  _Mons._ And an asse confident. Well, my lord,
  more will come forth shortly; get you to the
  banquet.                                                           310

  _Gui._ Come, my lord, I have the blind side of
  one of them.                        _Exit Guise cum Mont[surry]._

  _Mons._ O the unsounded sea of womens bloods,
  That when tis calmest, is most dangerous!
  Not any wrinkle creaming in their faces,                           315
  When in their hearts are Scylla and Caribdis,
  Which still are hid in dark and standing foggs,
  Where never day shines, nothing ever growes
  But weeds and poysons that no states-man knowes;
  Nor Cerberus ever saw the damned nookes                            320
  Hid with the veiles of womens vertuous lookes.
  But what a cloud of sulphur have I drawne
  Up to my bosome in this dangerous secret!
  Which if my hast with any spark should light
  Ere D'Ambois were engag'd in some sure plot,                       325
  I were blowne up; he would be, sure, my death.
  Would I had never knowne it, for before
  I shall perswade th'importance to Montsurry,
  And make him with some studied stratagem
  Train D'Ambois to his wreak, his maid may tell it;                 330
  Or I (out of my fiery thirst to play
  With the fell tyger up in darknesse tyed,
  And give it some light) make it quite break loose.
  I feare it, afore heaven, and will not see
  D'Ambois againe, till I have told Montsurry,                       335
  And set a snare with him to free my feares.
  Whose there?

          _Enter Maffe._

  _Maffe._     My lord?

  _Mons._               Goe, call the Count Montsurry,
  And make the dores fast; I will speak with none
  Till he come to me.

  _Maf._              Well, my lord.                    _Exiturus._

  _Mons._                            Or else
  Send you some other, and see all the dores                         340
  Made safe your selfe, I pray; hast, flie about it.

  _Maf._ You'l speak with none but with the Count Montsurry?

  _Mons._ With none but hee, except it be the Guise.

  _Maf._ See, even by this there's one exception more;
  Your Grace must be more firme in the command,                      345
  Or else shall I as weakly execute.
  The Guise shall speak with you?

  _Mons._                         He shall, I say.

  _Maf._ And Count Montsurry?

  _Mons._                     I, and Count Montsurry.

  _Maf._ Your Grace must pardon me, that I am bold
  To urge the cleare and full sence of your pleasure;                350
  Which when so ever I have knowne, I hope
  Your Grace will say I hit it to a haire.

  _Mons._ You have.

  _Maf._            I hope so, or I would be glad--

  _Mons._ I pray thee, get thee gone; thou art so tedious
  In the strick't forme of all thy services                          355
  That I had better have one negligent.
  You hit my pleasure well, when D'Ambois hit you;
  Did you not, think you?

  _Maf._                  D'Ambois! why, my lord--

  _Mons._ I pray thee, talk no more, but shut the dores:
  Doe what I charge thee.

  _Maf._                  I will my lord, and yet                    360
  I would be glad the wrong I had of D'Ambois--

  _Mons._ Precious! then it is a fate that plagues me
  In this mans foolery; I may be murthered,
  While he stands on protection of his folly.
  Avant, about thy charge!

  _Maf._                   I goe, my lord.--                         365
  I had my head broke in his faithfull service;
  I had no suit the more, nor any thanks,
  And yet my teeth must still be hit with D'Ambois.
  D'Ambois, my lord, shall know--

  _Mons._                         The devill and D'Ambois!
                                                      _Exit Maffe._
  How am I tortur'd with this trusty foole!                          370
  Never was any curious in his place
  To doe things justly, but he was an asse:
  We cannot finde one trusty that is witty,
  And therefore beare their disproportion.
  Grant, thou great starre, and angell of my life,                   375
  A sure lease of it but for some few dayes,
  That I may cleare my bosome of the snake
  I cherisht there, and I will then defie
  All check to it but Natures; and her altars
  Shall crack with vessels crown'd with ev'ry liquor                 380
  Drawn from her highest and most bloudy humors.
  I feare him strangely; his advanced valour
  Is like a spirit rais'd without a circle,
  Endangering him that ignorantly rais'd him,
  And for whose fury he hath learnt no limit.                        385

          _Enter Maffe hastily._

  _Maf._ I cannot help it; what should I do more?
  As I was gathering a fit guard to make
  My passage to the dores, and the dores sure,
  The man of bloud is enter'd.

  _Mons._                      Rage of death!
  If I had told the secret, and he knew it,                          390
  Thus had I bin endanger'd.

          _Enter D'Ambois._

                             My sweet heart!
  How now? what leap'st thou at?

  _Bussy._                       O royall object!

  _Mons._ Thou dream'st awake: object in th'empty aire!

  _Buss._ Worthy the browes of Titan, worth his chaire.

  _Mons._ Pray thee, what mean'st thou?

  _Buss._                               See you not a crowne         395
  Empalethe forehead of the great King Monsieur?

  _Mons._ O, fie upon thee!

  _Buss._                   Prince, that is the subject
  Of all these your retir'd and sole discourses.

  _Mons._ Wilt thou not leave that wrongfull supposition?

  _Buss._ Why wrongfull to suppose the doubtlesse right              400
  To the succession worth the thinking on?

  _Mons._ Well, leave these jests! how I am over-joyed
  With thy wish'd presence, and how fit thou com'st,
  For, of mine honour, I was sending for thee.

  _Buss._ To what end?

  _Mons._              Onely for thy company,                        405
  Which I have still in thought; but that's no payment
  On thy part made with personall appearance.
  Thy absence so long suffered oftentimes
  Put me in some little doubt thou do'st not love me.
  Wilt thou doe one thing therefore now sincerely?                   410

  _Buss._ I, any thing--but killing of the King.

  _Mons._ Still in that discord, and ill taken note?
  How most unseasonable thou playest the cucko,
  In this thy fall of friendship!

  _Buss._                         Then doe not doubt
  That there is any act within my nerves,                            415
  But killing of the King, that is not yours.

  _Mons._ I will not then; to prove which, by my love
  Shewne to thy vertues, and by all fruits else
  Already sprung from that still flourishing tree,
  With whatsoever may hereafter spring,                              420
  I charge thee utter (even with all the freedome
  Both of thy noble nature and thy friendship)
  The full and plaine state of me in thy thoughts.

  _Buss._ What, utter plainly what I think of you?

  _Mons._ Plaine as truth.                                           425

  _Buss._ Why this swims quite against the stream of greatnes:
  Great men would rather heare their flatteries,
  And if they be not made fooles, are not wise.

  _Mons._ I am no such great foole, and therefore charge thee
  Even from the root of thy free heart display mee.                  430

  _Buss._ Since you affect it in such serious termes,
  If your selfe first will tell me what you think
  As freely and as heartily of me,
  I'le be as open in my thoughts of you.

  _Mons._ A bargain, of mine honour! and make this,                  435
  That prove we in our full dissection
  Never so foule, live still the sounder friends.

  _Buss._ What else, sir? come, pay me home, ile bide it bravely.

  _Mons._ I will, I sweare. I think thee, then, a man
  That dares as much as a wilde horse or tyger,                      440
  As headstrong and as bloody; and to feed
  The ravenous wolfe of thy most caniball valour
  (Rather than not employ it) thou would'st turne
  Hackster to any whore, slave to a Jew,
  Or English usurer, to force possessions                            445
  (And cut mens throats) of morgaged estates;
  Or thou would'st tire thee like a tinkers strumpet,
  And murther market folks; quarrell with sheepe,
  And runne as mad as Ajax; serve a butcher;
  Doe any thing but killing of the King.                             450
  That in thy valour th'art like other naturalls
  That have strange gifts in nature, but no soule
  Diffus'd quite through, to make them of a peece,
  But stop at humours, that are more absurd,
  Childish and villanous than that hackster, whore,                  455
  Slave, cut-throat, tinkers bitch, compar'd before;
  And in those humours would'st envie, betray,
  Slander, blaspheme, change each houre a religion,
  Doe any thing, but killing of the King:
  That in thy valour (which is still the dunghill,                   460
  To which hath reference all filth in thy house)
  Th'art more ridiculous and vaine-glorious
  Than any mountibank, and impudent
  Than any painted bawd; which not to sooth,
  And glorifie thee like a Jupiter Hammon,                           465
  Thou eat'st thy heart in vinegar, and thy gall
  Turns all thy blood to poyson, which is cause
  Of that toad-poole that stands in thy complexion,
  And makes thee with a cold and earthy moisture,
  (Which is the damme of putrifaction)                               470
  As plague to thy damn'd pride, rot as thou liv'st:
  To study calumnies and treacheries;
  To thy friends slaughters like a scrich-owle sing,
  And to all mischiefes--but to kill the King.

  _Buss._ So! have you said?

  _Mons._                    How thinkest thou? Doe I flatter?       475
  Speak I not like a trusty friend to thee?

  _Buss._ That ever any man was blest withall.
  So here's for me! I think you are (at worst)
  No devill, since y'are like to be no King;
  Of which with any friend of yours Ile lay                          480
  This poore stillado here gainst all the starres,
  I, and 'gainst all your treacheries, which are more:
  That you did never good, but to doe ill,
  But ill of all sorts, free and for it selfe:
  That (like a murthering peece making lanes in armies,              485
  The first man of a rank, the whole rank falling)
  If you have wrong'd one man, you are so farre
  From making him amends that all his race,
  Friends, and associates fall into your chace:
  That y'are for perjuries the very prince                           490
  Of all intelligencers; and your voice
  Is like an easterne winde, that, where it flies,
  Knits nets of catterpillars, with which you catch
  The prime of all the fruits the kingdome yeelds:
  That your politicall head is the curst fount                       495
  Of all the violence, rapine, cruelty,
  Tyrannie, & atheisme flowing through the realme:
  That y'ave a tongue so scandalous, 'twill cut
  The purest christall, and a breath that will
  Kill to that wall a spider; you will jest                          500
  With God, and your soule to the Devill tender
  For lust; kisse horror, and with death engender:
  That your foule body is a Lernean fenne
  Of all the maladies breeding in all men:
  That you are utterly without a soule;                              505
  And for your life, the thred of that was spunne
  When Clotho slept, and let her breathing rock
  Fall in the durt; and Lachesis still drawes it,
  Dipping her twisting fingers in a boule
  Defil'd, and crown'd with vertues forced soule:                    510
  And lastly (which I must for gratitude
  Ever remember) that of all my height
  And dearest life you are the onely spring,
  Onely in royall hope to kill the King.

  _Mons._ Why, now I see thou lov'st me! come to the banquet!
                                                          _Exeunt._  515

          _Finis Actus Tertii._


              _Henry . . . Attendants_. A, _Henry, D'Ambois,
              Monsieur, Guise, Mont., Elenor, Tam., Pero_.

           1  _my_. A; B omits.

           4  _sparrowes_. A, nothing.

          16  _man_. A, truth.

          29  _than_. So in A; B, by.

          53  _besieged_. A, oppressed.

          58  _the rest_. A, the tother.

          67  _bout_. A, charge.

       71-72  Three lines in Qq, i.e. _Peace . . . thee peace_ |
              _Let . . . warre_ | _He's . . . man_.

          76  _noblier_. Emend. ed. Qq, nobly; see note, p. 154.

          88  _Stay . . . D'Ambois_. B, Stay them, stay D'Ambois.

          89  _honour'd_. A, equall.

          96  _empire_. A, eminence.

         104  _one stick out_. A, out one sticke.

         105  _bound our lifes_. A, was compris'd.

         107  _ingenious_. A, ingenuous.

         117  _hold_. A, proove. _vertue_. A, rodde.

         121  _Decline not to_. A, Engender not.

     131-138  _And hope . . . D'Amb[ois], Ladies_. Omitted in A,
              which after 130 has: _Exeunt Henry, D'Amb., Ely, Ta._

         140  _worthy_. A, proper.

         149  _ranging_. A, gadding.

         153  _for, you know_. A, and indeed.

     160-161  _the hart, Being old, and cunning in his_. A, being
              old, And cunning in his choice of.

     163-164  _where . . . his hinde_. A has:--

                      Where his custome is
                To beat his vault, and he ruts with his hinde.

         168  _chiefest_. A, greatest.

         172  _the cunningst_. A, an excellent.

     173-177  _I have broken . . . hope there_. A has:--

                I have already broke the ice, my lord,
                With the most trusted woman of your Countesse,
                And hope I shall wade through to our discovery.

         178  _Gui._ A, _Mont._ omitting the speech _Nay . . .

         179  _Starting back_. Omitted in A, which instead
              continues Montsurry's speech with: And we will to the

         180  _indeed_. A omits.

         185  _Nay_. A, Pray.

     189-193  _Well said . . . to thee_. Printed in doggerel form
              in Qq, the lines ending with _hands_, _me_,
              _mistresse_, _thee_.

         192  _of_. A, concerning.

         193  _sworne to thee_. A, promised.

         194  _that assurance_. A, that you have sworne.

     198-199  _so wee reach our objects_. A, so it bee not to one
              that will betray thee.

         202  _Excellent . . . me_. So punctuated by ed.; A,
              Excellent Pero thou reviv'st me; B, Excellent! Pero
              thou reviv'st me.

         203  _to perdition_. A, into earth heere.

         205  _watching_. A, wondring.

         206  _stole up_. A, stole.

         209  _her selfe reading a letter_. A, she set close at a

         213  _I sweare_. A, No, my lord.

     215-216  _Why this . . . Oh, the_. A omits, possibly by

         220  _fraught_. A, freight.

         221  _never dreaming of D'Amboys_. A omits.

         225  _this_. A, his.

         226  _should_. A, could.

         227  _made_. A, performed.

              _Whispers_. A omits.

         233  Between this line and l. 234 A inserts:--

                _Char._ I sweare to your Grace, all that I can
                    conjecture touching my
                lady, your neece, is a strong affection she beares
                    to the English Mylor.

                _Gui._ All, quod you? tis enough I assure you; but
                    tell me.

         242  _life_--: between this word and _especially_ A
              inserts: if she marks it.

         243  _disguise_. A, put off.

         247  _from_. A, at.

         253  _are_. A, be.

         269  _[th]in_. Emend. ed; Qq, in.

         273  _great_. A omits.

         279  _it_. A, you.

         284  _wee_. A, I. _our mercies_. A, my mercy.

         303  _miraculous_. A, horrible.

         308  _Well, my lord_. A, My lord, tis true, and.

     311-312  _Come . . . of them_. A omits.

         317  _dark and standing foggs_. A, monster-formed cloudes.

     322-336  _But what . . . feares_. Omitted in A, which has

                I will conceale all yet, and give more time
                To D'Ambois triall, now upon my hooke;
                He awes my throat; else, like Sybillas cave,
                It should breath oracles; I feare him strangely,
                And may resemble his advanced valour
                Unto a spirit rais'd without a circle,
                Endangering him that ignorantly rais'd him,
                And for whose furie he hath learn'd no limit.

     337-391  _Whose there . . . sweet heart_! A omits, though
              382-5, with some variations, appear as 326
              (half-line)--330 in B. Cf. preceding note.

         358  _D'Ambois . . . lord_. So punctuated by ed.; B has:
              D'Ambois! why my lord?

         394  _browes_. A, head.

         397  _Prince_. A, Sir.

     400-408  _Why wrongfull . . . oftentimes_. A omits.

         409  _Put me in some little doubt_. A, This still hath
              made me doubt.

         410  _therefore now_. A, for me then.

     413-414  _How . . . friendship_. A omits.

     414-416  _Then . . . not yours_. Omitted in A, which has
              instead: Come, doe not doubt me, and command mee all

         417  _to prove which, by_. A, and now by all.

         419  _still flourishing tree_. A, affection.

         420  _With . . . spring_. A omits.

         425  _Plaine as truth_. A omits.

         438  _pay me home, ile bide it bravely_. A, begin, and
              speake me simply.

         447  _strumpet_. A, wife.

         460  _thy_. A, that. _the_. A, my.

         461  _hath reference_. A, I carrie.

         499  _The purest_. A, A perfect.


  [_The Banquetting-Hall in the Court._]

          _Henry, Monsieur with a letter, Guise, Montsurry, Bussy,
          Elynor, Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero, Charlotte, Anable, Pyrha,
          with foure Pages._

  _Henry._ Ladies, ye have not done our banquet right,
  Nor lookt upon it with those cheereful rayes
  That lately turn'd your breaths to flouds of gold;
  Your looks, me thinks, are not drawne out with thoughts
  So cleare and free as heretofore, but foule                          5
  As if the thick complexions of men
  Govern'd within them.

  _Bussy._              'Tis not like, my lord,
  That men in women rule, but contrary;
  For as the moone, of all things God created
  Not only is the most appropriate image                              10
  Or glasse to shew them how they wax and wane,
  But in her height and motion likewise beares
  Imperiall influences that command
  In all their powers, and make them wax and wane:
  So women, that, of all things made of nothing,                      15
  Are the most perfect idols of the moone,
  Or still-unwean'd sweet moon-calves with white faces,
  Not only are paterns of change to men,
  But as the tender moon-shine of their beauties
  Cleares or is cloudy, make men glad or sad.                         20
  So then they rule in men, not men in them.

  _Monsieur._ But here the moons are chang'd (as the King notes)
  And either men rule in them, or some power
  Beyond their voluntary faculty,
  For nothing can recover their lost faces.                           25

  _Montsurry._ None can be alwayes one: our griefes and joyes
  Hold severall scepters in us, and have times
  For their divided empires: which griefe now in them
  Doth prove as proper to his diadem.

  _Buss._ And griefe's a naturall sicknesse of the bloud,             30
  That time to part asks, as his comming had;
  Onely sleight fooles griev'd suddenly are glad.
  A man may say t'a dead man, "be reviv'd,"
  As well as to one sorrowfull, "be not griev'd."
  And therefore (princely mistresse) in all warres                    35
  Against these base foes that insult on weaknesse,
  And still fight hous'd behind the shield of Nature,
  Of priviledge law, treachery, or beastly need,
  Your servant cannot help; authority here
  Goes with corruption, something like some states                    40
  That back woorst men; valour to them must creepe
  That to themselves left would feare him asleepe.

  _Duchess._ Ye all take that for granted that doth rest
  Yet to be prov'd; we all are as we were,
  As merry and as free in thought as ever.                            45

  _Guise._ And why then can ye not disclose your thoughts?

  _Tamyra._ Me thinks the man hath answer'd for us well.

  _Mons._ The man! why, madam, d'ee not know his name?

  _Tam._ Man is a name of honour for a King:
  Additions take away from each chiefe thing.                         50
  The schoole of modesty not to learne learnes dames:
  They sit in high formes there that know mens names.

  _Mons._ [_to Bussy._] Heark, sweet heart, here's a bar set to
      your valour!
  It cannot enter here, no, not to notice
  Of what your name is; your great eagles beak                        55
  (Should you flie at her) had as good encounter
  An Albion cliffe as her more craggy liver.

  _Buss._ Ile not attempt her, sir; her sight and name
  (By which I onely know her) doth deter me.

  _Henr._ So doe they all men else.

  _Mons._                           You would say so,                 60
  If you knew all.

  _Tam._ Knew all, my lord? what meane you?

  _Mons._ All that I know, madam.

  _Tam._                          That you know! Speak it.

  _Mons._ No, tis enough I feele it.

  _Henr._                            But me thinks
  Her courtship is more pure then heretofore.
  True courtiers should be modest, and not nice;                      65
  Bold, but not impudent; pleasure love, not vice.

  _Mons._ Sweet heart, come hither! what if one should make
  Horns at Mountsurry, would it not strike him jealous
  Through all the proofes of his chaste ladies vertues?

  _Buss._ If he be wise, not.                                         70

  _Mons._ What, not if I should name the gardener
  That I would have him think hath grafted him?

  _Buss._ So the large licence that your greatnesse uses
  To jest at all men may be taught indeed
  To make a difference of the grounds you play on,                    75
  Both in the men you scandall and the matter.

  _Mons._ As how, as how?

  _Buss._                 Perhaps led with a traine
  Where you may have your nose made lesse and slit,
  Your eyes thrust out.

  _Mons._               Peace, peace, I pray thee, peace!
  Who dares doe that? the brother of his King!                        80

  _Buss._ Were your King brother in you; all your powers
  (Stretcht in the armes of great men and their bawds)
  Set close downe by you; all your stormy lawes
  Spouted with lawyers mouthes, and gushing bloud,
  Like to so many torrents; all your glories                          85
  Making you terrible, like enchanted flames,
  Fed with bare cockscombs and with crooked hammes,
  All your prerogatives, your shames, and tortures,
  All daring heaven and opening hell about you--
  Were I the man ye wrong'd so and provok'd,                          90
  (Though ne're so much beneath you) like a box tree
  I would out of the roughnesse of my root
  Ramme hardnesse in my lownesse, and, like death
  Mounted on earthquakes, I would trot through all
  Honors and horrors, thorow foule and faire,                         95
  And from your whole strength tosse you into the aire.

  _Mons._ Goe, th'art a devill! such another spirit
  Could not be still'd from all th'Armenian dragons.
  O, my loves glory! heire to all I have
  (That's all I can say, and that all I sweare)                      100
  If thou out-live me, as I know thou must,
  Or else hath Nature no proportion'd end
  To her great labours; she hath breath'd a minde
  Into thy entrails, of desert to swell
  Into another great Augustus Cæsar;                                 105
  Organs and faculties fitted to her greatnesse;
  And should that perish like a common spirit,
  Nature's a courtier and regards no merit.

  _Henr._ Here's nought but whispering with us; like a calme
  Before a tempest, when the silent ayre                             110
  Layes her soft eare close to the earth to hearken
  For that she feares steales on to ravish her;
  Some fate doth joyne our eares to heare it comming.
  Come, my brave eagle, let's to covert flie!
  I see almighty Æther in the smoak                                  115
  Of all his clowds descending, and the skie
  Hid in the dim ostents of tragedy.
                           _Exit Henr[y] with D'Amb[ois] & Ladies._

  _Guis._ Now stirre the humour, and begin the brawle.

  _Mont._ The King and D'Ambois now are growne all one.

  _Mons._ Nay, they are two, my lord.

  _Mont._                             How's that?

  _Mons._                                         No more.           120

  _Mont._ I must have more, my lord.

  _Mons._                             What, more than two?

  _Mont._ How monstrous is this!

  _Mons._                        Why?

  _Mont._                             You make me horns.

  _Mons._ Not I, it is a work without my power,
  Married mens ensignes are not made with fingers;
  Of divine fabrique they are, not mens hands:                       125
  Your wife, you know, is a meere Cynthia,
  And she must fashion hornes out of her nature.

  _Mont._ But doth she? dare you charge her? speak, false prince.

  _Mons._ I must not speak, my lord; but if you'l use
  The learning of a noble man, and read,                             130
  Here's something to those points. Soft, you must pawne
  Your honour, having read it, to return it.

          _Enter Tamira, Pero._

  _Mont._ Not I:--I pawne mine honour for a paper!

  _Mons._ You must not buy it under.   _Exeunt Guise and Monsieur._

  _Mont._                            Keepe it then,
  And keepe fire in your bosome!

  _Tam._                         What sayes he?                      135

  _Mont._ You must make good the rest.

  _Tam._                                How fares my lord?
  Takes my love any thing to heart he sayes?

  _Mont._ Come, y'are a--

  _Tam._                  What, my lord?

  _Mont._                                The plague of Herod
  Feast in his rotten entrailes!

  _Tam._                         Will you wreak
  Your angers just cause given by him on me?                         140

  _Mont._ By him?

  _Tam._          By him, my lord. I have admir'd
  You could all this time be at concord with him,
  That still hath plaid such discords on your honour.

  _Mont._ Perhaps tis with some proud string of my wives.

  _Tam._ How's that, my lord?

  _Mont._                     Your tongue will still admire,         145
  Till my head be the miracle of the world.

  _Tam._ O woe is me!                        _She seemes to sound._

  _Pero._             What does your lordship meane?
  Madam, be comforted; my lord but tries you.
  Madam! Help, good my lord, are you not mov'd?
  Doe your set looks print in your words your thoughts?              150
  Sweet lord, cleare up those eyes,
  Unbend that masking forehead. Whence is it
  You rush upon her with these Irish warres,
  More full of sound then hurt? But it is enough;
  You have shot home, your words are in her heart;                   155
  She has not liv'd to beare a triall now.

  _Mont._ Look up, my love, and by this kisse receive
  My soule amongst thy spirits, for supply
  To thine chac'd with my fury.

  _Tam._                        O, my lord,
  I have too long liv'd to heare this from you.                      160

  _Mont._ 'Twas from my troubled bloud, and not from me.
  I know not how I fare; a sudden night
  Flowes through my entrailes, and a headlong chaos
  Murmurs within me, which I must digest,
  And not drowne her in my confusions,                               165
  That was my lives joy, being best inform'd.
  Sweet, you must needs forgive me, that my love
  (Like to a fire disdaining his suppression)
  Rag'd being discouraged; my whole heart is wounded
  When any least thought in you is but touch't,                      170
  And shall be till I know your former merits,
  Your name and memory, altogether crave
  In just oblivion their eternall grave;
  And then, you must heare from me, there's no meane
  In any passion I shall feele for you.                              175
  Love is a rasor, cleansing, being well us'd,
  But fetcheth blood still, being the least abus'd.
  To tell you briefly all--the man that left me
  When you appear'd, did turne me worse than woman,
  And stab'd me to the heart, thus, with his fingers.                180

  _Tam._ O happy woman! comes my stain from him,
  It is my beauty, and that innocence proves
  That slew Chymæra, rescued Peleus
  From all the savage beasts in Peleon,
  And rais'd the chaste Athenian prince from hell:                   185
  All suffering with me, they for womens lusts,
  I for a mans, that the Egean stable
  Of his foule sinne would empty in my lap.
  How his guilt shunn'd me! Sacred innocence
  That, where thou fear'st, are dreadfull, and his face              190
  Turn'd in flight from thee that had thee in chace!
  Come, bring me to him. I will tell the serpent
  Even to his venom'd teeth (from whose curst seed
  A pitcht field starts up 'twixt my lord and me)
  That his throat lies, and he shall curse his fingers               195
  For being so govern'd by his filthy soule.

  _Mont._ I know not if himselfe will vaunt t'have beene
  The princely author of the slavish sinne,
  Or any other; he would have resolv'd me,
  Had you not come, not by his word, but writing,                    200
  Would I have sworne to give it him againe,
  And pawn'd mine honour to him for a paper.

  _Tam._ See, how he flies me still! tis a foule heart
  That feares his owne hand. Good my lord, make haste
  To see the dangerous paper: papers hold                            205
  Oft-times the formes and copies of our soules,
  And (though the world despise them) are the prizes
  Of all our honors; make your honour then
  A hostage for it, and with it conferre
  My neerest woman here in all she knowes;                           210
  Who (if the sunne or Cerberus could have seene
  Any staine in me) might as well as they.
  And, Pero, here I charge thee, by my love,
  And all proofes of it (which I might call bounties);
  By all that thou hast seene seeme good in mee,                     215
  And all the ill which thou shouldst spit from thee;
  By pity of the wound this touch hath given me,
  Not as thy mistresse now, but a poore woman
  To death given over, rid me of my paines;
  Powre on thy powder; cleare thy breast of me.                      220
  My lord is only here: here speak thy worst;
  Thy best will doe me mischiefe; if thou spar'st me,
  Never shine good thought on thy memory!
  Resolve my lord, and leave me desperate.

  _Per._ My lord!--my lord hath plaid a prodigals part,              225
  To break his stock for nothing, and an insolent,
  To cut a Gordian when he could not loose it.
  What violence is this, to put true fire
  To a false train; to blow up long crown'd peace
  With sudden outrage; and beleeve a man,                            230
  Sworne to the shame of women, 'gainst a woman
  Borne to their honours? But I will to him.

  _Tam._ No, I will write (for I shall never more
  Meet with the fugitive) where I will defie him,
  Were he ten times the brother of my King.                          235
  To him, my lord,--and ile to cursing him.               _Exeunt._


              _with a letter_. A omits.

           5  _foule_. A, fare.

          16  _idols_. A, images.

          21  _So then . . . in them_. A omits.

          24  _faculty_. A, motions.

       26-29  _None . . . diadem_. A assigns these lines to Bussy.

          28  _divided empires_. A, predominance.

          29  _prove_. A, claime.

          38  _priviledge_. A, tyrannous.

          65  _and_. A, but.

       70-78  _If he . . . and slit_. Omitted in A, which has

                _Buss._ No, I thinke not.

                _Mons._                   Not if I nam'd the man
                With whom I would make him suspicious
                His wife hath arm'd his forehead!

                _Buss._                           So you might
                Have your great nose made lesse indeede, and slit.

       77-79  In B four lines, broken at (second) _how_, _have_,
              _out_, _thee peace_.

          92  _roughnesse_. A, toughnesse.

          96  _the_. A omits.

         103  _minde_. A, spirit.

         104  _desert_. A, effect.

         112  _steales on to ravish_. A, is comming to afflict.

              _Enter . . . Pero_, placed in A after _under_ in 134.

              _Exeunt . . . Monsieur_. A omits.

              _She seemes to sound_. A omits.

     151-154  _Sweet . . . enough_. A has instead:--

                Sweete lord, cleare up those eies, for shame of
                Mercilesse creature; but it is enough.

              B has three lines broken at _forehead_, _warres_,

         180  _fingers_. A, hand.

         181  _comes . . . him_. Punctuated by ed.; Qq, comes my
              stain from him?

         193  _Even . . . curst seed_. A, Even to his teeth,
              whence, in mine honors soile.

     205-209  _papers hold . . . for it_. Omitted in A, which has

                                    Be not nice
                For any trifle, jeweld with your honour,
                To pawne your honor.

         212  _well_. A, much.

         217  _this touch_. A, my lord.

         232  _But I will to him_. A, Ile attend your lordship.

         234  _Meet_. A, Speake.

         236  _To him . . . him_. A omits.


  _A Room in Montsurry's House._]

          _Enter D'Ambois and Frier._

  _Bussy._ I am suspitious, my most honour'd father,
  By some of Monsieurs cunning passages,
  That his still ranging and contentious nose-thrils
  To scent the haunts of mischiefe have so us'd
  The vicious vertue of his busie sence                                5
  That he trails hotly of him, and will rowze him,
  Driving him all enrag'd and foming on us;
  And therefore have entreated your deepe skill
  In the command of good aeriall spirits,
  To assume these magick rites, and call up one,                      10
  To know if any have reveal'd unto him
  Any thing touching my deare love and me.

  _Friar._ Good sonne, you have amaz'd me but to make
  The least doubt of it, it concernes so neerely
  The faith and reverence of my name and order.                       15
  Yet will I justifie upon my soule
  All I have done;
  If any spirit i'th[e] earth or aire
  Can give you the resolve, doe not despaire.

          _Musick: and Tamira enters with Pero, her maid, bearing
          a letter._

  _Tamyra._ Away, deliver it.                          _Exit Pero._
                                   O may my lines,                    20
  Fill'd with the poyson of a womans hate,
  When he shall open them, shrink up his curst eyes
  With torturous darknesse, such as stands in hell,
  Stuck full of inward horrors, never lighted;
  With which are all things to be fear'd, affrighted.                 25

  _Buss._ How is it with my honour'd mistresse?

  _Tam._ O, servant, help, and save me from the gripes
  Of shame and infamy. Our love is knowne;
  Your Monsieur hath a paper where is writ
  Some secret tokens that decipher it.                                30

  _Buss._ What cold dull Northern brain, what foole but he,
  Durst take into his Epimethean breast
  A box of such plagues as the danger yeelds
  Incur'd in this discovery? He had better
  Ventur'd his breast in the consuming reach                          35
  Of the hot surfets cast out of the clouds,
  Or stood the bullets that (to wreak the skie)
  The Cyclops ramme in Joves artillerie.

  _Fri._ We soone will take the darknesse from his face
  That did that deed of darknesse; we will know                       40
  What now the Monsieur and your husband doe;
  What is contain'd within the secret paper
  Offer'd by Monsieur, and your loves events.
  To which ends (honour'd daughter) at your motion
  I have put on these exorcising rites,                               45
  And, by my power of learned holinesse
  Vouchsaft me from above, I will command
  Our resolution of a raised spirit.

  _Tam._ Good father, raise him in some beauteous forme,
  That with least terror I may brook his sight.                       50

  _Fri._ Stand sure together, then, what ere you see,
  And stir not, as ye tender all our lives.
                                            _He puts on his robes._

     _Occidentalium legionum spiritualium imperator
     (magnus ille Behemoth) veni, veni, comitatus cum
     Asaroth locotenente invicto. Adjuro te, per Stygis               55
     inscrutabilia arcana, per ipsos irremeabiles anfractus
     Averni: adesto ô Behemoth, tu cui pervia sunt
     Magnatum scrinia; veni, per Noctis & tenebrarum
     abdita profundissima; per labentia sydera; per ipsos
     motus horarum furtivos, Hecatesq[ue] altum silentium!            60
     Appare in forma spiritali, lucente, splendida,
     & amabili!_

          _Thunder. Ascendit [Behemoth with Cartophylax and other

  _Behemoth._ What would the holy frier?

  _Fri._                                 I would see
  What now the Monsieur and Mountsurrie doe,
  And see the secret paper that the Monsieur                          65
  Offer'd to Count Montsurry; longing much
  To know on what events the secret loves
  Of these two honour'd persons shall arrive.

  _Beh._ Why calledst thou me to this accursed light,
  To these light purposes? I am Emperor                               70
  Of that inscrutable darknesse, where are hid
  All deepest truths, and secrets never seene,
  All which I know; and command legions
  Of knowing spirits that can doe more then these.
  Any of this my guard that circle me                                 75
  In these blew fires, and out of whose dim fumes
  Vast murmurs use to break, and from their sounds
  Articulat voyces, can doe ten parts more
  Than open such sleight truths as you require.

  _Fri._ From the last nights black depth I call'd up one             80
  Of the inferiour ablest ministers,
  And he could not resolve mee. Send one, then,
  Out of thine owne command to fetch the paper
  That Monsieur hath to shew to Count Montsurry.

  _Beh._ I will. Cartophylax! thou that properly                      85
  Hast in thy power all papers so inscrib'd,
  Glide through all barres to it, and fetch that paper.

  _Cartophylax._ I will.                         _A torch removes._

  _Fri._ Till he returnes (great prince of darknesse)
  Tell me if Monsieur and the Count Montsurry                         90
  Are yet encounter'd.

  _Beh._               Both them and the Guise
  Are now together.

  _Fri._            Show us all their persons,
  And represent the place, with all their actions.

  _Beh._ The spirit will strait return, and then Ile shew thee.
  See, he is come. Why brought'st thou not the paper?                 95

  _Car._ He hath prevented me, and got a spirit
  Rais'd by another, great in our command,
  To take the guard of it before I came.

  _Beh._ This is your slacknesse, not t'invoke our powers
  When first your acts set forth to their effects.                   100
  Yet shall you see it and themselves. Behold
  They come here, & the Earle now holds the paper.

          _Ent[er] Mons[ieur], Gui[se], Mont[surry], with a

  _Buss._ May we not heare them?

  [_Fri._]                       No, be still and see.

  _Buss._ I will goe fetch the paper.

  _Fri._                              Doe not stirre.
  There's too much distance, and too many locks                      105
  Twixt you and them (how neere so e're they seeme)
  For any man to interrupt their secrets.

  _Tam._ O honour'd spirit, flie into the fancie
  Of my offended lord; and doe not let him
  Beleeve what there the wicked man hath written.                    110

  _Beh._ Perswasion hath already enter'd him
  Beyond reflection; peace, till their departure!

         *       *       *       *       *

  _Monsieur._ There is a glasse of ink where you may see
  How to make ready black fac'd tragedy:
  You now discerne, I hope, through all her paintings,               115
  Her gasping wrinkles and fames sepulchres.

  _Guise._ Think you he faines, my lord? what hold you now?
  Doe we maligne your wife, or honour you?

  _Mons._ What, stricken dumb! Nay fie, lord, be not danted:
  Your case is common; were it ne're so rare,                        120
  Beare it as rarely! Now to laugh were manly.
  A worthy man should imitate the weather,
  That sings in tempests, and being cleare, is silent.

  _Gui._ Goe home, my lord, and force your wife to write
  Such loving lines to D'Ambois as she us'd                          125
  When she desir'd his presence.

  _Mons._                        Doe, my lord,
  And make her name her conceal'd messenger,
  That close and most inennerable pander,
  That passeth all our studies to exquire:
  By whom convay the letter to her love;                             130
  And so you shall be sure to have him come
  Within the thirsty reach of your revenge.
  Before which, lodge an ambush in her chamber,
  Behind the arras, of your stoutest men
  All close and soundly arm'd; and let them share                    135
  A spirit amongst them that would serve a thousand.

          _Enter Pero with a letter._

  _Gui._ Yet, stay a little: see, she sends for you.

  _Mons._ Poore, loving lady, she'le make all good yet;
  Think you not so, my lord?    _Mont[surry] stabs Pero, and exit._

  _Gui._                     Alas, poore soule!

  _Mons._ This was cruelly done, y'faith.

  _Pero._                                 T'was nobly done;          140
  And I forgive his lordship from my soule.

  _Mons._ Then much good doo't thee, Pero! hast a letter?

  _Per._ I hope it rather be a bitter volume
  Of worthy curses for your perjury.

  _Gui._ To you, my lord.

  _Mons._                 To me? Now out upon her!                   145

  _Gui._ Let me see, my lord.

  _Mons._ You shall presently: how fares my Pero?  _Enter Servant._
  Who's there? Take in this maid, sh'as caught a clap,
  And fetch my surgeon to her. Come, my lord,
  We'l now peruse our letter.
                          _Exeunt Mons[ieur], Guise. Lead her out._

  _Per._                      Furies rise                            150
  Out of the black lines, and torment his soule!

         *       *       *       *       *

  _Tam._ Hath my lord slaine my woman?

  _Beh._                               No, she lives.

  _Fri._ What shall become of us?

  _Beh._                          All I can say,
  Being call'd thus late, is briefe, and darkly this:--
  If D'Ambois mistresse die not her white hand                       155
  In her forc'd bloud, he shall remaine untoucht:
  So, father, shall your selfe, but by your selfe.
  To make this augurie plainer, when the voyce
  Of D'Amboys shall invoke me, I will rise
  Shining in greater light, and shew him all                         160
  That will betide ye all. Meane time be wise,
  And curb his valour with your policies.     _Descendit cum suis._

  _Buss._ Will he appeare to me when I invoke him?

  _Fri._ He will, be sure.

  _Buss._                  It must be shortly, then,
  For his dark words have tyed my thoughts on knots                  165
  Till he dissolve and free them.

  _Tam._                          In meane time,
  Deare servant, till your powerfull voice revoke him,
  Be sure to use the policy he advis'd;
  Lest fury in your too quick knowledge taken
  Of our abuse, and your defence of me,                              170
  Accuse me more than any enemy.
  And, father, you must on my lord impose
  Your holiest charges, and the Churches power,
  To temper his hot spirit, and disperse
  The cruelty and the bloud I know his hand                          175
  Will showre upon our heads, if you put not
  Your finger to the storme, and hold it up,
  As my deare servant here must doe with Monsieur.

  _Buss._ Ile sooth his plots, and strow my hate with smiles,
  Till all at once the close mines of my heart                       180
  Rise at full date, and rush into his bloud:
  Ile bind his arme in silk, and rub his flesh
  To make the veine swell, that his soule may gush
  Into some kennell where it longs to lie;
  And policy shall be flanckt with policy.                           185
  Yet shall the feeling Center where we meet
  Groane with the wait of my approaching feet:
  Ile make th'inspired threshals of his Court
  Sweat with the weather of my horrid steps,
  Before I enter: yet will I appeare                                 190
  Like calme security before a ruine.
  A politician must, like lightning, melt
  The very marrow, and not taint the skin:
  His wayes must not be seene; the superficies
  Of the greene Center must not taste his feet,                      195
  When hell is plow'd up with his wounding tracts,
  And all his harvest reap't by hellish facts.            _Exeunt._

          _Finis Actus Quarti._


              _Enter D'Ambois and Frier_ and 1-19 _I am . . .
              despaire_. A omits.

          18  _th[e]_. Emend, ed.; B, th.

              _Tamira enters_. A, she enters. _Pero, her maid_.
              Emend. Dilke; A, her maid; B, Pero and her maid.

          22  _curst_. A omits.

          25  After this line A has Father, followed by stage
              direction: _Ascendit Bussy with Comolet._

       28-31  _Our love is knowne; . . . but he_. Omitted in A,
              which has instead:--

                _Buss._     What insensate stocke,
                Or rude inanimate vapour without fashion.

              _He puts on his robes._ A omits.

              _Thunder._ A omits.

          78  _Articulat_. In some copies of B this is printed:

          80  _one_. A; B, on.

         103  [_Fri._] Emend, ed.; Qq, _Monsieur_.

         113  _where you may_. A, wherein you.

              _Enter . . . letter_. A omits.

              _Mont[surry] . . . exit_. Emend. ed.; A, _Exit
              Mont._, which it places after _y'faith_ in l. 140; B,
              _Exit Mont. and stabs Pero_.]

         143  _rather be a bitter_. A, be, at least, if not a.

         145  _To you . . . me_? A omits. _Enter servant_. A omits.

         155  _die_. A, stay.

         156  _In_. A, With. _her_. Emend. Dilke; Qq, his. See
              note, p. 159.

         162  _And curb . . . policies_. A, And let him curb his
              rage with policy.

         193  _taint_. A, print.

         197  _by_. A, from.


  [_A Room in Montsurry's House._]

          _Montsurry bare, unbrac't, pulling Tamyra in by the haire;
          Frier; One bearing light, a standish, and paper, which sets
          a table._

  _Tamyra._ O, help me, father!

  _Friar._                      Impious earle, forbeare;
  Take violent hand from her, or, by mine order,
  The King shall force thee.

  _Montsurry._               Tis not violent;
  Come you not willingly?

  _Tam._                  Yes, good my lord.

  _Fri._ My lord, remember that your soule must seek                   5
  Her peace as well as your revengefull bloud.
  You ever to this houre have prov'd your selfe
  A noble, zealous, and obedient sonne
  T'our holy mother: be not an apostate.
  Your wives offence serves not (were it the worst                    10
  You can imagine) without greater proofes
  To sever your eternall bonds and hearts;
  Much lesse to touch her with a bloudy hand.
  Nor is it manly (much lesse husbandly)
  To expiate any frailty in your wife                                 15
  With churlish strokes, or beastly ods of strength.
  The stony birth of clowds will touch no lawrell,
  Nor any sleeper: your wife is your lawrell,
  And sweetest sleeper; doe not touch her, then;
  Be not more rude than the wild seed of vapour                       20
  To her that is more gentle than that rude;
  In whom kind nature suffer'd one offence
  But to set off her other excellence.

  _Mont._ Good father, leave us: interrupt no more
  The course I must runne for mine honour sake.                       25
  Rely on my love to her, which her fault
  Cannot extinguish. Will she but disclose
  Who was the secret minister of her love,
  And through what maze he serv'd it, we are friends.

  _Fri._ It is a damn'd work to pursue those secrets                  30
  That would ope more sinne, and prove springs of slaughter;
  Nor is't a path for Christian feet to tread,
  But out of all way to the health of soules;
  A sinne impossible to be forgiven,
  Which he that dares commit--

  _Mont._                      Good father, cease your terrors.       35
  Tempt not a man distracted; I am apt
  To outrages that I shall ever rue:
  I will not passe the verge that bounds a Christian,
  Nor break the limits of a man nor husband.

  _Fri._ Then Heaven inspire you both with thoughts and deeds         40
  Worthy his high respect, and your owne soules!

  _Tam._ Father!

  _Fri._         I warrant thee, my dearest daughter,
  He will not touch thee; think'st thou him a pagan?
  His honor and his soule lies for thy safety.              _Exit._

  _Mont._ Who shall remove the mountaine from my brest,               45
  Stand [in] the opening furnace of my thoughts,
  And set fit out-cries for a soule in hell?
                                        _Mont[surry] turnes a key._
  For now it nothing fits my woes to speak,
  But thunder, or to take into my throat
  The trump of Heaven, with whose determinate blasts                  50
  The windes shall burst and the devouring seas
  Be drunk up in his sounds, that my hot woes
  (Vented enough) I might convert to vapour
  Ascending from my infamie unseene;
  Shorten the world, preventing the last breath                       55
  That kils the living, and regenerates death.

  _Tam._ My lord, my fault (as you may censure it
  With too strong arguments) is past your pardon.
  But how the circumstances may excuse mee,
  Heaven knowes, and your more temperate minde hereafter              60
  May let my penitent miseries make you know.

  _Mont._ Hereafter! tis a suppos'd infinite
  That from this point will rise eternally.
  Fame growes in going; in the scapes of vertue
  Excuses damne her: they be fires in cities                          65
  Enrag'd with those winds that lesse lights extinguish.
  Come syren, sing, and dash against my rocks
  Thy ruffin gally rig'd with quench for lust:
  Sing, and put all the nets into thy voice
  With which thou drew'st into thy strumpets lap                      70
  The spawne of Venus, and in which ye danc'd;
  That, in thy laps steed, I may digge his tombe,
  And quit his manhood with a womans sleight,
  Who never is deceiv'd in her deceit.
  Sing (that is, write); and then take from mine eyes                 75
  The mists that hide the most inscrutable pander
  That ever lapt up an adulterous vomit,
  That I may see the devill, and survive
  To be a devill, and then learne to wive!
  That I may hang him, and then cut him downe,                        80
  Then cut him up, and with my soules beams search
  The cranks and cavernes of his braine, and study
  The errant wildernesse of a womans face,
  Where men cannot get out, for all the comets
  That have beene lighted at it. Though they know                     85
  That adders lie a sunning in their smiles,
  That basilisks drink their poyson from their eyes,
  And no way there to coast out to their hearts,
  Yet still they wander there, and are not stay'd
  Till they be fetter'd, nor secure before                            90
  All cares devoure them, nor in humane consort
  Till they embrace within their wives two breasts
  All Pelion and Cythæron with their beasts.--
  Why write you not?

  _Tam._             O, good my lord, forbeare
  In wreak of great faults to engender greater,                       95
  And make my loves corruption generate murther.

  _Mont._ It followes needfully as childe and parent;
  The chaine-shot of thy lust is yet aloft,
  And it must murther; tis thine owne deare twinne.
  No man can adde height to a womans sinne.                          100
  Vice never doth her just hate so provoke,
  As when she rageth under vertues cloake.
  Write! for it must be--by this ruthlesse steele,
  By this impartiall torture, and the death
  Thy tyrannies have invented in my entrails,                        105
  To quicken life in dying, and hold up
  The spirits in fainting, teaching to preserve
  Torments in ashes that will ever last.
  Speak: will you write?

  _Tam._                 Sweet lord, enjoyne my sinne
  Some other penance than what makes it worse:                       110
  Hide in some gloomie dungeon my loth'd face,
  And let condemned murtherers let me downe
  (Stopping their noses) my abhorred food:
  Hang me in chaines, and let me eat these armes
  That have offended: binde me face to face                          115
  To some dead woman, taken from the cart
  Of execution?--till death and time
  In graines of dust dissolve me, Ile endure;
  Or any torture that your wraths invention
  Can fright all pitie from the world withall.                       120
  But to betray a friend with shew of friendship,
  That is too common for the rare revenge
  Your rage affecteth; here then are my breasts,
  Last night your pillowes; here my wretched armes,
  As late the wished confines of your life:                          125
  Now break them, as you please, and all the bounds
  Of manhood, noblesse, and religion.

  _Mont._ Where all these have bin broken, they are kept
  In doing their justice there with any shew
  Of the like cruell cruelty: thine armes have lost                  130
  Their priviledge in lust, and in their torture
  Thus they must pay it.                               _Stabs her._

  _Tam._                 O lord--

  _Mont._                         Till thou writ'st,
  Ile write in wounds (my wrongs fit characters)
  Thy right of sufferance. Write!

  _Tam._                          O kill me, kill me!
  Deare husband, be not crueller than death!                         135
  You have beheld some Gorgon: feele, O feele
  How you are turn'd to stone. With my heart blood
  Dissolve your selfe againe, or you will grow
  Into the image of all tyrannie.

  _Mont._ As thou art of adultry; I will ever                        140
  Prove thee my parallel, being most a monster.
  Thus I expresse thee yet.                     _Stabs her againe._

  _Tam._                    And yet I live.

  _Mont._ I, for thy monstrous idoll is not done yet.
  This toole hath wrought enough. Now, Torture, use
                                                _Ent[er] Servants._
  This other engine on th'habituate powers                           145
  Of her thrice damn'd and whorish fortitude:
  Use the most madding paines in her that ever
  Thy venoms sok'd through, making most of death,
  That she may weigh her wrongs with them--and then
  Stand, vengeance, on thy steepest rock, a victor!                  150

  _Tam._ O who is turn'd into my lord and husband?
  Husband! my lord! None but my lord and husband!
  Heaven, I ask thee remission of my sinnes,
  Not of my paines: husband, O help me, husband!

          _Ascendit Frier with a sword drawne._

  _Fri._ What rape of honour and religion!                           155
  O wrack of nature!                              _Falls and dies._

  _Tam._             Poore man! O, my father!
  Father, look up! O, let me downe, my lord,
  And I will write.

  _Mont._      Author of prodigies!
  What new flame breakes out of the firmament
  That turnes up counsels never knowne before?                       160
  Now is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still;
  Even heaven it selfe must see and suffer ill.
  The too huge bias of the world hath sway'd
  Her back-part upwards, and with that she braves
  This hemisphere that long her mouth hath mockt:                    165
  The gravity of her religious face
  (Now growne too waighty with her sacriledge,
  And here discern'd sophisticate enough)
  Turnes to th'Antipodes; and all the formes
  That her illusions have imprest in her                             170
  Have eaten through her back; and now all see
  How she is riveted with hypocrisie.
  Was this the way? was he the mean betwixt you?

  _Tam._ He was, he was, kind worthy man, he was.

  _Mont._ Write, write a word or two.

  _Tam._                              I will, I will.                175
  Ile write, but with my bloud, that he may see
  These lines come from my wounds & not from me.          _Writes._

  _Mont._ Well might he die for thought: methinks the frame
  And shaken joynts of the whole world should crack
  To see her parts so disproportionate;                              180
  And that his generall beauty cannot stand
  Without these staines in the particular man.
  Why wander I so farre? here, here was she
  That was a whole world without spot to me,
  Though now a world of spots. Oh what a lightning                   185
  Is mans delight in women! What a bubble
  He builds his state, fame, life on, when he marries!
  Since all earths pleasures are so short and small,
  The way t'enjoy it is t'abjure it all.
  Enough! I must be messenger my selfe,                              190
  Disguis'd like this strange creature. In, Ile after,
  To see what guilty light gives this cave eyes,
  And to the world sing new impieties.

          _He puts the Frier in the vault and follows. She raps her
          self in the arras._

                                               _Exeunt [Servants]._


              _by the haire_. A omits.

         1-4  _O, help . . . my lord_. A omits.

          21  _than that_. A, than it.

          28  _secret_. A, hateful.

          32  _tread_. A, touch.

          35  _your terrors_. A omits.

        35-6  _Good . . . distracted_. B punctuates:--

                Good father cease: your terrors
                Tempt not a man distracted.

          40  _Heaven_. A, God. _you_. A, ye.

        42-4  _Father . . . safety_. A omits.

          45  _brest_. A, heart.

          46  _Stand [in] the opening_. Emend, ed.; A, Ope the
              seven-times heat; B, Stand the opening.

          48  _woes_. A, cares.

          51  _devouring_. A, enraged.

          60  _Heaven_. A, God.

          68  _rig'd with quench for_. A, laden for thy.

          91  _devoure_. A, distract. _consort_. A, state.

          95  _faults_. A, sins.

         129  _with any shew . . . cruelty_. A omits.

         140 _ever_. A, still.

         141  _parallel_. A, like in ill.

              _Enter Servants._ A omits.

              _with a sword drawne_. A omits.

              _Falls and dies._ A omits.

         174  _worthy_. A, innocent.

              _He . . . arras._ _Exeunt._ A omits; B places _He
              . . . arras_ after _Exeunt_.


  _A Room in Montsurry's House._]

          _Enter Monsieur and Guise._

  _Monsieur._ Now shall we see that Nature hath no end
  In her great works responsive to their worths;
  That she, that makes so many eyes and soules
  To see and fore-see, is stark blind her selfe;
  And as illiterate men say Latine prayers                             5
  By rote of heart and dayly iteration,
  Not knowing what they say, so Nature layes
  A deale of stuffe together, and by use,
  Or by the meere necessity of matter,
  Ends such a work, fills it, or leaves it empty                      10
  Of strength, or vertue, error, or cleare truth,
  Not knowing what she does; but usually
  Gives that which we call merit to a man,
  And beliefe must arrive him on huge riches,
  Honour and happinesse, that effects his ruine.                      15
  Even as in ships of warre whole lasts of powder
  Are laid, me thinks, to make them last, and gard them,
  When a disorder'd spark, that powder taking,
  Blowes up, with sodaine violence and horror,
  Ships that (kept empty) had sayl'd long, with terror.               20

  _Guise._ He that observes but like a worldly man
  That which doth oft succeed and by th'events
  Values the worth of things, will think it true
  That Nature works at random, just with you:
  But with as much proportion she may make                            25
  A thing that from the feet up to the throat
  Hath all the wondrous fabrique man should have,
  And leave it headlesse, for a perfect man,
  As give a full man valour, vertue, learning,
  Without an end more excellent then those                            30
  On whom she no such worthy part bestowes.

  _Mons._ Yet shall you see it here; here will be one
  Young, learned, valiant, vertuous, and full mann'd;
  One on whom Nature spent so rich a hand
  That with an ominous eye she wept to see                            35
  So much consum'd her vertuous treasurie.
  Yet as the winds sing through a hollow tree,
  And (since it lets them passe through) let's it stand;
  But a tree solid (since it gives no way
  To their wild rage) they rend up by the root:                       40
  So this whole man
  (That will not wind with every crooked way
  Trod by the servile world) shall reele and fall
  Before the frantick puffes of blind borne chance,
  That pipes through empty men and makes them dance.                  45
  Not so the sea raves on the Libian sands,
  Tumbling her billowes in each others neck:
  Not so the surges of the Euxian Sea
  (Neere to the frosty pole, where free Bootes
  From those dark deep waves turnes his radiant teame)                50
  Swell, being enrag'd even from their inmost drop,
  As fortune swings about the restlesse state
  Of vertue now throwne into all mens hate.

          _Enter Montsurry disguis'd, with the murtherers._

  Away, my lord; you are perfectly disguis'd;
  Leave us to lodge your ambush.

  _Montsurry._                   Speed me, vengeance!                 55

  _Mons._ Resolve, my masters, you shall meet with one
  Will try what proofes your privy coats are made on:
  When he is entred, and you heare us stamp,
  Approach, and make all sure.

  _Murderers._                 We will, my lord.          _Exeunt._


        1-59  _Now shall . . . we will my lord_. These lines are
              placed in A at the beginning of Scena Quarta.

           3  _that makes_. A, who makes.

           7  _Not knowing what they say_. Omitted in A, which has

                In whose hot zeale a man would thinke they knew
                What they ranne so away with, and were sure
                To have rewards proportion'd to their labours;
                Yet may implore their owne confusions
                For anything they know, which oftentimes
                It fals out they incurre.

           8  _deale_. A, masse.

          13  _we call_. A; B, she calls.

          14  _must_. A, should.

          16  _Even_. A, Right.

          17  _me thinks_. men thinke. _gard them_. A; B, guard.

          25  _proportion_. A, decorum.

          28  _a perfect_. A, an absolute.

          29  _full_. A, whole.

          32  _Yet shall you_. A, Why you shall.

          38  _let's_. A, let.

          40  _rage_. A, rages.

       41-43  _So this . . . and fall_. A has instead: So this full
              creature now shall reele and fall.

          44  _blind borne_. A, purblinde.

              _Enter Montsurry . . . murtherers_, and 54-59, _Away
              . . . will, my lord_. Omitted in A.


  _A Room in Bussy's House_.]

          _D'Ambois, with two Pages with tapers._

  _Bussy._ Sit up to night, and watch: Ile speak with none
  But the old Frier, who bring to me.

  _Pages._                            We will, sir.       _Exeunt._

  _Buss._ What violent heat is this? me thinks the fire
  Of twenty lives doth on a suddaine flash
  Through all my faculties: the ayre goes high                         5
  In this close chamber and the frighted earth           _Thunder._
  Trembles and shrinks beneath me; the whole house
  Nods with his shaken burthen.

          _Enter Umb[ra] Frier._

                                Blesse me, heaven!

  _Umb[ra Friar]._ Note what I want, deare sonne, and be
  O there are bloudy deeds past and to come.                          10
  I cannot stay; a fate doth ravish me;
  Ile meet thee in the chamber of thy love.                 _Exit._

  _Buss._ What dismall change is here! the good old Frier
  Is murther'd, being made knowne to serve my love;
  And now his restlesse spirit would fore-warne me                    15
  Of some plot dangerous, and imminent.
  Note what he wants! He wants his upper weed,
  He wants his life, and body: which of these
  Should be the want he meanes, and may supply me
  With any fit fore-warning? This strange vision,                     20
  (Together with the dark prediction
  Us'd by the Prince of Darknesse that was rais'd
  By this embodied shadow) stirre my thoughts
  With reminiscion of the Spirits promise,
  Who told me that by any invocation                                  25
  I should have power to raise him, though it wanted
  The powerfull words and decent rites of art.
  Never had my set braine such need of spirit
  T'instruct and cheere it; now then I will claime
  Performance of his free and gentle vow                              30
  T'appeare in greater light, and make more plain
  His rugged oracle. I long to know
  How my deare mistresse fares, and be inform'd
  What hand she now holds on the troubled bloud
  Of her incensed lord: me thought the Spirit                         35
  (When he had utter'd his perplext presage)
  Threw his chang'd countenance headlong into clouds;
  His forehead bent, as it would hide his face,
  He knockt his chin against his darkned breast,
  And struck a churlish silence through his pow'rs.                   40
  Terror of darknesse! O, thou King of flames!
  That with thy musique-footed horse dost strike
  The cleare light out of chrystall on dark earth,
  And hurlst instructive fire about the world,
  Wake, wake, the drowsie and enchanted night                         45
  That sleepes with dead eyes in this heavy riddle!
  Or thou great Prince of Shades, where never sunne
  Stickes his far-darted beames, whose eyes are made
  To shine in darknesse, and see ever best
  Where men are blindest, open now the heart                          50
  Of thy abashed oracle, that, for feare
  Of some ill it includes, would faine lie hid,
  And rise thou with it in thy greater light!

          _Thunders. Surgit Spiritus cum suis._

  _Behemoth._ Thus, to observe my vow of apparition
  In greater light, and explicate thy fate,                           55
  I come; and tell thee that, if thou obey
  The summons that thy mistresse next will send thee,
  Her hand shall be thy death.

  _Buss._                      When will she send?

  _Beh._ Soone as I set againe, where late I rose.

  _Buss._ Is the old Frier slaine?

  _Beh._                           No, and yet lives not.             60

  _Buss._ Died he a naturall death?

  _Beh._                            He did.

  _Buss._                                   Who then
  Will my deare mistresse send?

  _Beh._                        I must not tell thee.

  _Buss._ Who lets thee?

  _Beh._                 Fate.

  _Buss._                      Who are Fates ministers?

  _Beh._ The Guise and Monsieur.

  _Buss._                        A fit paire of sheeres
  To cut the threds of kings and kingly spirits,                      65
  And consorts fit to sound forth harmony
  Set to the fals of kingdomes. Shall the hand
  Of my kind mistresse kill me?

  _Beh._                        If thou yeeld
  To her next summons. Y'are faire warn'd; farewell!
                                                  _Thunders. Exit._

  _Buss._ I must fare well, how ever, though I die,                   70
  My death consenting with his augurie.
  Should not my powers obay when she commands,
  My motion must be rebell to my will,
  My will to life; if, when I have obay'd,
  Her hand should so reward me, they must arme it,                    75
  Binde me, or force it; or, I lay my life,
  She rather would convert it many times
  On her owne bosome, even to many deaths.
  But were there danger of such violence,
  I know 'tis farre from her intent to send:                          80
  And who she should send is as farre from thought,
  Since he is dead whose only mean she us'd.              _Knocks._
  Whose there? Look to the dore, and let him in,
  Though politick Monsieur, or the violent Guise.

          _Enter Montsurry like the Frier, with a letter written
          in bloud._

  _Mont._ Haile to my worthy sonne!

  _Buss._                           O lying Spirit,                   85
  To say the Frier was dead! Ile now beleeve
  Nothing of all his forg'd predictions.
  My kinde and honour'd father, well reviv'd!
  I have beene frighted with your death and mine,
  And told my mistresse hand should be my death,                      90
  If I obeyed this summons.

  _Mont._              I beleev'd
  Your love had bin much clearer then to give
  Any such doubt a thought, for she is cleare,
  And having freed her husbands jealousie
  (Of which her much abus'd hand here is witnesse)                    95
  She prayes, for urgent cause, your instant presence.

  _Buss._ Why, then, your Prince of Spirits may be call'd
  The Prince of lyers.

  _Mont._              Holy Writ so calls him.

  _Buss._ What! writ in bloud!

  _Mont._                      I, 'tis the ink of lovers.

  _Buss._ O, 'tis a sacred witnesse of her love.                     100
  So much elixer of her bloud as this,
  Dropt in the lightest dame, would make her firme
  As heat to fire; and, like to all the signes,
  Commands the life confinde in all my veines.
  O, how it multiplies my bloud with spirit,                         105
  And makes me apt t'encounter death and hell.
  But come, kinde father; you fetch me to heaven,
  And to that end your holy weed was given.               _Exeunt._


              _with tapers_. A omits.

              _Thunder._ A omits.

           8  _Nods_. A, Crackes.

              _Enter . . . Frier_. Placed after _heaven_ in Qq.

           9  _deare_. A, my.

       15-16  _and now . . . imminent_. A omits.

          17  _upper_. A, utmost.

          49  _shine_. A, see.

          50  _men are_. A, sense is.

              _Thunders_ A omits

              _Thunders._ A omits.

          76  _or_. A, and.

              _with a letter written in bloud_. A omits.

       85-98  _O lying Spirit . . . calls him_. Omitted in A, which
              has instead:--

                _Buss._ O lying Spirit: welcome, loved father,
                How fares my dearest mistresse?

                _Mont._                         Well as ever,
                Being well as ever thought on by her lord:
                Wherof she sends this witnesse in her hand,
                And praies, for urgent cause, your speediest

       91-92  _I beleeved . . . give_. One line in B.


  _A Room in Montsurry's House._]

          _Thunder. Intrat Umbra Frier and discovers Tamyra._

  _[Umbra] Friar._ Up with these stupid thoughts, still loved daughter,
  And strike away this heartlesse trance of anguish:
  Be like the sunne, and labour in eclipses.
  Look to the end of woes: oh, can you sit
  Mustering the horrors of your servants slaughter                     5
  Before your contemplation, and not study
  How to prevent it? Watch when he shall rise,
  And, with a suddaine out-crie of his murther,
  Blow his retreat before he be revenged.

  _Tamyra._ O father, have my dumb woes wak'd your death?             10
  When will our humane griefes be at their height?
  Man is a tree that hath no top in cares,
  No root in comforts; all his power to live
  Is given to no end but t'have power to grieve.

  _Umb. Fri._ It is the misery of our creation.                       15
  Your true friend,
  Led by your husband, shadowed in my weed,
  Now enters the dark vault.

  _Tam._                     But, my dearest father,
  Why will not you appeare to him your selfe,
  And see that none of these deceits annoy him?                       20

  _Umb. Fri._ My power is limited; alas! I cannot;
  All that I can doe--See! the cave opens.                  _Exit._

          _D'Amboys at the gulfe._

  _Tam._ Away (my love) away! thou wilt be murther'd.

          _Enter Monsieur and Guise above._

  _Bussy._ Murther'd! I know not what that Hebrew means:
  That word had ne're bin nam'd had all bin D'Ambois.                 25
  Murther'd! By heaven, he is my murtherer
  That shewes me not a murtherer: what such bugge
  Abhorreth not the very sleepe of D'Amboys?
  Murther'd! Who dares give all the room I see
  To D'Ambois reach? or look with any odds                            30
  His fight i'th' face, upon whose hand sits death,
  Whose sword hath wings, and every feather pierceth?
  If I scape Monsieurs pothecarie shops,
  Foutir for Guises shambles! 'Twas ill plotted;
  They should have mall'd me here                                     35
  When I was rising. I am up and ready.
  Let in my politique visitants, let them in,
  Though entring like so many moving armours.
  Fate is more strong than arms and slie than treason,
  And I at all parts buckl'd in my fate.                              40

  _Mons._  }
  _Guise._ } Why enter not the coward villains?

  _Buss._ Dare they not come?

          _Enter Murtherers, with [Umbra] Frier at the other dore._

  _Tam._                      They come.

  _First Murderer._                      Come, all at once!

  _[Umbra] Friar._ Back, coward murtherers, back!

  _Omnes._                                        Defend us heaven!
                                        _Exeunt all but the first._

  _First Murd._ Come ye not on?

  _Buss._                       No, slave! nor goest thou off.
  Stand you so firme?

          [_Strikes at him with his sword._]

                      Will it not enter here?                         45
  You have a face yet. So! in thy lifes flame
  I burne the first rites to my mistresse fame.

  _Umb. Fri._ Breath thee, brave sonne, against the other charge.

  _Buss._ O is it true, then, that my sense first told me?
  Is my kind father dead?

  _Tam._                  He is, my love;                             50
  'Twas the Earle, my husband, in his weed that brought thee.

  _Buss._ That was a speeding sleight, and well resembled.
  Where is that angry Earle? My lord! come forth,
  And shew your owne face in your owne affaire;
  Take not into your noble veines the blood                           55
  Of these base villaines, nor the light reports
  Of blister'd tongues for cleare and weighty truth:
  But me against the world, in pure defence
  Of your rare lady, to whose spotlesse name
  I stand here as a bulwark, and project                              60
  A life to her renowne that ever yet
  Hath been untainted, even in envies eye,
  And, where it would protect, a sanctuarie.
  Brave Earle, come forth, and keep your scandall in!
  'Tis not our fault, if you enforce the spot;                        65
  Nor the wreak yours, if you performe it not.

          _Enter Mont[surry] with all the murtherers._

  _Montsurry._ Cowards! a fiend or spirit beat ye off!
  They are your owne faint spirits that have forg'd
  The fearefull shadowes that your eyes deluded:
  The fiend was in you; cast him out, then, thus!                     70

          [_Montsurry fights with D'Ambois._] _D'Ambois hath
          Montsurry downe._

  _Tam._ Favour my lord, my love, O, favour him!

  _Buss._ I will not touch him. Take your life, my lord,
  And be appeas'd.                          _Pistolls shot within._
                   O then the coward Fates
  Have maim'd themselves, and ever lost their honour!

  _Umb. Fri._ What have ye done, slaves! irreligious lord!            75

  _Buss._ Forbeare them, father; 'tis enough for me
  That Guise and Monsieur, death and destinie,
  Come behind D'Ambois. Is my body, then,
  But penetrable flesh, and must my mind
  Follow my blood? Can my divine part adde                            80
  No ayd to th'earthly in extremity?
  Then these divines are but for forme, not fact;
  Man is of two sweet courtly friends compact,
  A mistresse and a servant. Let my death
  Define life nothing but a courtiers breath.                         85
  Nothing is made of nought, of all things made
  Their abstract being a dreame but of a shade.
  Ile not complaine to earth yet, but to heaven,
  And (like a man) look upwards even in death.
  And if Vespasian thought in majestie                                90
  An Emperour might die standing, why not I?
                                          _She offers to help him._
  Nay, without help, in which I will exceed him;
  For he died splinted with his chamber groomes.
  Prop me, true sword, as thou hast ever done!
  The equall thought I beare of life and death                        95
  Shall make me faint on no side; I am up.
  Here, like a Roman statue, I will stand
  Till death hath made me marble. O my fame
  Live in despight of murther! take thy wings
  And haste thee where the gray-ey'd morn perfumes                   100
  Her rosie chariot with Sabæan spices!
  Fly where the evening from th'Iberean vales
  Takes on her swarthy shoulders Heccate
  Crown'd with a grove of oakes! flie where men feele
  The burning axeltree; and those that suffer                        105
  Beneath the chariot of the snowy Beare:
  And tell them all that D'Ambois now is hasting
  To the eternall dwellers; that a thunder
  Of all their sighes together (for their frailties
  Beheld in me) may quit my worthlesse fall                          110
  With a fit volley for my funerall.

  _Umb. Fri._ Forgive thy murtherers.

  _Buss._                             I forgive them all;
  And you, my lord, their fautor; for true signe
  Of which unfain'd remission, take my sword;
  Take it, and onely give it motion,                                 115
  And it shall finde the way to victory
  By his owne brightnesse, and th'inherent valour
  My fight hath still'd into't with charmes of spirit.
  Now let me pray you that my weighty bloud,
  Laid in one scale of your impertiall spleene,                      120
  May sway the forfeit of my worthy love
  Waid in the other: and be reconcil'd
  With all forgivenesse to your matchlesse wife.

  _Tam._ Forgive thou me, deare servant, and this hand
  That lead thy life to this unworthy end;                           125
  Forgive it for the bloud with which 'tis stain'd,
  In which I writ the summons of thy death--
  The forced summons--by this bleeding wound,
  By this here in my bosome, and by this
  That makes me hold up both my hands embrew'd                       130
  For thy deare pardon.

  _Buss._               O, my heart is broken.
  Fate nor these murtherers, Monsieur nor the Guise,
  Have any glory in my death, but this,
  This killing spectacle, this prodigie.
  My sunne is turn'd to blood, in whose red beams                    135
  Pindus and Ossa (hid in drifts of snow
  Laid on my heart and liver), from their veines
  Melt, like two hungry torrents eating rocks,
  Into the ocean of all humane life,
  And make it bitter, only with my bloud.                            140
  O fraile condition of strength, valour, vertue
  In me (like warning fire upon the top
  Of some steepe beacon, on a steeper hill)
  Made to expresse it: like a falling starre
  Silently glanc't, that like a thunderbolt                          145
  Look't to have struck, and shook the firmament!        _Moritur._

  _Umb. Fri._ Farewell! brave reliques of a compleat man,
  Look up, and see thy spirit made a starre.
  Joine flames with Hercules, and when thou set'st
  Thy radiant forehead in the firmament,                             150
  Make the vast chrystall crack with thy receipt;
  Spread to a world of fire, and the aged skie
  Cheere with new sparks of old humanity.
  [_To Montsurry._] Son of the earth, whom my unrested soule
  Rues t'have begotten in the faith of heaven,                       155
  Assay to gratulate and pacifie
  The soule fled from this worthy by performing
  The Christian reconcilement he besought
  Betwixt thee and thy lady; let her wounds,
  Manlessly digg'd in her, be eas'd and cur'd                        160
  With balme of thine owne teares; or be assur'd
  Never to rest free from my haunt and horror.

  _Mont._ See how she merits this, still kneeling by,
  And mourning his fall, more than her own fault!

  _Umb. Fri._ Remove, deare daughter, and content thy husband:       165
  So piety wills thee, and thy servants peace.

  _Tam._ O wretched piety, that art so distract
  In thine owne constancie, and in thy right
  Must be unrighteous. If I right my friend,
  I wrong my husband; if his wrong I shunne,                         170
  The duty of my friend I leave undone.
  Ill playes on both sides; here and there it riseth;
  No place, no good, so good, but ill compriseth.
  O had I never married but for forme;
  Never vow'd faith but purpos'd to deceive;                         175
  Never made conscience of any sinne,
  But clok't it privately and made it common;
  Nor never honour'd beene in bloud or mind;
  Happy had I beene then, as others are
  Of the like licence; I had then beene honour'd,                    180
  Liv'd without envie; custome had benumb'd
  All sense of scruple and all note of frailty;
  My fame had beene untouch'd, my heart unbroken:
  But (shunning all) I strike on all offence.
  O husband! deare friend! O my conscience!                          185

  _Mons._ Come, let's away; my sences are not proofe
  Against those plaints.

          _Exeunt Guise, Mon[sieur above]. D'Ambois is borne off._

  _Mont._ I must not yeeld to pity, nor to love
  So servile and so trayterous: cease, my bloud,
  To wrastle with my honour, fame, and judgement.                    190
  Away! forsake my house; forbeare complaints
  Where thou hast bred them: here all things [are] full
  Of their owne shame and sorrow--leave my house.

  _Tam._ Sweet lord, forgive me, and I will be gone;
  And till these wounds (that never balme shall close                195
  Till death hath enterd at them, so I love them,
  Being opened by your hands) by death be cur'd,
  I never more will grieve you with my sight;
  Never endure that any roofe shall part
  Mine eyes and heaven; but to the open deserts                      200
  (Like to a hunted tygres) I will flie,
  Eating my heart, shunning the steps of men,
  And look on no side till I be arriv'd.

  _Mont._ I doe forgive thee, and upon my knees
  (With hands held up to heaven) wish that mine honour               205
  Would suffer reconcilement to my love:
  But, since it will not, honour never serve
  My love with flourishing object, till it sterve!
  And as this taper, though it upwards look,
  Downwards must needs consume, so let our love!                     210
  As, having lost his hony, the sweet taste
  Runnes into savour, and will needs retaine
  A spice of his first parents, till (like life)
  It sees and dies, so let our love! and, lastly,
  As when the flame is suffer'd to look up                           215
  It keepes his luster, but being thus turn'd downe
  (His naturall course of usefull light inverted)
  His owne stuffe puts it out, so let our love!
  Now turne from me, as here I turne from thee;
  And may both points of heavens strait axeltree                     220
  Conjoyne in one, before thy selfe and me!     _Exeunt severally._

          _Finis Actus Quinti & Ultimi._


              _Thunder . . . Tamyra_. A has: _Intrat umbra Comolet
              to the Countesse, wrapt in a canapie._

         1-6  _Up . . . not study_. Omitted in A, which has

                Revive those stupid thoughts, and sit not thus,
                Gathering the horrors of your servants slaughter
                (So urg'd by your hand, and so imminent)
                Into an idle fancie; but devise.

           9  _revenged_. A, engaged.

          14  _t'have_. A; B, have.

       15-22  _It is . . . opens_. Omitted in A, which has

                _Umb._ Tis the just curse of our abus'd creation,
                Which wee must suffer heere, and scape heereafter:
                He hath the great mind that submits to all
                He sees inevitable; he the small
                That carps at earth, and her foundation shaker,
                And rather than himselfe, will mend his maker.

          16  _Your . . . friend_. In B ends preceding line.

              _Enter . . . above_. A omits.

          30  _To_. Some copies of B have T.

       33-36  _If I . . . and ready_. A omits.

          41  _Why . . . villains_? A omits.

              _Enter . . . dore_. A omits.

              _all but the first_. A omits.

          53  Qq punctuate wrongly:--_Where is that angry Earle my
              lord? Come forth._

              _all the murtherers_. A, others.

              _D'Ambois . . . downe_. A omits.

              _Pistolls shot within._ Inserted before 72 in B; A

       90-93  _And if . . . groomes_. A omits.

              _She offers to help him._ Inserted before 95 in B. A

         119  _Now_. A, And.

         135  _in_. A, gainst.

         136  _drifts of_. A, endless.

         146  _struck_. Emend. ed.; Qq, stuck.

              _Moritur_. A omits.

     147-153  _Farewell . . . humanity_. These lines are placed by
              A at the close of the Scene, and are preceded by
              three lines which B omits:--

                My terrors are strook inward, and no more
                My pennance will allow they shall enforce
                Earthly afflictions but upon my selfe.

         147  _reliques_. A, relicts.

         149  _Joine flames with Hercules_. So in A; B, Jove flames
              with her rules.

         151  _chrystall_. A, continent.

         154  _Son . . . soule_. Before this line B has _Frier_.

         155  _Rues . . . heaven_. After this line A inserts:--

                Since thy revengefull spirit hath rejected
                The charitie it commands, and the remission
                To serve and worship the blind rage of bloud.

         163  _kneeling_. A, sitting.

         173  _No place . . . compriseth_. After this line A

                My soule more scruple breeds than my bloud sinne,
                Vertue imposeth more than any stepdame.

     186-187  _Come . . . plaints_. A omits.

         192  [_are_]. Added by Dilke; Qq omit.

         196  _enterd_. A; B, enterr'd.

         201  _a_. A omits.


  With many hands you have seene D'Ambois slaine;
  Yet by your grace he may revive againe,
  And every day grow stronger in his skill
  To please, as we presume he is in will.
  The best deserving actors of the time                                5
  Had their ascents, and by degrees did clime
  To their full height, a place to studie due.
  To make him tread in their path lies in you;
  Hee'le not forget his makers, but still prove
  His thankfulnesse, as you encrease your love.                       10



              _Epilogue_ Not found in A.

Notes To Bussy D'Ambois

_For the meaning of single words see the Glossary._

=Prologue.= The allusions in these lines can be only partially
explained. The play had evidently been performed, not long before 1641,
by a company which had not possessed original acting rights in it. The
performance had been successful (cf. ll. 3-4 "the grace of late It did
receive"), and the "King's men," while not claiming a monopoly in it,
nor seeking to detract from their rivals' merits, felt bound to revive
the play on their own account, lest they should seem to be letting their
claim go by default. It is possible that in ll. 11-12, they refer to a
performance that in vindication of this claim they had given at Court,
while, as further evidence of their priority of interest, they remind
the audience of the actors belonging to the company who had appeared in
the title-rôle. Nathaniel Field (l. 15), born in 1587, had as a boy been
one of the "Children of the Queen's Revels," and had performed in
Jonson's _Cynthia's Revels_, 1600, and _Poetaster_, 1601. He seems to
have joined the King's players soon after 1614, and his name appears in
the list of "the principall actors in all these playes" prefixed to the
first Shakespearean Folio of 1623. Not long after this period, Field,
who by his _Woman is a Weathercock_ (1612) and his _Amends for Ladies_
(1618) had made a reputation as a dramatist as well as an actor, is
believed to have retired from the stage, though he lived till 1633. If,
however, he did not appear as Bussy till after 1614, when the play had
already been at least seven years, perhaps considerably longer, on the
boards, it can scarcely be said with truth that his "action first did
give it name" (l. 16). His successor in the part, whom the "gray beard"
(l. 18) of advancing years had now disqualified, cannot be identified;
but the "third man" (l. 21) is probably Ilyard Swanston, who, according
to Fleay (_Biog. Chron. of Drama_, vol. I, p. 60), was one of the
"King's men" from 1625 to 1642. His impersonation of Bussy is
favourably referred to by Edmund Gayton in his _Festivous Notes upon Don
Quixote_ (1654), p. 25 and his previous rôle of "Richard" (l. 23) may
have been that of Ricardo in Massinger's _Picture_, which he had played
in 1629 (cf. Phelps, _Geo. Chap._ p. 125). The earlier editors thought
that Charles Hart was here alluded to, but Wright in his _Historia
Histrionica_ states it was the part of the Duchess in Shirley's
_Cardinal_, licensed 1641, that first gave him any reputation. Hence he
cannot at this date have performed Bussy; his fame in the part was made
after the Restoration (cf. Introduction, p. xxv).

=5-6=, 1-33. =Fortune . . . port.= This opening speech of Bussy
illustrates the difficult compression of Chapman's style and the
diversion of his thought from strictly logical sequence by his excessive
use of simile. He begins (ll. 1-4) by emphasising the paradoxical
character of human affairs, in which only those escape poverty who are
abnormal, while it is among the necessitous that worthily typical
representatives of the race must be sought. The former class, under the
designation of "great men," are then (after a parenthetical comparison
with cedars waxing amidst tempests) likened to statuaries who are
satisfied if the exterior of the Colossus they are creating is
sufficiently imposing; they are then (by an awkward transition of the
imagery) likened to the statues themselves (l. 15) "heroique" in form
but "morter, flint, and lead" within. Chapman's meaning is here obvious
enough, but it is a singular canon of æsthetics that estimates the worth
of a statue by the materials out of which it is made. In l. 18 a new
thought is started, that of the transitoriness of life, and the
perishable nature of its gifts, and as the ocean-voyager needs a
stay-at-home pilot to steer him safely into port, so the adventurer in
"the waves of glassie glory" (ll. 29-30) is bidden look to "vertue" for
guidance to his desired haven--not exactly the conclusion to be expected
from the opening lines of the speech.

=6=, 23. =To put a girdle . . . world.= The editors all compare _Mid.
Night's Dream_, I, 1, 175, which Chapman probably had in mind.

=7=, 34. =in numerous state.= A play of words, apparently, on two senses
of the phrase: (1) the series of numbers, (2) a populous kingdom.

=8=, 59. =gurmundist.= The _N. E. D._ quotes no other example of the
form "gurmundist" for "gurmond" = "gourmand."

=9=, 86-87. =set my looks In an eternall brake:= keep my countenance
perpetually immoveable. A "brake" is a piece of framework for holding
something steady.

=15=, 187. =I am a poet.= This is historically true. A poem of some
length, _Stances faictes par M. de Bussy_, is quoted by Joubert in his
_Bussy D'Amboise_, pp. 205-09.

=15=, 194-95. =chaine And velvet jacket:= the symbols of a steward's

=16=, 207. =his woodden dagger.= The Elizabethan jester carried the
wooden dagger or sword, which was often one of the properties of the
"Vice" in the later Moralities and the Interludes.

=17=, =Pyra.= Though this character is mentioned here and elsewhere
among the _Dramatis Personæ_, she takes no part in the dialogue.

=17=, 2. _that English virgin:_ apparently Annable, who is the Duchess
of Guise's lady-in-waiting (cf. III, 2, 234-40).

=18=, 15. =what's that to:= what has that to do with.

=18=, 16-27. =Assure you . . . confusion to it.= With this encomium on
Elizabeth and her Court compare Crequi's account of Byron's compliments
to the Queen (_Byron's Conspiracie_, IV, 1).

=19=, 36. =Which we must not affect:= which change, however, we must not
desire to take place.

=19=, 39-43. =No question . . . as they.= The travelled Englishman's
affectation of foreign attire is a stock theme of Elizabethan satire.
Cf. (e. g.) _Merch. of Ven._ I, 2, 78-81.

=19=, 44. =travell.= A pun on the two senses, (1) journey, (2) labour,
the latter of which is now distinguished by the spelling "travail."

=21=, 85. =Tis leape yeare.= F. G. Fleay (_Biog. Chron._ I, 59)
considers that this refers "to the date of production, as Bussy's
introduction at Court was in 1569, not a Leap Year," and that it "fixes
the time of representation to 1604." See _Introduction_.

=22=, 110. =the groome-porters.= Chapman here transfers to the French
Court an official peculiar to the English Royal Household till his
abolition under George III. The function of the groom-porter was to
furnish cards and dice for all gaming at Court, and to decide disputes
arising at play.

=23=, 123. =the guiserd.= The play on words here is not clear; "guiserd"
may be a variant of "gizzard," in which case it would mean the Duke's
throat. This is more probable than a "jingling allusion . . . to
goose-herd or gozzard," which Dilke suggests.

=23=, 124. =are you blind of that side:= unguarded and assailable in
that direction.

=23=, 130. =Accius Nævius:= the augur who cut a whetstone in pieces in
presence of Tarquinius Priscus.

=23=, 133. =mate:= either _match_ or _put down_, _overcome_. The latter
sense is more probable, with a punning allusion to the use of the word
in chess, at which Guise seems to be engaged with the King. Cf. l. 184.

=23=, 135-36. =of the new edition:= of the recent creation. An allusion
to the lavish creation of knights by James, shortly after his accession.

=24=, 141-42. =y'ave cut too many throats.= An allusion to Guise's share
in the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. Contrast the references to the
episode in _The Revenge_, II, 1, 198-234.

=24=, 149. =the Knights ward.= Dilke thought that the allusion here was
to the "poor knights of Windsor," but it really refers to a part of the
"Counter" prison in London. Cf. _Eastward Hoe_, V, 2, 54, where Wolf
says of Sir Petronel Flash, "The knight will i' the Knights-Ward, doe
what we can, sir." (See Schelling's note.)

=24=, 163-64. =out a th' presence:= outside the presence of the

=25=, 168. =like a rush.= An allusion to the custom, still prevalent in
Chapman's time, of strewing floors with rushes.

=25=, 178-79. =of the place The divers frames.= An obscure expression,
which may mean: the varied character in different places of the bed of
the sea.

=25=, 180-83. =Bristled . . . fome.= The imagery in these lines also
presents difficulty. D'Ambois's heart is likened to the sea, which,
once swollen into billows, will not sink into its original calm till it
is overspread by the crown or sheet of foam which the waves, after their
subsidence, leave behind.

=25=, 184. =You have the mate.= Cf. textual note on I, 1, 153, and note
on =23=, 133, p. 148.

=26=, 208. =a blanquet.= To toss D'Ambois in, as is plain from l. 212.

=26=, 211. =carrie it cleane:= comes off easily superior.

=27=, 237-38. =Your descants . . . this ground.= There is a complicated
play on words here. _Descant_ in music is the melodious accompaniment to
a simple theme, the _plainsong_ or _ground_. Hence arises the derived
meaning, _a variation on any theme_, _a comment_, often of a censorious
kind. This, as well as the original meaning, is implied here, while
_ground_ has, of course, its usual as well as its technical sense.

=28=, 243-44. =Ile be your ghost to haunt you.= May this be an early
reference to Banquo's ghost? _Macbeth_ was probably produced in 1606,
the year before _Bussy D'Ambois_ was printed.

=28=, 261. =musk-cats:= _civet-cats_, and hence, _scented persons_,

=28=, 262. =this priviledge.= The royal presence-chamber, though the
King has left it, is still regarded as inviolable.

=29=. =Henry, Guise, Montsurry and Attendants.= The Qq of 1607 and 1608,
instead of _Montsurry and Attendants_, read _Beaumond, Nuncius_.
_Nuncius_ is a mistake, as he does not enter till after l. 24.
_Beaumond_ is evidently a courtier, who speaks ll. 105-107 (_Such a life
. . . of men_), and who goes out with the King after l. 206. In 1641 and
later Qq it was apparently thought desirable to leave out this
"single-speech" character and transfer his words to Montsurry; but by an
oversight _Beau._ was left prefixed to the second half of l. 105, and
the S. D., _Exit Rex cum Beau._, was retained after l. 206. The editor
has therefore substituted _Mont._ for _Beau._ in either case. Montsurry
being thus present at the pardon of Bussy, the 1641 and later Qq leave
out ll. 1-50 of the next Scene wherein _inter alia_ Montsurry speaks of
the pardon as yet undecided, and Guise enters to announce it to him.

Dilke in his edition in 1814 thought _Beaumond_ a misprint for
_Beaupre_, who appears in other scenes, and whom he took to be a man,
instead of a woman. Hence he reads _Montsurry, Beaupre and Attendants_
both here and after l. 206. The other editors have not realized that
there is any discrepancy to be explained.

=29=, 12-13. =bruits it . . . healthfull:= proclaims it through the
world to be sound and wholesome.

=31=, 51-52. =Pyrrho's opinion . . . are one.= A sweeping
generalisation, which cannot be accepted as an interpretation of the
doctrines of the sceptical philosopher of Elis.

=31=, 54-58. =As Hector . . . speak.= The reference is to _Iliad_, VII,
54 ff., though Hector is there described as keeping back the Trojans
with his spear.

=32=, 60. =Ript up the quarrell:= explained the cause and origin of the
quarrel (Dilke).

=32=, 63-64. =conclude The others dangers:= might put an end to the
risks of their companions by making their single combat cover the whole
quarrel. _Conclude_ here unites the Elizabethan sense _include_ with the
ordinary meaning _finish_.

=32=, 77-80. =And then . . . never kill.= An anticipation, as Lamb and
others have pointed out, of Milton's description of angelic wounds,
_Par. Lost_, VI, 344-49.

=33=, 84-87. =Thrice pluckt . . . scap't.= The accumulation of personal
pronouns makes the interpretation somewhat difficult: thrice D'Ambois
plucked at it, and thrice drew on thrusts from Barrisor who darted
hither and thither like flame, and continued thrusting as D'Ambois
plucked; yet, incredible to relate, the latter escaped injury.

=33=, 90. =only made more horrid with his wound:= Barrisor being only
rendered fiercer by his wound. The construction is loose, as
grammatically the words should qualify D'Ambois.

=33=, 92. =redoubled in his danger:= thrusting himself into danger for
the second time. For this peculiar use of _redoubled_ cf. l. 190, "on my
knees redoubled," and note.

=33=, 94. =Arden.= Probably to be no more identified here with the
Warwickshire district of this name than in _As You Like It_. Ardennes
would be more appropriate on a Frenchman's lips, but the district
belongs to the realm of fancy as much as Armenia in l. 117.

=33=, 97. =he gan to nodde.= An anacoluthon. The construction should be
"begin to nodde" after "I have seene an oke" in l. 94, but the
intervening participial clauses produce irregularity. Similarily in l.
101 "he fell" should be "fall" and "hid" should be "hide."

=33=, 103-104. =Of ten set . . . Navarre.= The war between Henry III and
Henry of Navarre continued from 1587 to 1589, but the "ten set battles"
are without historical foundation.

=34=, 105. [=Montsurry.=] See note on stage direction at beginning of
the scene.

=34=, 108. =felt report:= probably, account related with feeling.

=34=, 121. =the treasure of his brow:= his horn.

=34=, 122. =shelter of a tree.= Unicorns were supposed to be worsted in
encounters by their adversaries sheltering behind trees, in which they
impaled themselves. Spenser, _F. Q._ II, 5, 10, describes how a lion
defeats a unicorn by this stratagem. Cf. _Jul. Cæs._ II, 1, 303-04.

                    "He loves to hear
     That unicorns may be betray'd with trees."

=34=, 128. =th' tw' other=, i. e. Pyrrhot and Melynell.

=35=, 130. =hunt Honour at the view.= A rare metaphorical application of
the technical phrase, "hunt at the view."

=35.= [=Exit Nuntius.=] The editor has inserted this, as the Qq do not
indicate when the Nuncius departs, and, with the entrance of Bussy,
there is no further need of him. =bare:= bareheaded.

=35=, 141-44. =If ever Nature . . . one.= Difficult lines, which may be
paraphrased: if ever Nature's bond maintained its strength, when
subjected to the severe test of bridging the distance between sovereign
and subject, both sprung from the same seed, now prove that in elevated
stations she can show her nobility.

=36=, 156. =that=, i. e. positive law.

=36=, 157. =prefixing:= settling beforehand.

=36=, 164. =this fact, though of justice:= this action, though done in
the name of justice.

=37=, 170. =he=, i. e. his enemy.

=37=, 175-76. =which . . . him:= which is more precious than a human
life, which is inferior in value to it, and which was rightly forfeited
to him through ill-doing.

=37=, 190. =This is a grace.= The grace or boon for which Bussy asks is
explained by him in ll. 193-203. "This" usually refers to something that
has gone before, =on my knees redoubled:= going down for the second time
on my knees--from which he had risen after l. 179.

=37=, 192. =And shall=, i. e. And which grace shall.

=38=, 198-204. =Let me . . . King indeed.= With this assertion of man's
original "Kingship" cf. _The Gentleman Usher_, V, 1.

     And what's a prince? Had all been virtuous men,
     There never had been prince upon the earth,
     And so no subject: all men had been princes.
     A virtuous man is subject to no prince,
     But to his soul and honour.

=38.= [=Exit Rex cum Montsurry.=] See note on stage direction at
beginning of this scene.

=40=, 18. =Although she be my ante.= From these words we learn that
Beaupre is niece to the Duke and Duchess of Guise. Compare III, ii, 188,
and the reference to "my lady, your niece" in the passage in Qq 1607 and
1608 quoted in the textual note on III, ii, 233.

=42=, 49. =an agent for my bloud:= an instrument in the satisfaction of
my passions.

=42=, 57-58. =his retiring . . . aspiring:= his retirement to a position
of inferiority will satisfy my aspirations.

=43=, 70-71. =Wise wives . . . friend.= Tamyra ironically keeps up the
metaphor of the "two strings" in l. 66, and plays upon the double senses
of "firm" and "loose" in archery and morals.

=44=, 95. =as good cheap as it:= literally, on as advantageous terms as;
hence, with as little effort as, as readily as.

=45=, 108-10. =Whose there . . . quality.= Cf. _All Fools_, II, 1, p. 67

     While I sit like a well-taught writing-woman
     Turning her eyes upon some work or picture,
     Read in a book, or take a feigned nap,
     While her kind lady takes one to her lap.

=45=, 117. =oportunities:= importunities, which Dilke wished to
substitute. But "opportunity" was used in this sense. Cf. _Mer. Wiv.
Wind._ III, 4, 20-2.

     "Yet seeke my Fathers love, still seeke it, sir;
     If opportunity and humblest suite
     Cannot attain it, why then harke you hither."

=45=, 121-122. =as to their pardons . . . Parliaments.= The meaning
appears to be: as the exceptions they make, after Parliaments have
ceased to sit, are to the pardons they have granted.

=46=, 129. =part'st with victory:= comest off victoriously.

=48=, 165. =the Center:= the unmoved central point of the earth,
according to the Ptolemaic system.

=49=, 182. =cast . . . beene:= undress, as if I had never been watching
here. Tamyra here determines to go to bed, but afterwards (l. 242) she

=49=, 198. =the first orbe move.= An allusion to the _Primum Mobile_,
which, in the Ptolemaic system, was the tenth sphere "of a most pure and
cleare substance and without starres," which revolved in twenty-four
hours, and carried round in its course all the inner spheres.

=51=, 231-32. =If not . . . satisfi'd:= if she is not given opportunity
to dissemble or show petulance, she is not satisfied even if she gains
what she desires.

=56=, 20-30. =Sin . . . troth.= A characteristic illustration of how one
simile in Chapman's verse begets another, with little regard for logical
sequence. The "shadowes" with which sin frightens us are first compared
to the imaginary creatures into which fancy shapes the clouds; then sin
itself (relegated from an active to a passive part) is likened not to a
pure creation of the fancy, but to an exaggerated picture of a real
monster displayed by "policy," i. e. the craft which seeks to debar men
from their desires.

For the custom of exhibiting a rude painting of a curiosity, as a decoy
to sightseers, cf. _The Tempest_, II, 2, 29-31, "Were I in England now .
. . and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would
give a piece of silver."

=56=, 21. =in his truest valour:= if his valour be rightly estimated.

=56=, 33. =our three powers.= The vegetative, sensitive and reasoning

=56-57=, 40-43. =Nor shall . . . wings.= Tamyra's "fame," which in l. 38
has been spoken of as a "jewell," is now likened to a fabulous winged
creature which is accorded free flight.

=57=, 44. =It rests as:= the secret remains as inviolable as if.

=58=, 69-71. =layes . . . oppos'd.= I am indebted to Dr. J. A. H. Murray
for the following interpretation of this passage: [Nature] brings our
powers into accordance with its own will or working, just as the stone
(laid by the builder) should be apposed or brought into accord with the
line, not the line (which is straight and not to be shifted) made to lie
along the stone.

=60=, 119. =greatnesse with him:= high place in his favour.

=62=, 13. =Boots of hay-ropes.= Bands of hay were sometimes wrapped
round the legs, to serve instead of boots. Cf. Ben Jonson's _Every Man
in his Humour_, I, 2. _Step._ But I have no boots . . . _Brainworm_. Why
a fine wisp of hay roll'd hard, Master Stephen.

=62=, 18. =a redhair'd man:= a deceiver, traitor; so called from the
representation of Judas in tapestries, and probably on the stage of the
Miracle plays, with red hair.

=63=, 23. =put them up:= start them from their cover.

=63=, 28. =That . . . clapdish:= That keeps regal state, though sprung
from beggary. A clapdish was a wooden dish with a lid, carried by
beggars and lepers, which they clapped to announce their approach.

=63=, 46. =Venting . . . Hebrew:= putting the best product of his
livings to the reverse of its intended use. Hebrew is read backwards.

=65=, 69. =that popular purple.= An allusion to the Duke's robe, which
was of royal purple, to impress the populace.

=65=, 76. =He's noblier borne.= "Noblier" has been here substituted for
"nobly." The parallel phrases in the preceding lines are all
comparatives, "better," "more," "greater," and Bussy, in the second half
of this line, cannot mean to deny that Guise is of noble birth.

=65=, 79. =Cardinall of Ambois.= The Cardinal Georges d'Amboise was in
reality Bussy's great-uncle.

=66=, 84. =great in faction:= active in promoting leagues.

=66=, 86-87. =Be a duke . . . field.= A play, of course, on the original
meaning of Duke, as _Dux_ or _leader_.

=67=, 108. =the Hermean rod:= the caduceus or rod of Hermes, with which
he parted two fighting serpents, whereupon they embraced and stuck to
the rod.

=69=, 144-47. =and as this . . . pride.= An allusion to the myth of the
giant Typhoeus who, according to one version, was created by Hera alone,
in anger at the birth of Pallas from the head of Zeus. He was killed by
Zeus with a flash of lighting, and was buried in Tartarus under Mt.

=69=, 154. =make scapes to please advantage:= commit escapades, and
thereby give points against themselves.

=69=, 155-56. =women . . . candels:= women who make the worst
accomplices to men.

=70=, 157. =their women:= their waiting-women.

=71=, 187-88. =as far as an unkle may.= Guise is uncle to the lady
Beaupre. Cf. note on II, 2, 18.

=74=, 243-44. =Come . . . courted.= These words are whispered by
Monsieur to Pero. The rest of his speech is spoken aloud as if in
disgust at the rejection of advances made by him to Pero.

=74=, 244. =dry palm:= a sign of chastity.

=77=, 311. =I have the blind side of:= I can play on the weakness of.

=78=, 325. =engag'd in some sure plot:= involved in the toils of some
plot securely laid against him.

=78=, 330. =Train . . . wreak:= allure D'Ambois within reach of his

=80=, 375. =angell of my life:= an allusion to the tutelary genius. For
a similar use of _angel_ cf. _Ant. and Cleop._ II, 3, 21.

=81=, 383. =rais'd without a circle.= If a necromancer, before raising a
spirit, drew a circle within which he stood, he was secure against its

=82=, 406. =which I have still in thought:= which is always with me, as
far as my thoughts are concerned.

=84=, 445-46. =to force . . . estates.= With the punctuation adopted
_And . . . throats_ is a clause parenthetically inserted in the main
statement, and the meaning is: to get possession of estates by
foreclosing mortgages, and thus destroying their owners. The Qq have a
comma after _possessions_, and no brackets in the following line.

=84-85=, 448-49. =quarrell . . . Ajax.= A reference to the well-known
episode in Sophocles' _Ajax_.

=85=, 453. =make them of a peece:= make them complete.

=85=, 464-66. =which not to sooth . . . Thou eat'st.= An anacoluthon.

=85=, 465. =And glorifie . . . Hammon.= Probably an allusion to the
adoration of Alexander the Great as the son of Jupiter Ammon by the
priests of this originally Æthiopian deity, at Thebes in Upper Egypt, in
B. C. 331.

=86=, 473. =like a scrich-owle sing.= The screech of the owl was
supposed to be an omen of death to the hearer. Cf. _Macbeth_, II, 2,

=87=, 500. =to that wall:= at the distance of that wall.

=87=, 507. =her breathing rock.= Dilke explains this as "the distaff
from whence she draws the thread of life," but though this is evidently
the meaning required, it is difficult to extract it from this obscure

=87=, 510. =Defil'd . . . soule.= Another instance of confused imagery,
which yields no satisfactory meaning.

=89=, 28. =which=, sc. time.

=90=, 35. =princely mistresse:= the Duchess of Guise.

=90=, 39. =Your servant:= D'Ambois.

=90=, 52. =in high formes:= on stools of disgrace.

=91=, 55. =great eagles beak.= Cf. III, 2, 4.

=91=, 57. =her . . . liver.= A double allusion, as Dilke has pointed
out, to the story of Prometheus, and to the conception of the liver as
the seat of the emotions.

=92=, 77. =with a traine:= by a stratagem.

=93=, 84. =gushing.= Used here transitively, qualifying _laws_, and
governing _blood_.

=93=, 87. =bare . . . hammes:= the uncovered heads and cringing postures
of sycophants.

=93=, 98. =Armenian dragons.= Chapman is fond of locating fabulous
monsters in Armenia. Cf. II, 1, 118-19.

=94=, 115. =almighty Æther.= Probably a reminiscence of Virgil,
_Georg._ 2, 325, _pater omnipotens Æther_.

=94=, 120. =Nay, they are two.= Monsieur, while saying this, makes two
horns with his fingers.

=95=, 126. =a meere Cynthia:= a perfect moon-goddess.

=96=, 138. =The plague of Herod.= Cf. Acts XII, 23, "And he was eaten of
worms, and gave up the ghost."

=98=, 180. =thus, with his fingers.= Cf. note on l. 120.

=98=, 181-83. =comes . . . slew:= if he is the source of the blot on my
honour, it becomes a beauty, not a blemish, and proves that I posses the
same innocence that caused the death of.

=98=, 183. =Chymæra.= A fire-breathing monster, brought up by
Amisodarus, King of Caria. She was slain by Bellerophon. This Corinthian
prince, to purify himself from a murder he had committed, had fled to
the court of Proetus of Argos, whose wife, Anteia, fell in love with
him. On his rejection of her advances, she made false accusations
against him, whereupon Proetus sent him to his father-in-law, Iobates,
King of Lycia, with a sealed letter, requesting him to put him to death.
Iobates sent him to kill Chimæra, thinking he would be certain to perish
in the attempt. But mounted on the winged horse Pegasus, he killed her
from on high with his arrows.

=98=, 183-84. =rescued . . . Peleon.= Peleus, King of the Myrmidons,
during a visit to Iolcus, attracted the love of Astydameia, the wife of
Acastus. On his rejection of her proposals, she denounced him falsely to
her husband, who took him to hunt wild beasts on Mount Peleon, and when
he fell asleep through fatigue, concealed his sword, and left him alone
to be devoured. But he was saved by Cheiron, who restored him his sword.

=98=, 185. =the chaste Athenian prince:= Hippolytus, son of Theseus and
Hippolyta, with whom his step-mother Phædra fell in love. On his
rejection of her advances, she accused him to Theseus, at whose prayer
Poseidon caused his destruction, by frightening his horses, when he was
driving along the seacoast, and overturning his chariot. Afterwards, on
the discovery of his innocence, Asclepius restored him to the upper

=98=, 187. =Egean.= So the Qq, instead of "Augean."

=98=, 190. =where thou fear'st, are dreadfull:= inspirest terror even in
those of whom thou art afraid.

=98-99=, 192-94. =the serpent . . . and me.= A curious application of
the legend of armed men springing from the dragon's teeth sown by Jason.

=99=, 204. =feares his owne hand:= is afraid of the consequences of his
own handwriting.

=99=, 205-208. =papers hold . . . honors:= written documents often
contain the revelation of our true selves, and, though of no material
value, put the crown to our reputations.

=99-100=, 209-210. =and with . . . knowes:= and compare with its
contents the evidence of this my most intimate attendant.

=101=, 6. =trails hotly of him:= is hot upon his scent. _Him_ apparently
refers to _mischiefe_ in l. 4.

=102=, 25. =With . . . affrighted:= by which all things capable of
terror are frightened.

=103=, 32. =Epimethean.= Epimetheus, the brother of Prometheus, opened
Pandora's box, and let its evils loose among mankind.

=103=, 37-38. =Or stood . . . artillerie.= In the war of Zeus against
Cronos, the Cyclopes aided the former, who had released them from
Tartarus, by furnishing him with thunderbolts.

=103=, 47-48. =I will . . . spirit:= I will command a spirit, raised by
my art, to enlighten us.

=104=, 54. =Behemoth.= The editor has been unable to find any precedent
for Chapman's application of this name--which in the Book of Job denotes
the whale or hippopotamus--to the chief of the powers of darkness.

=104=, 55. =Asaroth.= Apparently a variant of _Ashtaroth_, the plural of
_Ashtoreth,_ the Phoenician moon-goddess; here mistakenly used for the
name of a male spirit.

=104.= =Cartophylax.= A post-classical Greek term for "guardian of

=106=, 97. =great in our command:= powerful in exercising command over

=107-109=, 113-51. =There is . . . his soule.= The dialogue and action
here take place probably at the back of the stage, perhaps on the upper
stage, of which use is made in _The Tempest_, the _Spanish Tragedie_,
and other plays. The characters (as is evident from ll. 102-104) are
supposed to be far off, but rendered visible and audible to Tamyra and
D'Ambois by Behemoth's power.

=107=, 113. =a glasse of ink:= a mirror made of ink, i. e. the paper
with the proofs of Tamyra's unfaithfulness.

=107=, 116. =fames sepulchres:= the foulness beneath which her good name
is buried.

=107=, 120-21. =were . . . rarely:= were it never so uncommon, bear it
with as unexampled courage.

=109=, 156. =In her forc'd bloud.= Dilke is followed in the substitution
of _her_ for _his_. The allusion is evidently to the letter that Tamyra
afterwards writes to D'Ambois in her own blood. Cf. V, 1, 176-77.

=110=, 169-70. =Lest . . . abuse:= lest a furious outburst due to your
foreknowledge of the plot against us.

=111=, 185. =And . . . policy:= and the Monsieur's stratagems shall be
taken in the flank by my own.

=111=, 186. =Center.= Here and in l. 192 this word, though strictly
meaning the central point of the earth, seems used for the earth itself,
as the centre of the universe. For this use cf. Shaks. _Tro. and Cress._
I, 3, 85-86.

     "The heavens themselves, the planets, and this center
     Observe degree, priority, and place."

=111=, 191. =calme . . . ruine:= unsuspecting tranquillity previous to a
convulsion of the elements.

=113=, 17-18. =The stony . . . sleeper.= The thunderstone, or
thunderbolt, was supposed to have no power of harming any one who was
asleep, or who wore laurel leaves. Leigh, in his _Observations on the
First Twelve Cæsars_ (1647), p. 43, says of Tiberius that "he feared
thunder exceedingly, and when the aire or weather was any thing
troubled, he even carried a chaplet or wreath of laurell about his neck,
because that as (Pliny reporteth) is never blasted with lightning."

=114=, 50. =determinate:= apparently used in the sense of _final_,
though the sense is rare, except as qualifying a word which implies
previous deliberation.

=115=, 55-56. =preventing . . . death:= anticipating the last blast that
is to kill those who live, and to give life anew to the dead.

=115=, 64. =Fame growes in going.= Borrowed from the _Æneid_, IV,
173-75, _Fama . . . viresque acquirit eundo._

=115=, 67-68. =come . . . lust.= The _syren_ is Tamyra; her song the
letter she is to write to her lover (cf. l. 75); Montsurry; band of
murderers the fatal _rocks_; and the _ruffin gally_, D'Ambois.

=115=, 69-71. =the nets . . . danc'd.= There is a play here upon _nets_
in the sense of wiles, and in its usual signification. To "dance," or
"march," or "hide" in a net was to delude oneself that one was acting
secretly (cf. _Henry V_, I, 4, 173, and _Span. Trag._ IV, 4, 118).

=116=, 84. =for all:= in spite of all.

=116=, 86. =their= should be, in grammatical sequence, "her," referring
to "a womans" in 83.

=116=, 91. =nor in humane consort:= nor do they find human fellowship.
The metaphor of the _wildernesse_ is still being carried on.

=118=, 128-30. =Where . . . cruelty:= in the same quarter [i. e. your
person] where all these bonds have been violated, they are preserved by
the infliction of just punishment, with some exhibition of the same
quintessence of cruelty that you have shown me.

=118=, 142. =Thus I expresse thee yet:= thus I give a further stroke to
my delineation of thee.

=118=, 143. =thy . . . yet:= the image of thy unnatural depravity is not
yet fully completed.

=118=, 145. =This other engine:= the rack, on which Montsurry's servants
place Tamyra. Cf. l. 157, "O let me downe, my lord."

=119=, 151-52. =O who . . . None but my lord and husband.= Tamyra thinks
that some evil spirit has taken her husband's shape, and cries to
Montsurry to appear and deliver her.

=119=, 161. =Now . . . stands still.= This statement of the leading
principle of the Copernican system, as a mere rhetorical paradox, is

=119-120=, 163-72. =The too huge . . . with hypocrisie.= In this curious
passage the earth is conceived of as a recumbent figure, which usually
lies face upwards to the sky. But the weight of her sins has caused her
to roll over, so that her back part now _braves_ heaven, while her face
is turned to the Antipodes; and all the deceitful appearances which she
has adopted through her cheating arts have come out in their true nature
on her back, so that her hypocrisy stands revealed.

=120=, 178. =he:= the Friar.

=120=, 181. =his.= We should expect a repetition of _her_ in l. 180.
_His_, however seems to be equivalent to _man's_, anticipating _man_ in
l. 182. Possibly we should read _this_.

=121=, 191. =In, Ile after.= These words are addressed to the body of
the Friar.

=122=, 20. =with terror:= inspiring terror in their enemies.

=123=, 28. =And . . . man:= And consider it, though left headless, as a
completely formed man.

=123=, 36. =vertuous treasurie:= stock of virtues.

=124=, 46-53. =Not so . . . mens hate.= An adaptation of Seneca's
_Agamemnon_, 64-72:

     _Non sic Libycis Syrtibus æquor
     Furit alternos volvere fluctus,
     Non Euxini turget ab imis
     Commota vadis unda, nivali
     Vicina polo;
     Ubi, cæruleis immunis aquis,
     Lucida versat plaustra Bootes,
     Ut praecipites regum casus
     Fortuna rotat._

These lines, with those immediately before and after, are more loosely
adapted in Kyd's _Spanish Tragedie_, III, 1, 1-11.

=126=, 23. =this embodied shadow:= this spirit while it had bodily form.

=126=, 24-27. =With reminiscion . . . of art.= Cf. IV, 2, 158-61.

=127=, 41-53. =Terror of darknesse . . . greater light.= After Bussy's
statement in ll. 29-32 we should expect him to immediately summon _the
Prince of darknesse_, Behemoth. But ll. 41-46 are apparently addressed
to the sun-god, who is invoked to put to flight night and mystery. Then
as an alternative, in ll. 47-53, Behemoth, to whom darkness is as light,
is bidden appear. Dilke substitutes _oh_ for _or_ (the reading of all
Qq) at the beginning of l. 47. If this change be right, the invocation
commences at this line, and ll. 41-46 are merely a preliminary
rhetorical appeal for more illumination. But in this case there is an
incongruity between such an appeal and the summoning of the _Prince of
shades_, who sees best where darkness is thickest. Lamb in his
_Specimens_ retains the reading of the Qq, and says of the passage:
"This calling upon Light and Darkness for information, but, above all,
the description of the spirit--'threw his changed countenance headlong
into clouds'--is tremendous, to the curdling of the blood. I know
nothing in poetry like it."

=130=, 103. =all the signes:= i. e. of the Zodiac.

=131.= =Intrat Umbra Frier . . . Tamyra.= The Ghost of the Friar enters
and _discovers_, i. e. _reveals to view_, Tamyra, who since the close of
V, 1, has remained wrapped _in the arras_, or, as the variant stage
direction in A here puts it, _wrapt in a canapie_.

=131=, 9. =before he be revenged:= before vengeance is taken on him. The
reading of A, _engaged_, is perhaps (as Dilke suggests) preferable.

=133=, 27-28. =what . . . D'Amboys:= what bugbear, such as this, is not
afraid to visit D'Amboys, even in his sleep?

=134=, 45. =Will . . . here?= D'Ambois's sword fails to pierce the
_privy coat_ worn by the murderer. Cf. V, 2, 57.

=134=, 52. =That . . . resembled:= That was a successful artifice, and a
skilful impersonation.

=135=, 65. =enforce the spot:= emphasize the stain on your honour.

=136=, 82. =Then . . . fact:= then these teachers of divinity deal with
figments, not with realities.

=136=, 83-84. =Man . . . servant:= Man consists of two attached friends,
the body and the mind, of which the latter is swayed by the former, as a
lover by his mistress.

=136=, 90-93. =And if Vespasian . . . groomes.= Cf. Suetonius, _Life of
Vespasian_, Ch. 24. _Hic, quum super urgentem valetudinem creberrimo
frigidæ aquæ usu etiam intestina vitiasset, nec eo minus muneribus
imperatoriis ex consuetudine fungeretur, ut etiam legationes audiret
cubans, alvo repente usque ad defectionem soluta, Imperatorem, ait,
stantem mori oportere. Dumque consurgit, ac nititur, inter manus
sublevantium exstinctus est._

=137=, 100-108. =And haste . . . dwellers.= An adaptation of Seneca,
_Her. Oet._ 1518-1526:

     _O decus mundi, radiate Titan,
     Cujus ad primos Hecate vapores
     Lassa nocturnæ levat ora bigæ,
     Dic sub Aurora positis Sabæis,
     Dic sub Occasu positis Iberis,
     Quique ferventi quatiuntur axe,
     Quique sub plaustro patiuntur Ursæ;
     Dic ad æternos, properare Manes

=137=, 110-111. =may . . . funerall:= may celebrate fittingly my
unworthy end with such a funeral volley as it deserves.

=138=, 135-40. =My sunne . . . bloud.= In these lines the _killing
spectacle_, the _prodigie_, of l. 134, and its effect are described.
Tamyra, the light of D'Ambois's life, with her reddened bosom and hands,
is likened to a sun whose beams have turned to blood. So far the imagery
is clear, but it is difficult to extract a satisfactory sense from what
follows. What do _Pindus and Ossa_ symbolize, and what exactly does
their _melting_ mean? This seems one of the few passages in the play
which really deserve Dryden's stricture for "looseness of expression and
gross hyperboles."

=139=, 146. =struck.= The Qq, and all editors, read _stuck_, but the
word seems inapplicable to a thunderbolt. The editor has conjectured
_struck_, which, with a minimum of change, gives the sense required.

=139=, 149 =Joine flames with Hercules.= Here the quartos of 1607 and
1608 contain the right reading. D'Ambois, who has met death in the
spirit of Hercules (cf. ll. 100-108), is now to share his translation to
the skies. For the description of Hercules as a star see Seneca, _Her.
Oet._ 1564-1581.

=142=, 211-14 =as . . . dies.= The reference is to the wax in the taper,
which retains in its _savour_ the mark of its origin in the hive, till
transient as life, it glances with the eye of a flame, and, so doing,


_The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_ was printed in quarto in 1613 by T. S.
for John Helme. No reprint appeared till 1873, when it was included in
the edition of Chapman's Tragedies and Comedies published by J. Pearson.
The text of the quarto was reproduced, with the original spelling and
punctuation, but with a few errors. There have been two later editions
in modernized spelling, and with slight emendations, by R. H. Shepherd
in 1874, and W. L. Phelps in 1895.

In the present edition the text of the quarto has been reproduced, with
some additional emendations, and the original spelling has been
retained. As regards punctuation, the use of capital letters and
italics, and the division of the Acts into Scenes, the same methods have
been followed as in the case of _Bussy D'Ambois_.

_Bussy D'Ambois_.


_As it hath beene often presented at the
priuate Play-house in the White Fryers._




Printed by _T. S._ and are to be solde by IOHN HELME,
      at his Shop in S. Dunstones Church-Yard,
              in _Fleetstreet_. 1613.


The story of a plot by Bussy D'Ambois's kinsfolk to avenge his murder
is, in the main, of Chapman's own invention. But he had evidently read
an account similar to that given later by De Thou of the design
entertained for a time by Bussy's sister Renée (whom Chapman calls
Charlotte) and her husband, Baligny, to take vengeance on Montsurry.
Clermont D'Ambois is himself a fictitious character, but the episodes in
which he appears in Acts II-IV are drawn from the account of the
treacherous proceedings against the Count d'Auvergne in Edward
Grimeston's translation of Jean de Serres's _Inventaire Général de
l'Histoire de France_. This narrative, however, is not by De Serres, but
by Pierre Matthieu, whose _Histoire de France_ was one of the sources
used by Grimeston for events later than 1598.

The portraiture of Clermont throughout the play as the high-souled
philosopher is inspired by Epictetus's delineation in his _Discourses_
of the ideal Stoic. But in his reluctance to carry out his duty of
revenge he is evidently modelled upon Hamlet. In Act V, Scene i, the
influence of Shakespeare's tragedy is specially manifest.

The Scenes in Act V relating to the assassination of Guise are based
upon Grimeston's translation of De Serres's _Inventaire Général_.

The passages in Grimeston's volume which recount the Duke's murder, and
those which tell the story of the Count d'Auvergne, are reprinted as an

The frontispiece to this volume, the Château of La Coutancière, at which
Bussy D'Ambois was killed, is reproduced from an illustration in A.
Joubert's _Louis de Clermont_.



truely Noble Knight, Sr.

_Thomas Howard, &c._


Since workes of this kinde have beene lately esteemed
worthy the patronage of some of our worthiest
Nobles, I have made no doubt to preferre this of mine
to your undoubted vertue and exceeding true noblesse,
as contayning matter no lesse deserving your reading,                  5
and excitation to heroycall life, then any such late dedication.
Nor have the greatest Princes of Italie and other
countries conceived it any least diminution to their greatnesse
to have their names wing'd with these tragicke
plumes, and disperst by way of patronage through the                  10
most noble notices of Europe.

Howsoever, therefore, in the scænicall presentation it
might meete with some maligners, yet, considering even
therein it past with approbation of more worthy judgements,
the ballance of their side (especially being held                     15
by your impartiall hand) I hope will to no graine abide
the out-weighing. And for the autenticall truth of eyther
person or action, who (worth the respecting) will expect
it in a poeme, whose subject is not truth, but things like
truth? Poore envious soules they are that cavill at truths            20
want in these naturall fictions: materiall instruction, elegant
and sententious excitation to vertue, and deflection
from her contrary, being the soule, lims, and limits of an
autenticall tragedie. But whatsoever merit of your full
countenance and favour suffers defect in this, I shall soone          25
supply with some other of more generall account; wherein
your right vertuous name made famous and preserved to
posteritie, your future comfort and honour in your present
acceptation and love of all vertuous and divine expression
may be so much past others of your rancke encreast, as                30
they are short of your judiciall ingenuitie, in their due

For howsoever those ignoble and sowre-brow'd
worldlings are carelesse of whatsoever future or present
opinion spreads of them; yet (with the most divine                    35
philosopher, if Scripture did not confirme it) I make it
matter of my faith, that we truely retaine an intellectuall
feeling of good or bad after this life, proportionably
answerable to the love or neglect we beare here to all
vertue and truely-humane instruction: in whose favour                 40
and honour I wish you most eminent, and rest ever,

                              _Your true vertues
                                 most true observer,
                                       Geo. Chapman_.


  _Henry_, the King.
  _Monsieur_, his Brother.
  _Guise_, D[uke].
  _Renel_, a Marquesse.
  _Montsureau_, an Earle.
  _Baligny_, Lord Lieutenant [of Cambray].
  _Clermont D'Ambois._
  _Maillard._ }
  _Challon._  } Captaines.
  _Aumal._    }
  _Perricot_, [An _Usher_.]
  [A _Messenger._]
  The _Guard._

                  { _Bussy_.
                  { _Monsieur_.
  The ghost[s] of { _Guise_.
                  { _Card. Guise_.
                  { _Shattilion_.

  _Countesse_ of Cambray.
  _Tamyra_, wife to Montsureau.
  _Charlotte [D'Ambois]_, wife to Baligny.
  _Riova_, a Servant [to the Countesse].

[SCENE: _Paris, and in or near Cambrai_.]

The Revenge
Bussy D'Ambois



  _A Room at the Court in Paris._]

          _Enter Baligny, Renel._

  _Baligny._ To what will this declining kingdome turne,
  Swindging in every license, as in this
  Stupide permission of brave D'Ambois Murther?
  Murther made paralell with Law! Murther us'd
  To serve the kingdome, given by sute to men                          5
  For their advancement! suffered scarcrow-like
  To fright adulterie! what will policie
  At length bring under his capacitie?

  _Renel._ All things; for as, when the high births of Kings,
  Deliverances, and coronations,                                      10
  We celebrate with all the cities bels
  Jangling together in untun'd confusion,
  All order'd clockes are tyed up; so, when glory,
  Flatterie, and smooth applauses of things ill,
  Uphold th'inordinate swindge of downe-right power,                  15
  Justice, and truth that tell the bounded use,
  Vertuous and well distinguisht formes of time,
  Are gag'd and tongue-tide. But wee have observ'd
  Rule in more regular motion: things most lawfull
  Were once most royall; Kings sought common good,                    20
  Mens manly liberties, though ne'er so meane,
  And had their owne swindge so more free, and more.
  But when pride enter'd them, and rule by power,
  All browes that smil'd beneath them, frown'd; hearts griev'd
  By imitation; vertue quite was vanisht,                             25
  And all men studi'd selfe-love, fraud, and vice.
  Then no man could be good but he was punisht.
  Tyrants, being still more fearefull of the good
  Then of the bad, their subjects vertues ever
  Manag'd with curbs and dangers, and esteem'd                        30
  As shadowes and detractions to their owne.

  _Bal._ Now all is peace, no danger, now what followes?
  Idlenesse rusts us, since no vertuous labour
  Ends ought rewarded; ease, securitie,
  Now all the palme weares. Wee made warre before                     35
  So to prevent warre; men with giving gifts,
  More then receiving, made our countrey strong;
  Our matchlesse race of souldiers then would spend
  In publike warres, not private brawles, their spirits;
  In daring enemies, arm'd with meanest armes,                        40
  Not courting strumpets, and consuming birth-rights
  In apishnesse and envy of attire.
  No labour then was harsh, no way so deepe,
  No rocke so steepe, but if a bird could scale it,
  Up would our youth flie to. A foe in armes                          45
  Stirr'd up a much more lust of his encounter
  Then of a mistresse never so be-painted.
  Ambition then was onely scaling walles,
  And over-topping turrets; fame was wealth;
  Best parts, best deedes, were best nobilitie;                       50
  Honour with worth, and wealth well got or none.
  Countries we wonne with as few men as countries:
  Vertue subdu'd all.

  _Ren._              Just: and then our nobles
  Lov'd vertue so, they prais'd and us'd it to;
  Had rather doe then say; their owne deedes hearing                  55
  By others glorified, then be so barraine
  That their parts onely stood in praising others.

  _Bal._ Who could not doe, yet prais'd, and envi'd not;
  Civile behaviour flourisht; bountie flow'd;
  Avarice to upland boores, slaves, hang-men banisht.                 60

  _Ren._ Tis now quite otherwise. But to note the cause
  Of all these foule digressions and revolts
  From our first natures, this tis in a word:
  Since good arts faile, crafts and deceits are us'd:
  Men ignorant are idle; idle men                                     65
  Most practise what they most may doe with ease,
  Fashion and favour; all their studies ayming
  At getting money, which no wise man ever
  Fed his desires with.

  _Bal._                Yet now none are wise
  That thinke not heavens true foolish, weigh'd with that.            70
  Well, thou most worthy to be greatest Guise,
  Make with thy greatnesse a new world arise.
  Such deprest nobles (followers of his)
  As you, my selfe, my lord, will finde a time
  When to revenge your wrongs.

  _Ren._                       I make no doubt:                       75
  In meane time, I could wish the wrong were righted
  Of your slaine brother in law, brave Bussy D'Ambois.

  _Bal._ That one accident was made my charge.
  My brother Bussy's sister (now my wife)
  By no suite would consent to satisfie                               80
  My love of her with marriage, till I vow'd
  To use my utmost to revenge my brother:
  But Clermont D'Ambois (Bussy's second brother)
  Had, since, his apparition, and excitement
  To suffer none but his hand in his wreake;                          85
  Which hee hath vow'd, and so will needes acquite
  Me of my vow made to my wife, his sister,
  And undertake himselfe Bussy's revenge.
  Yet loathing any way to give it act,
  But in the noblest and most manly course,                           90
  If th'Earle dares take it, he resolves to send
  A challenge to him, and my selfe must beare it;
  To which deliverie I can use no meanes,
  He is so barricado'd in his house,
  And arm'd with guard still.

  _Ren._                      That meanes lay on mee,                 95
  Which I can strangely make. My last lands sale,
  By his great suite, stands now on price with him,
  And hee (as you know) passing covetous,
  With that blinde greedinesse that followes gaine,
  Will cast no danger where her sweete feete tread.                  100
  Besides, you know, his lady, by his suite
  (Wooing as freshly as when first love shot
  His faultlesse arrowes from her rosie eyes)
  Now lives with him againe, and shee, I know,
  Will joyne with all helps in her friends revenge.                  105

  _Bal._ No doubt, my lord, and therefore let me pray you
  To use all speede; for so on needels points
  My wifes heart stands with haste of the revenge,
  Being (as you know) full of her brothers fire,
  That shee imagines I neglect my vow;                               110
  Keepes off her kinde embraces, and still askes,
  "When, when, will this revenge come? when perform'd
  Will this dull vow be?" And, I vow to heaven,
  So sternely, and so past her sexe she urges
  My vowes performance, that I almost feare                          115
  To see her, when I have a while beene absent,
  Not showing her, before I speake, the bloud
  She so much thirsts for, freckling hands and face.

  _Ren._ Get you the challenge writ, and looke from me
  To heare your passage clear'd no long time after.
                                                    _Exit Ren[el]._  120

  _Bal._ All restitution to your worthiest lordship!
  Whose errand I must carrie to the King,
  As having sworne my service in the search
  Of all such malecontents and their designes,
  By seeming one affected with their faction                         125
  And discontented humours gainst the state:
  Nor doth my brother Clermont scape my counsaile
  Given to the King about his Guisean greatnesse,
  Which (as I spice it) hath possest the King,
  Knowing his daring spirit, of much danger                          130
  Charg'd in it to his person; though my conscience
  Dare sweare him cleare of any power to be
  Infected with the least dishonestie:
  Yet that sinceritie, wee politicians
  Must say, growes out of envie since it cannot                      135
  Aspire to policies greatnesse; and the more
  We worke on all respects of kinde and vertue,
  The more our service to the King seemes great,
  In sparing no good that seemes bad to him:
  And the more bad we make the most of good,                         140
  The more our policie searcheth, and our service
  Is wonder'd at for wisedome and sincerenesse.
  Tis easie to make good suspected still,
  Where good, and God, are made but cloakes for ill.

[Sidenote: _Enter Henry, Monsieur, Guise, Clerm[ont], Espernone,
Soisson. Monsieur taking leave of the King._]

  See Monsieur taking now his leave for Brabant;                     145
  The Guise & his deare minion, Clermont D'Ambois,
  Whispering together, not of state affaires,
  I durst lay wagers, (though the Guise be now
  In chiefe heate of his faction) but of some thing
  Savouring of that which all men else despise,                      150
  How to be truely noble, truely wise.

  _Monsieur._ See how hee hangs upon the eare of Guise,
  Like to his jewell!

  _Epernon._          Hee's now whisp'ring in
  Some doctrine of stabilitie and freedome,
  Contempt of outward greatnesse, and the guises                     155
  That vulgar great ones make their pride and zeale,
  Being onely servile traines, and sumptuous houses,
  High places, offices.

  _Mons._               Contempt of these
  Does he read to the Guise? Tis passing needfull,
  And hee, I thinke, makes show t'affect his doctrine.               160

  _Ep._ Commends, admires it--

  _Mons._                      And pursues another.
  Tis fine hypocrisie, and cheape, and vulgar,
  Knowne for a covert practise, yet beleev'd
  By those abus'd soules that they teach and governe
  No more then wives adulteries by their husbands,                   165
  They bearing it with so unmov'd aspects,
  Hot comming from it, as twere not [at] all,
  Or made by custome nothing. This same D'Ambois
  Hath gotten such opinion of his vertues,
  Holding all learning but an art to live well,                      170
  And showing hee hath learn'd it in his life,
  Being thereby strong in his perswading others,
  That this ambitious Guise, embracing him,
  Is thought t'embrace his vertues.

  _Ep._                             Yet in some
  His vertues are held false for th'others vices:                    175
  For tis more cunning held, and much more common,
  To suspect truth then falshood: and of both
  Truth still fares worse, as hardly being beleev'd,
  As tis unusuall and rarely knowne.

  _Mons._ Ile part engendring vertue. Men affirme,                   180
  Though this same Clermont hath a D'Ambois spirit,
  And breathes his brothers valour, yet his temper
  Is so much past his that you cannot move him:
  Ile try that temper in him.--Come, you two
  Devoure each other with your vertues zeale,                        185
  And leave for other friends no fragment of yee:
  I wonder, Guise, you will thus ravish him
  Out of my bosome, that first gave the life
  His manhood breathes spirit, and meanes, and luster.
  What doe men thinke of me, I pray thee, Clermont?                  190
  Once give me leave (for tryall of that love
  That from thy brother Bussy thou inherit'st)
  T'unclaspe thy bosome.

  _Clermont._            As how, sir?

  _Mons._ Be a true glasse to mee, in which I may
  Behold what thoughts the many-headed beast                         195
  And thou thy selfe breathes out concerning me,
  My ends and new upstarted state in Brabant,
  For which I now am bound, my higher aymes
  Imagin'd here in France: speake, man, and let
  Thy words be borne as naked as thy thoughts.                       200
  O were brave Bussy living!

  _Cler._                    Living, my lord!

  _Mons._ Tis true thou art his brother, but durst thou
  Have brav'd the Guise; mauger his presence, courted
  His wedded lady; emptied even the dregs
  Of his worst thoughts of mee even to my teeth;                     205
  Discern'd not me, his rising soveraigne,
  From any common groome, but let me heare
  My grossest faults, as grosse-full as they were?
  Durst thou doe this?

  _Cler._              I cannot tell. A man
  Does never know the goodnesse of his stomacke                      210
  Till hee sees meate before him. Were I dar'd,
  Perhaps, as he was, I durst doe like him.

  _Mons._ Dare then to poure out here thy freest soule
  Of what I am.

  _Cler._       Tis stale, he tolde you it.

  _Mons._ He onely jested, spake of splene and envie;                215
  Thy soule, more learn'd, is more ingenuous,
  Searching, judiciall; let me then from thee
  Heare what I am.

  _Cler._          What but the sole support,
  And most expectant hope of all our France,
  The toward victor of the whole Low Countryes?                      220

  _Mons._ Tush, thou wilt sing encomions of my praise!
  Is this like D'Ambois? I must vexe the Guise,
  Or never looke to heare free truth. Tell me,
  For Bussy lives not; hee durst anger mee,
  Yet, for my love, would not have fear'd to anger                   225
  The King himselfe. Thou understand'st me, dost not?

  _Cler._ I shall my lord, with studie.

  _Mons._ Dost understand thy selfe? I pray thee tell me,
  Dost never search thy thoughts, what my designe
  Might be to entertaine thee and thy brother?                       230
  What turne I meant to serve with you?

  _Cler._ Even what you please to thinke.

  _Mons._                                 But what thinkst thou?
  Had I no end in't, think'st?

  _Cler._                      I thinke you had.

  _Mons._ When I tooke in such two as you two were,
  A ragged couple of decaid commanders,                              235
  When a French-crowne would plentifully serve
  To buy you both to any thing i'th'earth--

  _Cler._ So it would you.

  _Mons._                  Nay bought you both out-right,
  You and your trunkes--I feare me, I offend thee.

  _Cler._ No, not a jot.

  _Mons._                The most renowmed souldier,                 240
  Epaminondas (as good authors say)
  Had no more suites then backes, but you two shar'd
  But one suite twixt you both, when both your studies
  Were not what meate to dine with, if your partridge,
  Your snipe, your wood-cocke, larke, or your red hering,            245
  But where to begge it; whether at my house,
  Or at the Guises (for you know you were
  Ambitious beggars) or at some cookes-shop,
  T'eternize the cookes trust, and score it up.
  Dost not offend thee?

  _Cler._               No, sir. Pray proceede.                      250

  _Mons._ As for thy gentry, I dare boldly take
  Thy honourable othe: and yet some say
  Thou and thy most renowmed noble brother
  Came to the Court first in a keele of sea-coale.
  Dost not offend thee?

  _Cler._               Never doubt it, sir.                         255

  _Mons._ Why doe I love thee, then? Why have I rak'd thee
  Out of the dung-hill? cast my cast ward-robe on thee?
  Brought thee to Court to, as I did thy brother?
  Made yee my sawcy bon companions?
  Taught yee to call our greatest Noblemen                           260
  By the corruption of their names--Jack, Tom?
  Have I blowne both for nothing to this bubble?
  Though thou art learn'd, thast no enchanting wit;
  Or, were thy wit good, am I therefore bound
  To keepe thee for my table?

  _Cler._                     Well, sir, 'twere                      265
  A good knights place. Many a proud dubb'd gallant
  Seekes out a poore knights living from such emrods.

  [_Mons._] Or what use else should I designe thee to?
  Perhaps you'll answere me--to be my pander.

  _Cler._ Perhaps I shall.

  _Mons._                  Or did the slie Guise put thee            270
  Into my bosome t'undermine my projects?
  I feare thee not; for, though I be not sure
  I have thy heart, I know thy braine-pan yet
  To be as emptie a dull piece of wainscot
  As ever arm'd the scalpe of any courtier;                          275
  A fellow onely that consists of sinewes;
  Meere Swisser, apt for any execution.

  _Cler._ But killing of the King!

  _Mons._                          Right: now I see
  Thou understand'st thy selfe.

  _Cler._                       I, and you better.
  You are a Kings sonne borne.

  _Mons._                      Right.

  _Cler._                             And a Kings brother.           280

  _Mons._ True.

  _Cler._ And might not any foole have beene so too,
  As well as you?

  _Mons._ A poxe upon you!

  _Cler._                  You did no princely deedes
  Ere you were borne (I take it) to deserve it;                      285
  Nor did you any since that I have heard;
  Nor will doe ever any, as all thinke.

  _Mons._ The Divell take him! Ile no more of him.

  _Guise._ Nay: stay, my lord, and heare him answere you.

  _Mons._ No more, I sweare. Farewell.
                     _Ex[eunt] Mons[ieur], Esper[none], Soiss[on]._

  _Gui._                               No more! Ill fortune!         290
  I would have given a million to have heard
  His scoffes retorted, and the insolence
  Of his high birth and greatnesse (which were never
  Effects of his deserts, but of his fortune)
  Made show to his dull eyes beneath the worth                       295
  That men aspire to by their knowing vertues,
  Without which greatnesse is a shade, a bubble.

  _Cler._ But what one great man dreames of that but you?
  All take their births and birth-rights left to them
  (Acquir'd by others) for their owne worths purchase,               300
  When many a foole in both is great as they:
  And who would thinke they could winne with their worths
  Wealthy possessions, when, wonne to their hands,
  They neyther can judge justly of their value,
  Nor know their use? and therefore they are puft                    305
  With such proud tumours as this Monsieur is,
  Enabled onely by the goods they have
  To scorne all goodnesse: none great fill their fortunes;
  But as those men that make their houses greater,
  Their housholds being lesse, so Fortune raises                     310
  Huge heapes of out-side in these mightie men,
  And gives them nothing in them.

  _Gui._                          True as truth:
  And therefore they had rather drowne their substance
  In superfluities of brickes and stones
  (Like Sysiphus, advancing of them ever,                            315
  And ever pulling downe) then lay the cost
  Of any sluttish corner on a man,
  Built with Gods finger, and enstil'd his temple.

  _Bal._ Tis nobly said, my lord.

  _Gui._                          I would have these things
  Brought upon stages, to let mightie misers                         320
  See all their grave and serious miseries plaid,
  As once they were in Athens and olde Rome.

  _Cler._ Nay, we must now have nothing brought on stages,
  But puppetry, and pide ridiculous antickes:
  Men thither come to laugh, and feede fool-fat,                     325
  Checke at all goodnesse there, as being prophan'd:
  When, wheresoever goodnesse comes, shee makes
  The place still sacred, though with other feete
  Never so much tis scandal'd and polluted.
  Let me learne anything that fits a man,                            330
  In any stables showne, as well as stages.

  _Bal._ Why, is not all the world esteem'd a stage?

  _Cler._ Yes, and right worthily; and stages too
  Have a respect due to them, if but onely
  For what the good Greeke moralist sayes of them:                   335
  "Is a man proud of greatnesse, or of riches?
  Give me an expert actor, Ile shew all,
  That can within his greatest glory fall.
  Is a man fraid with povertie and lownesse?
  Give me an actor, Ile shew every eye                               340
  What hee laments so, and so much doth flye,
  The best and worst of both." If but for this then,
  To make the proudest out-side that most swels
  With things without him, and above his worth,
  See how small cause hee has to be so blowne up;                    345
  And the most poore man, to be griev'd with poorenesse,
  Both being so easily borne by expert actors,
  The stage and actors are not so contemptfull
  As every innovating Puritane,
  And ignorant sweater out of zealous envie                          350
  Would have the world imagine. And besides
  That all things have been likened to the mirth
  Us'd upon stages, and for stages fitted,
  The splenative philosopher, that ever
  Laught at them all, were worthy the enstaging.                     355
  All objects, were they ne'er so full of teares,
  He so conceited that he could distill thence
  Matter that still fed his ridiculous humour.
  Heard he a lawyer, never so vehement pleading,
  Hee stood and laught. Heard hee a trades-man swearing,             360
  Never so thriftily selling of his wares,
  He stood and laught. Heard hee an holy brother,
  For hollow ostentation, at his prayers
  Ne'er so impetuously, hee stood and laught.
  Saw hee a great man never so insulting,                            365
  Severely inflicting, gravely giving lawes,
  Not for their good, but his, hee stood and laught.
  Saw hee a youthfull widow
  Never so weeping, wringing of her hands
  For her lost lord, still the philosopher laught.                   370
  Now whether hee suppos'd all these presentments
  Were onely maskeries, and wore false faces,
  Or else were simply vaine, I take no care;
  But still hee laught, how grave soere they were.

  _Gui._ And might right well, my Clermont; and for this             375
  Vertuous digression we will thanke the scoffes
  Of vicious Monsieur. But now for the maine point
  Of your late resolution for revenge
  Of your slaine friend.

  _Cler._                 I have here my challenge,
  Which I will pray my brother Baligny                               380
  To beare the murtherous Earle.

  _Bal._                         I have prepar'd
  Meanes for accesse to him, through all his guard.

  _Gui._ About it then, my worthy Baligny,
  And bring us the successe.

  _Bal._                     I will, my lord.             _Exeunt._


              _Enter Henry . . . King_. Placed by editor after 144
              instead of 145, as in Q. _Soisson_. Ed.; Q, Foisson.

         167  _at_. Added by ed.

         174  _t'embrace_. Ed.; Q, t'mbrace.

         260  _Noblemen_. Two words in Q.

         268  _Mons_. Q omits; added in MS. in one of the copies
              in the Brit. Mus.

     278-284  The lines are broken in the Q at _King_, _see_,
              _selfe_, _better_, _Right_, _True_, _too_, _upon
              you_, _deedes_.

         285  _you were_. Shepherd, Phelps; Q, you're.

         335  _moralist_. Shepherd, Phelps; Q, Moralists.

      359-61  _Heard . . . wares_. So punctuated by ed.; Q, Heard
              hee a trades-man swearing | Never so thriftily
              (selling of his wares).


  _A Room in Montsurry's house._]

          _Tamyra sola._

  _Tamyra._ Revenge, that ever red sitt'st in the eyes
  Of injur'd ladies, till we crowne thy browes
  With bloudy lawrell, and receive from thee
  Justice for all our honours injurie;
  Whose wings none flye that wrath or tyrannie                         5
  Have ruthlesse made and bloudy, enter here,
  Enter, O enter! and, though length of time
  Never lets any scape thy constant justice,
  Yet now prevent that length. Flye, flye, and here
  Fixe thy steele foot-steps; here, O here, where still               10
  Earth (mov'd with pittie) yeelded and embrac'd
  My loves faire figure, drawne in his deare bloud,
  And mark'd the place, to show thee where was done
  The cruell'st murther that ere fled the sunne.
  O Earth! why keep'st thou not as well his spirit,                   15
  To give his forme life? No, that was not earthly;
  That (rarefying the thinne and yeelding ayre)
  Flew sparkling up into the sphære of fire
  Whence endlesse flames it sheds in my desire.
  Here be my daily pallet; here all nights                            20
  That can be wrested from thy rivals armes,
  O my deare Bussy, I will lye, and kisse
  Spirit into thy bloud, or breathe out mine
  In sighes, and kisses, and sad tunes to thine.       _She sings._

          _Enter Montsurry._

  _Montsurry._ Still on this hant? Still shall adulterous bloud       25
  Affect thy spirits? Thinke, for shame, but this,
  This bloud, that cockatrice-like thus thou brood'st,
  To dry is to breede any quench to thine.
  And therefore now (if onely for thy lust
  A little cover'd with a vaile of shame)                             30
  Looke out for fresh life, rather then witch-like
  Learne to kisse horror, and with death engender.
  Strange crosse in nature, purest virgine shame
  Lies in the bloud as lust lyes; and together
  Many times mixe too; and in none more shamefull                     35
  Then in the shamefac't. Who can then distinguish
  Twixt their affections; or tell when hee meetes
  With one not common? Yet, as worthiest poets
  Shunne common and plebeian formes of speech,
  Every illiberall and affected phrase,                               40
  To clothe their matter, and together tye
  Matter and forme with art and decencie;
  So worthiest women should shunne vulgar guises,
  And though they cannot but flye out for change,
  Yet modestie, the matter of their lives,                            45
  Be it adulterate, should be painted true
  With modest out-parts; what they should doe still
  Grac'd with good show, though deedes be ne'er so ill.

  _Tamy._ That is so farre from all yee seeke of us
  That (though your selves be common as the ayre)                     50
  We must not take the ayre, wee must not fit
  Our actions to our owne affections:
  But as geometricians (you still say)
  Teach that no lines, nor superficies,
  Doe move themselves, but still accompanie                           55
  The motions of their bodies; so poore wives
  Must not pursue, nor have their owne affections,
  But to their husbands earnests, and their jests,
  To their austerities of lookes, and laughters,
  (Though ne'er so foolish and injurious)                             60
  Like parasites and slaves, fit their disposures.

  _Mont._ I usde thee as my soule, to move and rule me.

  _Tamy._ So said you, when you woo'd. So souldiers tortur'd
  With tedious sieges of some wel-wall'd towne,
  Propound conditions of most large contents,                         65
  Freedome of lawes, all former government;
  But having once set foote within the wals,
  And got the reynes of power into their hands,
  Then doe they tyrannize at their owne rude swindges,
  Seaze all their goods, their liberties, and lives,                  70
  And make advantage, and their lusts, their lawes.

  _Mont._ But love me, and performe a wifes part yet,
  With all my love before, I sweare forgivenesse.

  _Tamy._ Forgivenesse! that grace you should seeke of mee:
  These tortur'd fingers and these stab'd-through armes               75
  Keepe that law in their wounds yet unobserv'd,
  And ever shall.

  _Mont._         Remember their deserts.

  _Tam._ Those with faire warnings might have beene reform'd,
  Not these unmanly rages. You have heard
  The fiction of the north winde and the sunne,                       80
  Both working on a traveller, and contending
  Which had most power to take his cloake from him:
  Which when the winde attempted, hee roar'd out
  Outragious blasts at him to force it off,
  That wrapt it closer on: when the calme sunne                       85
  (The winde once leaving) charg'd him with still beames,
  Quiet and fervent, and therein was constant,
  Which made him cast off both his cloake and coate;
  Like whom should men doe. If yee wish your wives
  Should leave dislik'd things, seeke it not with rage,               90
  For that enrages; what yee give, yee have:
  But use calme warnings, and kinde manly meanes,
  And that in wives most prostitute will winne
  Not onely sure amends, but make us wives
  Better then those that ne'er led faultie lives.                     95

          _Enter a Souldier._

  _Soldier._ My lord.

  _Mont._             How now; would any speake with me?

  _Sold._ I, sir.

  _Mont._         Perverse, and traiterous miscreant!
  Where are your other fellowes of my guard?
  Have I not told you I will speake with none
  But Lord Renel?

  _Sold._         And it is hee that stayes you.                     100

  _Mont._ O, is it he? Tis well: attend him in.   [_Exit Soldier._]
  I must be vigilant; the Furies haunt mee.
  Doe you heare, dame?

          _Enter Renel, with the Souldier._

  _Renel [aside, to the Soldier]._ Be true now, for your ladies
      injur'd sake,
  Whose bountie you have so much cause to honour:                    105
  For her respect is chiefe in this designe,
  And therefore serve it; call out of the way
  All your confederate fellowes of his guard,
  Till Monsieur Baligny be enter'd here.

  _Sold._ Upon your honour, my lord shall be free                    110
  From any hurt, you say?

  _Ren._ Free as my selfe. Watch then, and cleare his entrie.

  _Sold._ I will not faile, my lord.               _Exit Souldier._

  _Ren._                             God save your lordship!

  _Mont._ My noblest Lord Renel! past all men welcome!
  Wife, welcome his lordship.                          _Osculatur._

  _Ren._ [_to Tam._] I much joy                                      115
  In your returne here.

  _Tamy._               You doe more then I.

  _Mont._ Shee's passionate still, to thinke we ever parted
  By my too sterne injurious jelousie.

  _Ren._ Tis well your lordship will confesse your errour
  In so good time yet.

          _Enter Baligny, with a challenge._

  _Mont._              Death! who have wee here?                     120
  Ho! Guard! Villaines!

  _Baligny._            Why exclaime you so?

  _Mont._ Negligent trayters! Murther, murther, murther!

  _Bal._ Y'are mad. Had mine entent beene so, like yours,
  It had beene done ere this.

  _Ren._                      Sir, your intent,
  And action too, was rude to enter thus.                            125

  _Bal._ Y'are a decaid lord to tell me of rudenesse,
  As much decaid in manners as in meanes.

  _Ren._ You talke of manners, that thus rudely thrust
  Upon a man that's busie with his wife!

  _Bal._ And kept your lordship then the dore?

  _Ren._                                       The dore!             130

  _Mont._ Sweet lord, forbeare. Show, show your purpose, sir,
  To move such bold feete into others roofes.

  _Bal._ This is my purpose, sir; from Clermont D'Ambois
  I bring this challenge.

  _Mont._                 Challenge! Ile touch none.

  _Bal._ Ile leave it here then.

  _Ren._                         Thou shall leave thy life first.    135

  _Mont._ Murther, murther!

  _Ren._                    Retire, my lord; get off.
              _They all fight and Bal[igny] drives in Mont[surry]._
  Hold, or thy death shall hold thee. Hence, my lord!

  _Bal._ There lye the chalenge.                _Exit Mon[tsurry]._

  _Ren._                         Was not this well handled?

  _Bal._ Nobly, my lord. All thankes.             _Exit Bal[igny]._

  _Tamy._                             Ile make him reade it.
                                                   _Exit Tamy[ra]._

  _Ren._ This was a sleight well maskt. O what is man,               140
  Unlesse he be a politician!                               _Exit._

          _Finis Actus primi._


           4  _honours_. Emended by Phelps; Q, humors.

              _Enter Montsurry._ Emended by all editors; Q,

          28  _dry_. Emended by all editors; Q, dye.

          52  _affections_. Q, affectons.

          62  _Mont._ Emended here, and in the stage-directions to
              the end of the Scene, by Shepherd, Phelps; Q, _Mons._

         100  _it is_. Ed.; Q, tis.

      115-16. Broken in Q at _lordship_, _here_, _I_.

         123  _Y'are_. Emended by Shepherd, Phelps; Q, Ye'are.

      134-36. Broken in Q at first _challenge_, _then_, _murther_,
              _get off_.


  [_A Room at the Court._]

          _Henry, Baligny._

  _Henry._ Come, Baligny, we now are private; say,
  What service bring'st thou? make it short; the Guise
  (Whose friend thou seem'st) is now in Court, and neare,
  And may observe us.

  _Baligny._          This, sir, then, in short.
  The faction of the Guise (with which my policie,                     5
  For service to your Highnesse, seemes to joyne)
  Growes ripe, and must be gather'd into hold;
  Of which my brother Clermont being a part
  Exceeding capitall, deserves to have
  A capitall eye on him. And (as you may                              10
  With best advantage, and your speediest charge)
  Command his apprehension: which (because
  The Court, you know, is strong in his defence)
  Wee must aske country swindge and open fields.
  And therefore I have wrought him to goe downe                       15
  To Cambray with me (of which government
  Your Highnesse bountie made mee your lieutenant),
  Where when I have him, I will leave my house,
  And faine some service out about the confines;
  When, in the meane time, if you please to give                      20
  Command to my lieutenant, by your letters,
  To traine him to some muster, where he may
  (Much to his honour) see for him your forces
  Put into battaile, when hee comes, hee may
  With some close stratageme be apprehended:                          25
  For otherwise your whole powers there will faile
  To worke his apprehension: and with that
  My hand needes never be discern'd therein.

  _Hen._ Thankes, honest Baligny.

  _Bal._                          Your Highnesse knowes
  I will be honest, and betray for you                                30
  Brother and father; for I know (my lord)
  Treacherie for Kings is truest loyaltie,
  Nor is to beare the name of treacherie,
  But grave, deepe policie. All acts that seeme
  Ill in particular respects are good                                 35
  As they respect your universal rule:
  As in the maine sway of the Universe
  The supreame Rectors generall decrees,
  To guard the mightie globes of earth and heaven,
  Since they make good that guard to preservation                     40
  Of both those in their order and first end,
  No mans particular (as hee thinkes) wrong
  Must hold him wrong'd; no, not though all mens reasons,
  All law, all conscience, concludes it wrong.
  Nor is comparison a flatterer                                       45
  To liken you here to the King of Kings;
  Nor any mans particular offence
  Against the worlds sway, to offence at yours
  In any subject; who as little may
  Grudge at their particular wrong, if so it seeme                    50
  For th'universall right of your estate,
  As, being a subject of the worlds whole sway
  As well as yours, and being a righteous man
  To whom heaven promises defence, and blessing,
  Brought to decay, disgrace, and quite defencelesse,                 55
  Hee may complaine of heaven for wrong to him.

  _Hen._ Tis true: the simile at all parts holds,
  As all good subjects hold, that love our favour.

  _Bal._ Which is our heaven here; and a miserie
  Incomparable, and most truely hellish,                              60
  To live depriv'd of our Kings grace and countenance,
  Without which best conditions are most cursed:
  Life of that nature, howsoever short,
  Is a most lingering and tedious life;
  Or rather no life, but a languishing,                               65
  And an abuse of life.

  _Hen._                Tis well conceited.

  _Bal._ I thought it not amisse to yeeld your Highness
  A reason of my speeches; lest perhaps
  You might conceive I flatter'd: which (I know)
  Of all ils under heaven you most abhorre.                           70

  _Hen._ Still thou art right, my vertuous Baligny,
  For which I thanke and love thee. Thy advise
  Ile not forget. Haste to thy government,
  And carry D'Ambois with thee. So farewell.                _Exit._

  _Bal._ Your Majestie fare ever like it selfe.                       75

          _Enter Guise._

  _Guise._ My sure friend Baligny!

  _Bal._                           Noblest of princes!

  _Gui._ How stands the state of Cambray?

  _Bal._                                  Strong, my lord,
  And fit for service: for whose readinesse
  Your creature, Clermont D'Ambois, and my selfe
  Ride shortly downe.

  _Gui._              That Clermont is my love;                       80
  France never bred a nobler gentleman
  For all parts; he exceeds his brother Bussy.

  _Bal._ I, my lord?

  _Gui._             Farre: because (besides his valour)
  Hee hath the crowne of man and all his parts,
  Which Learning is; and that so true and vertuous                    85
  That it gives power to doe as well as say
  What ever fits a most accomplisht man;
  Which Bussy, for his valours season, lackt;
  And so was rapt with outrage oftentimes
  Beyond decorum; where this absolute Clermont,                       90
  Though (onely for his naturall zeale to right)
  Hee will be fiery, when hee sees it crost,
  And in defence of it, yet when he lists
  Hee can containe that fire, as hid in embers.

  _Bal._ No question, hee's a true, learn'd gentleman.                95

  _Gui._ He is as true as tides, or any starre
  Is in his motion; and for his rare learning,
  Hee is not (as all else are that seeke knowledge)
  Of taste so much deprav'd that they had rather
  Delight and satisfie themselves to drinke                          100
  Of the streame troubled, wandring ne'er so farre
  From the cleare fount, then of the fount it selfe.
  In all, Romes Brutus is reviv'd in him,
  Whom hee of industry doth imitate;
  Or rather, as great Troys Euphorbus was                            105
  After Pithagoras, so is Brutus, Clermont.
  And, were not Brutus a conspirator--

  _Bal._ Conspirator, my lord! Doth that empaire him?
  Cæsar beganne to tyrannize; and when vertue,
  Nor the religion of the Gods, could serve                          110
  To curbe the insolence of his proud lawes,
  Brutus would be the Gods just instrument.
  What said the Princesse, sweet Antigone,
  In the grave Greeke tragedian, when the question
  Twixt her and Creon is for lawes of Kings?                         115
  Which when he urges, shee replies on him
  Though his lawes were a Kings, they were not Gods;
  Nor would shee value Creons written lawes
  With Gods unwrit edicts, since they last not
  This day and the next, but every day and ever,                     120
  Where Kings lawes alter every day and houre,
  And in that change imply a bounded power.

  _Gui._ Well, let us leave these vaine disputings what
  Is to be done, and fall to doing something.
  When are you for your government in Cambray?                       125

  _Bal._ When you command, my lord.

  _Gui._                            Nay, that's not fit.
  Continue your designements with the King,
  With all your service; onely, if I send,
  Respect me as your friend, and love my Clermont.

  _Bal._ Your Highnesse knowes my vowes.

  _Gui._                                  I, tis enough.             130
                                     _Exit Guise. Manet Bal[igny]._

[Sidenote: Ἀμήχανον δὲ παντὸς, &c.

_Impossible est viri cognoscere mentem ac voluntatem, priusquam in
Magistratibus apparet._

Sopho. _Antig._]

  _Bal._ Thus must wee play on both sides, and thus harten
  In any ill those men whose good wee hate.
  Kings may doe what they list, and for Kings, subjects,
  Eyther exempt from censure or exception;
  For, as no mans worth can be justly judg'd                         135
  But when he shines in some authoritie,
  So no authoritie should suffer censure
  But by a man of more authoritie.
  Great vessels into lesse are emptied never,
  There's a redoundance past their continent ever.                   140
  These _virtuosi_ are the poorest creatures;
  For looke how spinners weave out of themselves
  Webs, whose strange matter none before can see;
  So these, out of an unseene good in vertue,
  Make arguments of right and comfort in her,                        145
  That clothe them like the poore web of a spinner.

           _Enter Clermont._

  _Clermont._ Now, to my challenge. What's the place, the weapon?

  _Bal._ Soft, sir! let first your challenge be received.
  Hee would not touch, nor see it.

  _Cler._                          Possible!
  How did you then?

  _Bal._            Left it, in his despight.                        150
  But when hee saw mee enter so expectlesse,
  To heare his base exclaimes of "murther, murther,"
  Made mee thinke noblesse lost, in him quicke buried.

[Sidenote: _Quo mollius degunt, eo servilius._


  _Cler._ They are the breathing sepulchres of noblesse:
  No trulier noble men then lions pictures,                          155
  Hung up for signes, are lions. Who knowes not
  That lyons the more soft kept, are more servile?
  And looke how lyons close kept, fed by hand,
  Lose quite th'innative fire of spirit and greatnesse
  That lyons free breathe, forraging for prey,                       160
  And grow so grosse that mastifes, curs, and mungrils
  Have spirit to cow them: so our soft French Nobles
  Chain'd up in ease and numbd securitie
  (Their spirits shrunke up like their covetous fists,
  And never opened but Domitian-like,                                165
  And all his base, obsequious minions
  When they were catching though it were but flyes),
  Besotted with their pezzants love of gaine,
  Rusting at home, and on each other preying,
  Are for their greatnesse but the greater slaves,                   170
  And none is noble but who scrapes and saves.

  _Bal._ Tis base, tis base; and yet they thinke them high.

  _Cler._ So children mounted on their hobby-horse
  Thinke they are riding, when with wanton toile
  They beare what should beare them. A man may well                  175
  Compare them to those foolish great-spleen'd cammels,
  That to their high heads beg'd of Jove hornes higher;
  Whose most uncomely and ridiculous pride
  When hee had satisfied, they could not use,
  But where they went upright before, they stoopt,                   180
  And bore their heads much lower for their hornes:    Simil[iter.]
  As these high men doe, low in all true grace,
  Their height being priviledge to all things base.
  And as the foolish poet that still writ
  All his most selfe-lov'd verse in paper royall,                    185
  Or partchment rul'd with lead, smooth'd with the pumice,
  Bound richly up, and strung with crimson strings;
  Never so blest as when hee writ and read
  The ape-lov'd issue of his braine; and never
  But joying in himselfe, admiring ever:                             190
  Yet in his workes behold him, and hee show'd
  Like to a ditcher. So these painted men,
  All set on out-side, looke upon within,
  And not a pezzants entrailes you shall finde
  More foule and mezel'd, nor more sterv'd of minde.                 195

  _Bal._ That makes their bodies fat. I faine would know
  How many millions of our other Nobles
  Would make one Guise. There is a true tenth Worthy,
  Who, did not one act onely blemish him--

  _Cler._ One act! what one?

  _Bal._                     One that (though yeeres past done)      200
  Stickes by him still, and will distaine him ever.

  _Cler._ Good heaven! wherein? what one act can you name
  Suppos'd his staine that Ile not prove his luster?

  _Bal._ To satisfie you, twas the Massacre.

  _Cler._ The Massacre! I thought twas some such blemish.            205

  _Bal._ O, it was hainous!

  _Cler._                   To a brutish sense,
  But not a manly reason. Wee so tender
  The vile part in us that the part divine
  We see in hell, and shrinke not. Who was first
  Head of that Massacre?

  _Bal._                 The Guise.

  _Cler._                           Tis nothing so.                  210
  Who was in fault for all the slaughters made
  In Ilion, and about it? Were the Greekes?
  Was it not Paris ravishing the Queene
  Of Lacædemon; breach of shame and faith,
  And all the lawes of hospitalitie?                                 215
  This is the beastly slaughter made of men,
  When truth is over-throwne, his lawes corrupted;
  When soules are smother'd in the flatter'd flesh,
  Slaine bodies are no more then oxen slaine.

  _Bal._ Differ not men from oxen?

  _Cler._                          Who sayes so?                     220
  But see wherein; in the understanding rules
  Of their opinions, lives, and actions;
  In their communities of faith and reason.
  Was not the wolfe that nourisht Romulus
  More humane then the men that did expose him?                      225

  _Bal._ That makes against you.

  _Cler._                        Not, sir, if you note
  That by that deede, the actions difference make
  Twixt men and beasts, and not their names nor formes.
  Had faith, nor shame, all hospitable rights
  Beene broke by Troy, Greece had not made that slaughter.           230
  Had that beene sav'd (sayes a philosopher)
  The Iliads and Odysses had beene lost.
  Had Faith and true Religion beene prefer'd
  Religious Guise had never massacerd.

  _Bal._ Well, sir, I cannot, when I meete with you,                 235
  But thus digresse a little, for my learning,
  From any other businesse I entend.
  But now the voyage we resolv'd for Cambray,
  I told the Guise, beginnes; and wee must haste.
  And till the Lord Renel hath found some meane                      240
  (Conspiring with the Countesse) to make sure
  Your sworne wreake on her husband, though this fail'd,
  In my so brave command wee'll spend the time,
  Sometimes in training out in skirmishes
  And battailes all our troopes and companies;                       245
  And sometimes breathe your brave Scotch running horse,
  That great Guise gave you, that all th'horse in France
  Farre over-runnes at every race and hunting
  Both of the hare and deere. You shall be honor'd
  Like the great Guise himselfe, above the King.                     250
  And (can you but appease your great-spleen'd sister
  For our delaid wreake of your brothers slaughter)
  At all parts you'll be welcom'd to your wonder.

  _Cler._ Ile see my lord the Guise againe before
  Wee take our journey?

  _Bal._                O, sir, by all meanes;                       255
  You cannot be too carefull of his love,
  That ever takes occasion to be raising
  Your virtues past the reaches of this age,
  And rankes you with the best of th'ancient Romanes.

  _Cler._ That praise at no part moves mee, but the worth            260
  Of all hee can give others spher'd in him.

  _Bal._ Hee yet is thought to entertaine strange aymes.

  _Cler._ He may be well; yet not, as you thinke, strange.
  His strange aymes are to crosse the common custome
  Of servile Nobles; in which hee's so ravisht,                      265
  That quite the earth he leaves, and up hee leapes
  On Atlas shoulders, and from thence lookes downe,
  Viewing how farre off other high ones creepe;
  Rich, poore of reason, wander; all pale looking,
  And trembling but to thinke of their sure deaths,                  270
  Their lives so base are, and so rancke their breaths.
  Which I teach Guise to heighten, and make sweet
  With lifes deare odors, a good minde and name;
  For which hee onely loves me, and deserves
  My love and life, which through all deaths I vow:                  275
  Resolving this (what ever change can be)
  Thou hast created, thou hast ruinde mee.                  _Exit._

          _Finis Actus secundi._


              Ἀμήχανον (misprinted Αυκχανου) . . . _Antig._
              In left margin of Q.


  [_A Parade-Ground near Cambrai._]

          _A march of Captaines over the Stage._

          _Maillard, Chalon, Aumall following with Souldiers._

  _Maillard._ These troopes and companies come in with wings:
  So many men, so arm'd, so gallant horse,
  I thinke no other government in France
  So soone could bring together. With such men
  Me thinkes a man might passe th'insulting Pillars                    5
  Of Bacchus and Alcides.

  _Chalon._               I much wonder
  Our Lord Lieutenant brought his brother downe
  To feast and honour him, and yet now leaves him
  At such an instance.

  _Mail._              Twas the Kings command;
  For whom he must leave brother, wife, friend, all things.           10

  _Aumale._ The confines of his government, whose view
  Is the pretext of his command, hath neede
  Of no such sodaine expedition.

  _Mail._ Wee must not argue that. The Kings command
  Is neede and right enough: and that he serves,                      15
  (As all true subjects should) without disputing.

  _Chal._ But knowes not hee of your command to take
  His brother Clermont?

  _Mail._               No: the Kings will is
  Expressely to conceale his apprehension
  From my Lord Governour. Observ'd yee not?                           20
  Againe peruse the letters. Both you are
  Made my assistants, and have right and trust
  In all the waightie secrets like my selfe.

  _Aum._ Tis strange a man that had, through his life past,
  So sure a foote in vertue and true knowledge                        25
  As Clermont D'Ambois, should be now found tripping,
  And taken up thus, so to make his fall
  More steepe and head-long.

  _Mail._                    It is Vertues fortune,
  To keepe her low, and in her proper place;
  Height hath no roome for her. But as a man                          30
  That hath a fruitfull wife, and every yeere
  A childe by her, hath every yeere a month
  To breathe himselfe, where hee that gets no childe
  Hath not a nights rest (if he will doe well);
  So, let one marry this same barraine Vertue,                        35
  She never lets him rest, where fruitfull Vice
  Spares her rich drudge, gives him in labour breath,
  Feedes him with bane, and makes him fat with death.

  _Chal._ I see that good lives never can secure
  Men from bad livers. Worst men will have best                       40
  As ill as they, or heaven to hell they'll wrest.

  _Aum._ There was a merit for this, in the fault
  That Bussy made, for which he (doing pennance)
  Proves that these foule adulterous guilts will runne
  Through the whole bloud, which not the cleare can shunne.           45

  _Mail._ Ile therefore take heede of the bastarding
  Whole innocent races; tis a fearefull thing.
  And as I am true batcheler, I sweare,
  To touch no woman (to the coupling ends)
  Unlesse it be mine owne wife or my friends;                         50
  I may make bold with him.

  _Aum._                    Tis safe and common.
  The more your friend dares trust, the more deceive him.
  And as through dewie vapors the sunnes forme
  Makes the gay rainebow girdle to a storme,
  So in hearts hollow, friendship (even the sunne                     55
  To all good growing in societie)
  Makes his so glorious and divine name hold
  Collours for all the ill that can be told.     _Trumpets within._

  _Mail._ Harke! our last troopes are come.

  _Chal._ (_Drums beate._) Harke! our last foote.

  _Mail._ Come, let us put all quickly into battaile,                 60
  And send for Clermont, in whose honour all
  This martiall preparation wee pretend.

  _Chal._ Wee must bethinke us, ere wee apprehend him,
  (Besides our maine strength) of some stratageme
  To make good our severe command on him,                             65
  As well to save blood as to make him sure:
  For if hee come on his Scotch horse, all France
  Put at the heeles of him will faile to take him.

  _Mail._ What thinke you if wee should disguise a brace
  Of our best souldiers in faire lackies coates,                      70
  And send them for him, running by his side,
  Till they have brought him in some ambuscado
  We close may lodge for him, and sodainely
  Lay sure hand on him, plucking him from horse?

  _Aum._ It must be sure and strong hand; for if once                 75
  Hee feeles the touch of such a stratageme,
  Tis not choicest brace of all our bands
  Can manacle or quench his fiery hands.

  _Mail._ When they have seaz'd him, the ambush shal make in.

  _Aum._ Doe as you please; his blamelesse spirit deserves            80
  (I dare engage my life) of all this, nothing.

  _Chal._ Why should all this stirre be, then?

  _Aum._                                       Who knowes not
  The bumbast politie thrusts into his gyant,
  To make his wisedome seeme of size as huge,
  And all for sleight encounter of a shade,                           85
  So hee be toucht, hee would have hainous made?

  _Mail._ It may be once so; but so ever, never.
  Ambition is abroad, on foote, on horse;
  Faction chokes every corner, streete, the Court;
  Whose faction tis you know, and who is held                         90
  The fautors right hand: how high his aymes reach
  Nought but a crowne can measure. This must fall
  Past shadowes waights, and is most capitall.

  _Chal._ No question; for since hee is come to Cambray,
  The malecontent, decaid Marquesse Renel,                            95
  Is come, and new arriv'd; and made partaker
  Of all the entertaining showes and feasts
  That welcom'd Clermont to the brave virago,
  His manly sister. Such wee are esteem'd
  As are our consorts. Marquesse malecontent                         100
  Comes where hee knowes his vaine hath safest vent.

  _Mail._ Let him come at his will, and goe as free;
  Let us ply Clermont, our whole charge is hee.           _Exeunt._


              _Trumpets within. Drums beate._ In Q these directions
              follow instead of precede l. 59.

              _Exeunt._ Q, Exit.


  _A Room in the Governor's Castle at Cambrai._]

          _Enter a Gentleman Usher before Clermont: Renel, Charlotte,
          with two women attendants, with others: showes having past

  _Charlotte._ This for your lordships welcome into Cambray.

  _Renel._ Noblest of ladies, tis beyond all power
  (Were my estate at first full) in my meanes
  To quit or merit.

  _Clermont._       You come something latter
  From Court, my lord, then I: and since newes there                   5
  Is every day encreasing with th'affaires,
  Must I not aske now, what the newes is there?
  Where the Court lyes? what stirre? change? what avise
  From England, Italie?

  _Ren._                You must doe so,
  If you'll be cald a gentleman well quallified,                      10
  And weare your time and wits in those discourses.

  _Cler._ The Locrian princes therefore were brave rulers;
  For whosoever there came new from countrie,
  And in the citie askt, "What newes?" was punisht:
  Since commonly such braines are most delighted                      15
  With innovations, gossips tales, and mischiefes.
  But as of lyons it is said and eagles,
  That, when they goe, they draw their seeres and tallons
  Close up, to shunne rebating of their sharpnesse:
  So our wits sharpnesse, which wee should employ                     20
  In noblest knowledge, wee should never waste
  In vile and vulgar admirations.

  _Ren._ Tis right; but who, save onely you, performes it,
  And your great brother? Madame, where is he?

  _Char._ Gone, a day since, into the countries confines,             25
  To see their strength, and readinesse for service.

  _Ren._ Tis well; his favour with the King hath made him
  Most worthily great, and live right royally.

  _Cler._ I: would hee would not doe so! Honour never
  Should be esteem'd with wise men as the price                       30
  And value of their virtuous services,
  But as their signe or badge; for that bewrayes
  More glory in the outward grace of goodnesse
  Then in the good it selfe; and then tis said,
  Who more joy takes that men his good advance                        35
  Then in the good it selfe, does it by chance.

  _Char._ My brother speakes all principle. What man
  Is mov'd with your soule? or hath such a thought
  In any rate of goodnesse?

  _Cler._                   Tis their fault.
  We have examples of it, cleare and many.                            40
  Demetrius Phalerius, an orator,
  And (which not oft meete) a philosopher,
  So great in Athens grew that he erected
  Three hundred statues of him; of all which,
  No rust nor length of time corrupted one;                           45
  But in his life time all were overthrowne.
  And Demades (that past Demosthenes
  For all extemporall orations)
  Erected many statues, which (he living)
  Were broke, and melted into chamber-pots.                           50
  Many such ends have fallen on such proud honours,
  No more because the men on whom they fell
  Grew insolent and left their vertues state,
  Then for their hugenesse, that procur'd their hate:
  And therefore little pompe in men most great                        55
  Makes mightily and strongly to the guard
  Of what they winne by chance or just reward.
  Great and immodest braveries againe,
  Like statues much too high made for their bases,
  Are overturn'd as soone as given their places.                      60

          _Enter a Messenger with a Letter._

  _Messenger._ Here is a letter, sir, deliver'd mee
  Now at the fore-gate by a gentleman.

  _Cler._ What gentleman?

  _Mess._                 Hee would not tell his name;
  Hee said, hee had not time enough to tell it,
  And say the little rest hee had to say.                             65

  _Cler._ That was a merry saying; he tooke measure
  Of his deare time like a most thriftie husband.

  _Char._ What newes?

  _Cler._             Strange ones, and fit for a novation;
  Waightie, unheard of, mischievous enough.

  _Ren._ Heaven shield! what are they?

  _Cler._                              Read them, good my lord.       70

  _Ren._ "You are betraid into this countrie." Monstrous!

  _Char._ How's that?

  _Cler._ Read on.

  _Ren._ "Maillard, your brothers Lieutenant,
  that yesterday invited you to see his musters,                      75
  hath letters and strickt charge from the King to
  apprehend you."

  _Char._ To apprehend him!

  _Ren._ "Your brother absents himselfe of
  purpose."                                                           80

  _Cler._ That's a sound one.

  _Char._ That's a lye.

  _Ren._ "Get on your Scotch horse, and retire
  to your strength; you know where it is, and
  there it expects you. Beleeve this as your best                     85
  friend had sworne it. Fare-well if you will.
  Anonymos." What's that?

  _Cler._ Without a name.

  _Char._ And all his notice, too, without all truth.

  _Cler._ So I conceive it, sister: ile not wrong                     90
  My well knowne brother for Anonymos.

  _Char._ Some foole hath put this tricke on you, yet more
  T'uncover your defect of spirit and valour,
  First showne in lingring my deare brothers wreake.
  See what it is to give the envious world                            95
  Advantage to diminish eminent virtue.
  Send him a challenge. Take a noble course
  To wreake a murther, done so like a villaine.

  _Cler._ Shall we revenge a villanie with villanie.

  _Char._ Is it not equall?

  _Cler._                   Shall wee equall be with villaines?      100
  Is that your reason?

  _Char._              Cowardise evermore
  Flyes to the shield of reason.

  _Cler._                        Nought that is
  Approv'd by reason can be cowardise.

  _Char._ Dispute, when you should fight! Wrong, wreaklesse
  Makes men dye honorlesse; one borne, another                       105
  Leapes on our shoulders.

  _Cler._                  Wee must wreake our wrongs
  So as wee take not more.

  _Char._                  One wreakt in time
  Prevents all other. Then shines vertue most
  When time is found for facts; and found, not lost.

  _Cler._ No time occurres to Kings, much lesse to vertue;           110
  Nor can we call it vertue that proceedes
  From vicious fury. I repent that ever
  (By any instigation in th'appearance
  My brothers spirit made, as I imagin'd)
  That e'er I yeelded to revenge his murther.                        115
  All worthy men should ever bring their bloud
  To beare all ill, not to be wreakt with good.
  Doe ill for no ill; never private cause
  Should take on it the part of publike lawes.

  _Char._ A D'Ambois beare in wrong so tame a spirit!                120

  _Ren._ Madame, be sure there will be time enough
  For all the vengeance your great spirit can wish.
  The course yet taken is allow'd by all,
  Which being noble, and refus'd by th'Earle,
  Now makes him worthy of your worst advantage:                      125
  And I have cast a project with the Countesse
  To watch a time when all his wariest guards
  Shall not exempt him. Therefore give him breath;
  Sure death delaid is a redoubled death.

  _Cler._ Good sister, trouble not your selfe with this:             130
  Take other ladyes care; practise your face.
  There's the chaste matron, Madame Perigot,
  Dwels not farre hence; Ile ride and send her to you.
  Shee did live by retailing mayden-heads
  In her minoritie; but now shee deales                              135
  In whole-sale altogether for the Court.
  I tell you, shee's the onely fashion-monger,
  For your complexion, poudring of your haire,
  Shadowes, rebatoes, wires, tyres, and such trickes,
  That Cambray or, I thinke, the Court affords.                      140
  She shall attend you, sister, and with these
  Womanly practises emply your spirit;
  This other suites you not, nor fits the fashion.
  Though shee be deare, lay't on, spare for no cost;
  Ladies in these have all their bounties lost.                      145

  _Ren._ Madame, you see, his spirit will not checke
  At any single danger, when it stands
  Thus merrily firme against an host of men,
  Threaten'd to be [in] armes for his surprise.

  _Char._ That's a meere bugge-beare, an impossible mocke.           150
  If hee, and him I bound by nuptiall faith,
  Had not beene dull and drossie in performing
  Wreake of the deare bloud of my matchlesse brother,
  What Prince, what King, which of the desperat'st ruffings,
  Outlawes in Arden, durst have tempted thus                         155
  One of our bloud and name, be't true or false?

  _Cler._ This is not caus'd by that; twill be as sure
  As yet it is not, though this should be true.

  _Char._ True, tis past thought false.

  _Cler._                               I suppose the worst,
  Which farre I am from thinking; and despise                        160
  The armie now in battaile that should act it.

  [_Char._] I would not let my bloud up to that thought,
  But it should cost the dearest bloud in France.

  _Cler._ Sweet sister, (_osculatur_) farre be both off as the fact
  Of my fain'd apprehension.

  _Char._                    I would once                            165
  Strip off my shame with my attire, and trie
  If a poore woman, votist of revenge,
  Would not performe it with a president
  To all you bungling, foggy-spirited men.
  But for our birth-rights honour, doe not mention                   170
  One syllable of any word may goe
  To the begetting of an act so tender
  And full of sulphure as this letters truth:
  It comprehends so blacke a circumstance
  Not to be nam'd, that but to forme one thought,                    175
  It is or can be so, would make me mad.
  Come, my lord, you and I will fight this dreame
  Out at the chesse.

  _Ren._             Most gladly, worthiest ladie.
                                  _Exeunt Char[lotte] and Ren[el]._

          _Enter a Messenger._

  _Messenger._ Sir, my Lord Governours Lieutenant prayes
  Accesse to you.

  _Cler._         Himselfe alone?

  _Mess._                         Alone, sir.                        180

  _Cler._ Attend him in. (_Exit Messenger._) Now comes this plot to
  I shall descerne (if it be true as rare)
  Some sparkes will flye from his dissembling eyes.
  Ile sound his depth.

          _Enter Maillard with the Messenger._

  _Maillard._          Honour, and all things noble!

  _Cler._ As much to you, good Captaine. What's th'affaire?          185

  _Mail._ Sir, the poore honour we can adde to all
  Your studyed welcome to this martiall place,
  In presentation of what strength consists
  My lord your brothers government, is readie.
  I have made all his troopes and companies                          190
  Advance and put themselves in battailia,
  That you may see both how well arm'd they are
  How strong is every troope and companie,
  How ready, and how well prepar'd for service.

  _Cler._ And must they take mee?

  _Mail._                         Take you, sir! O heaven!           195

  _Mess._ [_aside, to Clermont_]. Beleeve it, sir, his count'nance
      chang'd in turning.

  _Mail._ What doe you meane, sir?

  _Cler._                          If you have charg'd them,
  You being charg'd your selfe, to apprehend mee,
  Turne not your face; throw not your lookes about so.

  _Mail._ Pardon me, sir. You amaze me to conceive                   200
  From whence our wils to honour you should turne
  To such dishonour of my lord, your brother.
  Dare I, without him, undertake your taking?

  _Cler._ Why not? by your direct charge from the King.

  _Mail._ By my charge from the King! would he so much               205
  Disgrace my lord, his owne Lieutenant here,
  To give me his command without his forfaite?

  _Cler._ Acts that are done by Kings, are not askt why.
  Ile not dispute the case, but I will search you.

  _Mail._ Search mee! for what?

  _Cler._                       For letters.

  _Mail._                                    I beseech you,          210
  Doe not admit one thought of such a shame
  To a commander.

  _Cler._         Goe to! I must doo't.
  Stand and be searcht; you know mee.

  _Mail._                             You forget
  What tis to be a captaine, and your selfe.

  _Cler._ Stand, or I vow to heaven, Ile make you lie,               215
  Never to rise more.

  _Mail._             If a man be mad,
  Reason must beare him.

  _Cler._                So coy to be searcht?

  _Mail._ Sdeath, sir, use a captaine like a carrier!

  _Cler._ Come, be not furious; when I have done,
  You shall make such a carrier of me,                               220
  If't be your pleasure: you're my friend, I know,
  And so am bold with you.

  _Mail._                  You'll nothing finde
  Where nothing is.

  _Cler._           Sweare you have nothing.

  _Mail._ Nothing you seeke, I sweare. I beseech you,
  Know I desir'd this out of great affection,                        225
  To th'end my lord may know out of your witnesse
  His forces are not in so bad estate
  As hee esteem'd them lately in your hearing;
  For which he would not trust me with the confines,
  But went himselfe to witnesse their estate.                        230

  _Cler._ I heard him make that reason, and am sorie
  I had no thought of it before I made
  Thus bold with you, since tis such ruberb to you.
  Ile therefore search no more. If you are charg'd
  (By letters from the King, or otherwise)                           235
  To apprehend me, never spice it more
  With forc'd tearmes of your love, but say: I yeeld;
  Holde, take my sword, here; I forgive thee freely;
  Take; doe thine office.

  _Mail._                 Sfoote! you make m'a hang-man;
  By all my faith to you, there's no such thing.                     240

  _Cler._ Your faith to mee!

  _Mail._                    My faith to God; all's one:
  Who hath no faith to men, to God hath none.

  _Cler._ In that sense I accept your othe, and thanke you.
  I gave my word to goe, and I will goe.        _Exit Cler[mont]._

  _Mail._ Ile watch you whither.                _Exit Mail[lard]._

  _Mess._                        If hee goes, hee proves             245
  How vaine are mens fore knowledges of things,
  When heaven strikes blinde their powers of note and use,
  And makes their way to ruine seeme more right
  Then that which safetie opens to their sight.
  Cassandra's prophecie had no more profit                           250
  With Troyes blinde citizens, when shee foretolde
  Troyes ruine; which, succeeding, made her use
  This sacred inclamation: "God" (said shee)
  "Would have me utter things uncredited;
  For which now they approve what I presag'd;                        255
  They count me wise, that said before, I rag'd."         [_Exit._]


          12  _Rulers_. Shepherd, Phelps; Q, Rubers.

          74  _your_. Ed.; Q, you.

         149  _in_. Added by ed.

         155  _Arden_. Q, Acden.

         162  _Char._ Q, Cler.


  _A Camp near Cambrai._]

          _Enter Challon with two Souldiers._

  _Chalon._ Come, souldiers: you are downewards fit for lackies;
  Give me your pieces, and take you these coates,
  To make you compleate foot men, in whose formes
  You must be compleate souldiers: you two onely
  Stand for our armie.

  _1[st Soldier.]_     That were much.

  _Chal._                              Tis true;                       5
  You two must doe, or enter, what our armie
  Is now in field for.

  _2[d Sol.]_          I see then our guerdon
  Must be the deede it selfe, twill be such honour.

  _Chal._ What fight souldiers most for?

  _1[st Sol.]_                           Honour onely.

  _Chal._ Yet here are crownes beside.

  _Ambo._                              We thanke you, Captaine.       10

  _2[d Sol.]_ Now, sir, how show wee?

  _Chal._                             As you should at all parts.
  Goe now to Clermont D'Ambois, and informe him,
  Two battailes are set ready in his honour,
  And stay his presence onely for their signall,
  When they shall joyne; and that, t'attend him hither                15
  Like one wee so much honour, wee have sent him--

  _1[st Sol.]_ Us two in person.

  _Chal._                        Well, sir, say it so;
  And having brought him to the field, when I
  Fall in with him, saluting, get you both
  Of one side of his horse, and plucke him downe,                     20
  And I with th'ambush laid will second you.

  _1[st Sol.]_ Nay, we shall lay on hands of too much strength
  To neede your secondings.

  _2[d Sol.]_               I hope we shall.
  Two are enough to encounter Hercules.

  _Chal._ Tis well said, worthy souldiers; hast, and hast him.
                                                        [_Exeunt._]   25


              _Exeunt._ Q, Exit.


  _A Room in the Governor's Castle at Cambrai._]

          _Enter Clermont, Maillard close following him._

  _Clermont._ My Scotch horse to their armie--

  _Maillard._                                  Please you, sir?

  _Cler._ Sdeath! you're passing diligent.

  _Mail._                                  Of my soule,
  Tis onely in my love to honour you
  With what would grace the King: but since I see
  You still sustaine a jealous eye on mee,                             5
  Ile goe before.

  _Cler._         Tis well; Ile come; my hand.

  _Mail._ Your hand, sir! Come, your word; your choise be us'd.

          _Clermont solus._

  _Cler._ I had an aversation to this voyage,
  When first my brother mov'd it, and have found
  That native power in me was never vaine;                            10
  Yet now neglected it. I wonder much
  At my inconstancie in these decrees
  I every houre set downe to guide my life.
  When Homer made Achilles passionate,
  Wrathfull, revengefull, and insatiate                               15
  In his affections, what man will denie
  He did compose it all of industrie
  To let men see that men of most renowne,
  Strong'st, noblest, fairest, if they set not downe
  Decrees within them, for disposing these,                           20
  Of judgement, resolution, uprightnesse,
  And certaine knowledge of their use and ends,
  Mishap and miserie no lesse extends
  To their destruction, with all that they pris'd,
  Then to the poorest and the most despis'd?                          25

          _Enter Renel._

  _Renel._ Why, how now, friend, retir'd! take heede you prove not
  Dismaid with this strange fortune. All observe you:
  Your government's as much markt as the Kings.
  What said a friend to Pompey?

  _Cler._                       What?

  _Ren._                              The people
  Will never know, unlesse in death thou trie,                        30
  That thou know'st how to beare adversitie.

  _Cler._ I shall approve how vile I value feare
  Of death at all times; but to be too rash,
  Without both will and care to shunne the worst,
  (It being in power to doe well and with cheere)                     35
  Is stupid negligence and worse then feare.

  _Ren._ Suppose this true now.

  _Cler._                       No, I cannot doo't.
  My sister truely said, there hung a taile
  Of circumstance so blacke on that supposure,
  That to sustaine it thus abhorr'd our mettall.                      40
  And I can shunne it too, in spight of all,
  Not going to field; and there to, being so mounted
  As I will, since I goe.

  _Ren._                  You will then goe?

  _Cler._ I am engag'd both in my word and hand.
  But this is it that makes me thus retir'd,                          45
  To call my selfe t'account, how this affaire
  Is to be manag'd, if the worst should chance:
  With which I note, how dangerous it is
  For any man to prease beyond the place
  To which his birth, or meanes, or knowledge ties him.               50
  For my part, though of noble birth, my birthright
  Had little left it, and I know tis better
  To live with little, and to keepe within
  A mans owne strength still, and in mans true end,
  Then runne a mixt course. Good and bad hold never                   55
  Any thing common; you can never finde
  Things outward care, but you neglect your minde.
  God hath the whole world perfect made and free;
  His parts to th'use of th'All. Men, then, that are
  Parts of that All, must, as the generall sway                       60
  Of that importeth, willingly obay
  In every thing without their power to change.
  Hee that, unpleas'd to hold his place, will range,
  Can in no other be contain'd that's fit,
  And so resisting th'All is crusht with it:                          65
  But he that knowing how divine a frame
  The whole world is, and of it all can name
  (Without selfe-flatterie) no part so divine
  As hee himselfe; and therefore will confine
  Freely his whole powers in his proper part,                         70
  Goes on most God-like. Hee that strives t'invert
  The Universals course with his poore way,
  Not onely dust-like shivers with the sway,
  But crossing God in his great worke, all earth
  Beares not so cursed and so damn'd a birth.                         75

  _Ren._ Goe on; Ile take no care what comes of you;
  Heaven will not see it ill, how ere it show.
  But the pretext to see these battailes rang'd
  Is much your honour.

  _Cler._              As the world esteemes it.
  But to decide that, you make me remember                            80
  An accident of high and noble note,
  And fits the subject of my late discourse
  Of holding on our free and proper way.
  I over-tooke, comming from Italie,
  In Germanie a great and famous Earle                                85
  Of England, the most goodly fashion'd man
  I ever saw; from head to foote in forme
  Rare and most absolute; hee had a face
  Like one of the most ancient honour'd Romanes
  From whence his noblest familie was deriv'd;                        90
  He was beside of spirit passing great,
  Valiant, and learn'd, and liberall as the sunne,
  Spoke and writ sweetly, or of learned subjects,
  Or of the discipline of publike weales;
  And t'was the Earle of Oxford: and being offer'd                    95
  At that time, by Duke Cassimere, the view
  Of his right royall armie then in field,
  Refus'd it, and no foote was mov'd to stirre
  Out of his owne free fore-determin'd course.
  I, wondring at it, askt for it his reason,                         100
  It being an offer so much for his honour.
  Hee, all acknowledging, said t'was not fit
  To take those honours that one cannot quit.

  _Ren._ Twas answer'd like the man you have describ'd.

  _Cler._ And yet he cast it onely in the way,                       105
  To stay and serve the world. Nor did it fit
  His owne true estimate how much it waigh'd;
  For hee despis'd it, and esteem'd it freer
  To keepe his owne way straight, and swore that hee
  Had rather make away his whole estate                              110
  In things that crost the vulgar then he would
  Be frozen up stiffe (like a Sir John Smith,
  His countrey-man) in common Nobles fashions;
  Affecting, as't the end of noblesse were,
  Those servile observations.

  _Ren._                      It was strange.                        115

  _Cler._ O tis a vexing sight to see a man,
  Out of his way, stalke proud as hee were in;
  Out of his way, to be officious,
  Observant, wary, serious, and grave,
  Fearefull, and passionate, insulting, raging,                      120
  Labour with iron flailes to thresh downe feathers
  Flitting in ayre.

  _Ren._            What one considers this,
  Of all that are thus out? or once endevours,
  Erring, to enter on mans right-hand path?

  _Cler._ These are too grave for brave wits; give them toyes;       125
  Labour bestow'd on these is harsh and thriftlesse.
  If you would Consull be (sayes one) of Rome,
  You must be watching, starting out of sleepes;
  Every way whisking; gloryfying Plebeians;
  Kissing Patricians hands, rot at their dores;                      130
  Speake and doe basely; every day bestow
  Gifts and observance upon one or other:
  And what's th'event of all? Twelve rods before thee;
  Three or foure times sit for the whole tribunall;
  Exhibite Circean games; make publike feasts;                       135
  And for these idle outward things (sayes he)
  Would'st thou lay on such cost, toile, spend thy spirits?
  And to be voide of perturbation,
  For constancie, sleepe when thou would'st have sleepe,
  Wake when thou would'st wake, feare nought, vexe for nought,       140
  No paines wilt thou bestow? no cost? no thought?

  _Ren._ What should I say? As good consort with you
  As with an angell; I could heare you ever.

  _Cler._ Well, in, my lord, and spend time with my sister,
  And keepe her from the field with all endeavour.                   145
  The souldiers love her so, and shee so madly
  Would take my apprehension, if it chance,
  That bloud would flow in rivers.

  _Ren._                           Heaven forbid!
  And all with honour your arrivall speede!                 _Exit._

          _Enter Messenger with two Souldiers like Lackies._

  _Messenger._ Here are two lackies, sir, have message to you.       150

  _Cler._ What is your message? and from whom, my friends?

  _1[st Soldier.]_ From the Lieutenant, Colonell, and the
  Who sent us to informe you that the battailes
  Stand ready rang'd, expecting but your presence
  To be their honor'd signall when to joyne,                         155
  And we are charg'd to runne by, and attend you.

  _Cler._ I come. I pray you see my running horse
  Brought to the backe-gate to mee.

  _Mess._                           Instantly.  _Exit Mess[enger]._

  _Cler._ Chance what can chance mee, well or ill is equall
  In my acceptance, since I joy in neyther,                          160
  But goe with sway of all the world together.
  In all successes Fortune and the day
  To mee alike are; I am fixt, be shee
  Never so fickle; and will there repose,
  Farre past the reach of any dye she throwes.                       165
                                        _Ex[it] cum Pediss[equis]._

          _Finis Actus tertii._


         114  _as't_. Emended by ed.; Q, as.


  [_A Parade-Ground near Cambrai._]

          _Alarum within: Excursions over the Stage._

          _The [Soldiers disguised as] Lackies running, Maillard
          following them._

  _Maillard._ Villaines, not hold him when ye had him downe!

  _1[st Soldier.]_ Who can hold lightning? Sdeath a man as well
  Might catch a canon bullet in his mouth,
  And spit it in your hands, as take and hold him.

  _Mail._ Pursue, enclose him! stand or fall on him,                   5
  And yee may take him. Sdeath! they make him guards.       _Exit._

          _Alarum still, and enter Chalon._

  _Challon._ Stand, cowards, stand; strike, send your bullets at him.

  _1[st Soldier.]_ Wee came to entertaine him, sir, for honour.

  _2[d Soldier.]_ Did ye not say so?

  _Chal._                            Slaves, hee is a traitor;
  Command the horse troopes to over-runne the traitor.
                                                          _Exeunt._   10

          _Shouts within. Alarum still, and Chambers shot off.
          Then enter Aumall._

  _Aumale._ What spirit breathes thus in this more then man,
  Turnes flesh to ayre possest, and in a storme
  Teares men about the field like autumne leaves?
  He turnd wilde lightning in the lackies hands,
  Who, though their sodaine violent twitch unhorst him,               15
  Yet when he bore himselfe, their saucie fingers
  Flew as too hot off, as hee had beene fire.
  The ambush then made in, through all whose force
  Hee drave as if a fierce and fire-given canon
  Had spit his iron vomit out amongst them.                           20
  The battailes then in two halfe-moones enclos'd him,
  In which he shew'd as if he were the light,
  And they but earth, who, wondring what hee was,
  Shruncke their steele hornes and gave him glorious passe.
  And as a great shot from a towne besieg'd                           25
  At foes before it flyes forth blacke and roring,
  But they too farre, and that with waight opprest
  (As if disdaining earth) doth onely grasse,
  Strike earth, and up againe into the ayre,
  Againe sinkes to it, and againe doth rise,                          30
  And keepes such strength that when it softliest moves
  It piece-meale shivers any let it proves--
  So flew brave Clermont forth, till breath forsooke him,
  Then fell to earth; and yet (sweet man) even then
  His spirits convulsions made him bound againe                       35
  Past all their reaches; till, all motion spent,
  His fixt eyes cast a blaze of such disdaine,
  All stood and star'd, and untouch'd let him lie,
  As something sacred fallen out of the skie.       _A cry within._
  O now some rude hand hath laid hold on him!                         40

          _Enter Maillard, Chalon leading Clermont, Captaines and
          Souldiers following._

  See, prisoner led, with his bands honour'd more
  Then all the freedome he enjoy'd before.

  _Mail._ At length wee have you, sir.

  _Clermont._                          You have much joy too;
  I made you sport. Yet, but I pray you tell mee,
  Are not you perjur'd?

  _Mail._               No: I swore for the King.                     45

  _Cler._ Yet perjurie, I hope, is perjurie.

  _Mail._ But thus forswearing is not perjurie.
  You are no politician: not a fault,
  How foule soever, done for private ends,
  Is fault in us sworne to the publike good:                          50
  Wee never can be of the damned crew;
  Wee may impolitique our selves (as 'twere)
  Into the kingdomes body politique,
  Whereof indeede we're members; you misse termes.

  _Cler._ The things are yet the same.                                55

  _Mail._ Tis nothing so; the propertie is alter'd:
  Y'are no lawyer. Or say that othe and othe
  Are still the same in number, yet their species
  Differ extreamely, as, for flat example,
  When politique widowes trye men for their turne,                    60
  Before they wed them, they are harlots then,
  But when they wed them, they are honest women:
  So private men, when they forsweare, betray,
  Are perjur'd treachers, but being publique once,
  That is, sworne-married to the publique good--                      65

  _Cler._ Are married women publique?

  _Mail._                             Publique good;
  For marriage makes them, being the publique good,
  And could not be without them: so I say
  Men publique, that is, being sworne-married
  To the good publique, being one body made                           70
  With the realmes body politique, are no more
  Private, nor can be perjur'd, though forsworne,
  More then a widow married, for the act
  Of generation is for that an harlot,
  Because for that shee was so, being unmarried:                      75
  An argument _a paribus_.

  _Chal._                       Tis a shrow'd one.

  _Cler._ "Who hath no faith to men, to God hath none:"
  Retaine you that, sir? who said so?

  _Mail._                             Twas I.

  _Cler._ Thy owne tongue damne thy infidelitie!
  But, Captaines all, you know me nobly borne;                        80
  Use yee t'assault such men as I with lackyes?

  _Chal._ They are no lackyes, sir, but souldiers
  Disguis'd in lackyes coates.

  _1 Sold._                    Sir, wee have seene the enemie.

  _Cler._ Avant! yee rascols, hence!

  _Mail._ Now leave your coates.

  _Cler._                        Let me not see them more.            85

  _Aum._ I grieve that vertue lives so undistinguisht
  From vice in any ill, and though the crowne
  Of soveraigne law, shee should be yet her footstoole,
  Subject to censure, all the shame and paine
  Of all her rigor.

  _Cler._           Yet false policie                                 90
  Would cover all, being like offenders hid,
  That (after notice taken where they hide)
  The more they crouch and stirre, the more are spide.

  _Aum._ I wonder how this chanc'd you.

  _Cler._                               Some informer,
  Bloud-hound to mischiefe, usher to the hang-man,                    95
  Thirstie of honour for some huge state act,
  Perceiving me great with the worthy Guise,
  And he (I know not why) held dangerous,
  Made me the desperate organe of his danger,
  Onely with that poore colour: tis the common                       100
  And more then whore-like tricke of treacherie
  And vermine bred to rapine and to ruine,
  For which this fault is still to be accus'd;
  Since good acts faile, crafts and deceits are us'd.
  If it be other, never pittie mee.                                  105

  _Aum._ Sir, we are glad, beleeve it, and have hope
  The King will so conceit it.

  _Cler._                      At his pleasure.
  In meane time, what's your will, Lord Lieutenant?

  _Mail._ To leave your owne horse, and to mount the trumpets.

  _Cler._ It shall be done. This heavily prevents                    110
  My purpos'd recreation in these parts;
  Which now I thinke on, let mee begge you, sir,
  To lend me some one captaine of your troopes,
  To beare the message of my haplesse service
  And miserie to my most noble mistresse,                            115
  Countesse of Cambray; to whose house this night
  I promist my repaire, and know most truely,
  With all the ceremonies of her favour,
  She sure expects mee.

  _Mail._               Thinke you now on that?

  _Cler._ On that, sir? I, and that so worthily,                     120
  That if the King, in spight of your great service,
  Would send me instant promise of enlargement,
  Condition I would set this message by,
  I would not take it, but had rather die.

  _Aum._ Your message shall be done, sir: I, my selfe,               125
  Will be for you a messenger of ill.

  _Cler._ I thanke you, sir, and doubt not yet to live
  To quite your kindnesse.

  _Aum._                   Meane space use your spirit
  And knowledge for the chearfull patience
  Of this so strange and sodaine consequence.                        130

  _Cler._ Good sir, beleeve that no particular torture
  Can force me from my glad obedience
  To any thing the high and generall Cause,
  To match with his whole fabricke, hath ordainde;
  And know yee all (though farre from all your aymes,                135
  Yet worth them all, and all mens endlesse studies)
  That in this one thing, all the discipline
  Of manners and of manhood is contain'd:--
  A man to joyne himselfe with th'Universe
  In his maine sway, and make (in all things fit)                    140
  One with that all, and goe on round as it;
  Not plucking from the whole his wretched part,
  And into straites, or into nought revert,
  Wishing the compleate Universe might be
  Subject to such a ragge of it as hee;                              145
  But to consider great Necessitie
  All things, as well refract as voluntarie,
  Reduceth to the prime celestiall cause;
  Which he that yeelds to with a mans applause,
  And cheeke by cheeke goes, crossing it no breath,                  150
  But like Gods image followes to the death,
  That man is truely wise, and every thing
  (Each cause and every part distinguishing)
  In nature with enough art understands,
  And that full glory merits at all hands                            155
  That doth the whole world at all parts adorne,
  And appertaines to one celestiall borne.          _Exeunt omnes._


              _Exeunt._ Q, Exit.

          54  _We're_. Q, We'are.


  _A Room at the Court in Paris._]

          _Enter Baligny, Renel._

  _Baligny._ So foule a scandall never man sustain'd,
  Which caus'd by th'King is rude and tyrannous:
  Give me a place, and my Lieutenant make
  The filler of it!

  _Renel._          I should never looke
  For better of him; never trust a man                                 5
  For any justice, that is rapt with pleasure;
  To order armes well, that makes smockes his ensignes,
  And his whole governments sayles: you heard of late
  Hee had the foure and twenty wayes of venerie
  Done all before him.

  _Bal._               Twas abhorr'd and beastly.                     10

  _Ren._ Tis more then natures mightie hand can doe
  To make one humane and a letcher too.
  Looke how a wolfe doth like a dogge appeare,
  So like a friend is an adulterer;
  Voluptuaries, and these belly-gods,                                 15
  No more true men are then so many toads.
  A good man happy is a common good;
  Vile men advanc'd live of the common bloud.

  _Bal._ Give, and then take, like children!

  _Ren._                                     Bounties are
  As soone repented as they happen rare.                              20

  _Bal._ What should Kings doe, and men of eminent places,
  But, as they gather, sow gifts to the graces?
  And where they have given, rather give againe
  (Being given for vertue) then, like babes and fooles,
  Take and repent gifts? why are wealth and power?                    25

  _Ren._ Power and wealth move to tyranny, not bountie;
  The merchant for his wealth is swolne in minde,
  When yet the chiefe lord of it is the winde.

  _Bal._ That may so chance to our state-merchants too;
  Something performed, that hath not farre to goe.                    30

  _Ren._ That's the maine point, my lord; insist on that.

  _Bal._ But doth this fire rage further? hath it taken
  The tender tynder of my wifes sere bloud?
  Is shee so passionate?

  _Ren._                 So wilde, so mad,
  Shee cannot live and this unwreakt sustaine.                        35
  The woes are bloudy that in women raigne.
  The Sicile gulfe keepes feare in lesse degree;
  There is no tyger not more tame then shee.

  _Bal._ There is no looking home, then?

  _Ren._                                 Home! Medea
  With all her hearbs, charmes, thunders, lightning,                  40
  Made not her presence and blacke hants more dreadfull.

  _Bal._ Come, to the King; if he reforme not all,
  Marke the event, none stand where that must fall.       _Exeunt._


  _A Room in the House of the Countess of Cambrai._]

          _Enter Countesse, Riova, and an Usher._

  _Usher._ Madame, a captaine come from Clermont D'Ambois
  Desires accesse to you.

  _Countess._             And not himselfe?

  _Ush._ No, madame.

  _Count._           That's not well. Attend him in.
                                                    _Exit Ush[er]._
  The last houre of his promise now runne out!
  And hee breake, some brack's in the frame of nature                  5
  That forceth his breach.

          _Enter Usher and Aumal._

  _Aumale._                Save your ladiship!

  _Coun._ All welcome! Come you from my worthy servant?

  _Aum._ I, madame, and conferre such newes from him--

  _Coun._ Such newes! what newes?

  _Aum._ Newes that I wish some other had the charge of.              10

  _Coun._ O, what charge? what newes?

  _Aum._ Your ladiship must use some patience,
  Or else I cannot doe him that desire
  He urg'd with such affection to your graces.

  _Coun._ Doe it, for heavens love, doe it! if you serve              15
  His kinde desires, I will have patience.
  Is hee in health?

  _Aum._            He is.

  _Count._                 Why, that's the ground
  Of all the good estate wee hold in earth;
  All our ill built upon that is no more
  Then wee may beare, and should; expresse it all.                    20

  _Aum._ Madame, tis onely this; his libertie--

  _Coun._ His libertie! Without that health is nothing.
  Why live I, but to aske in doubt of that?
  Is that bereft him?

  _Aum._              You'll againe prevent me.

  _Coun._ No more, I sweare; I must heare, and together               25
  Come all my miserie! Ile hold, though I burst.

  _Aum._ Then, madame, thus it fares; he was envited,
  By way of honour to him, to take view
  Of all the powers his brother Baligny
  Hath in his government; which rang'd in battailes,                  30
  Maillard, Lieutenant to the Governour,
  Having receiv'd strickt letters from the King,
  To traine him to the musters and betray him
  To their supprise; which, with Chalon in chiefe,
  And other captaines (all the field put hard                         35
  By his incredible valour for his scape)
  They haplesly and guiltlesly perform'd;
  And to Bastile hee's now led prisoner.

  _Count._ What change is here! how are my hopes prevented!
  O my most faithfull servant, thou betraid!                          40
  Will Kings make treason lawfull? Is societie
  (To keepe which onely Kings were first ordain'd)
  Lesse broke in breaking faith twixt friend and friend
  Then twixt the King and subject? let them feare
  Kings presidents in licence lacke no danger.                        45
  Kings are compar'd to Gods, and should be like them,
  Full in all right, in nought superfluous,
  Nor nothing straining past right for their right.
  Raigne justly, and raigne safely. Policie
  Is but a guard corrupted, and a way                                 50
  Venter'd in desarts, without guide or path.
  Kings punish subjects errors with their owne.
  Kings are like archers, and their subjects, shafts:
  For as when archers let their arrowes flye,
  They call to them, and bid them flye or fall,                       55
  As if twere in the free power of the shaft
  To flye or fall, when onely tis the strength,
  Straight shooting, compasse given it by the archer,
  That makes it hit or misse; and doing eyther,
  Hee's to be prais'd or blam'd, and not the shaft:                   60
  So Kings to subjects crying, "Doe, doe not this,"
  Must to them by their owne examples strength,
  The straightnesse of their acts, and equall compasse,
  Give subjects power t'obey them in the like;
  Not shoote them forth with faultie ayme and strength,               65
  And lay the fault in them for flying amisse.

  _Aum._ But for your servant, I dare sweare him guiltlesse.

  _Count._ Hee would not for his kingdome traitor be;
  His lawes are not so true to him, as he.
  O knew I how to free him, by way forc'd                             70
  Through all their armie, I would flye, and doe it:
  And had I of my courage and resolve
  But tenne such more, they should not all retaine him.
  But I will never die, before I give
  Maillard an hundred slashes with a sword,                           75
  Chalon an hundred breaches with a pistoll.
  They could not all have taken Clermont D'Ambois
  Without their treacherie; he had bought his bands out
  With their slave blouds: but he was credulous;
  Hee would beleeve, since he would be beleev'd;                      80
  Your noblest natures are most credulous.
  Who gives no trust, all trust is apt to breake;
  Hate like hell mouth who thinke not what they speake.

  _Aum._ Well, madame, I must tender my attendance
  On him againe. Will't please you to returne                         85
  No service to him by me?

  _Count._                 Fetch me straight
  My little cabinet.                              _Exit Ancil[la]._
                     Tis little, tell him,
  And much too little for his matchlesse love:
  But as in him the worths of many men
  Are close contracted, (_Intr[at] Ancil[la.]_) so in this are
      jewels                                                          90
  Worth many cabinets. Here, with this (good sir)
  Commend my kindest service to my servant,
  Thanke him, with all my comforts, and, in them,
  With all my life for them; all sent from him
  In his remembrance of mee and true love.                            95
  And looke you tell him, tell him how I lye
                                  _She kneeles downe at his feete._
  Prostrate at feet of his accurst misfortune,
  Pouring my teares out, which shall ever fall,
  Till I have pour'd for him out eyes and all.

  _Aum._ O madame, this will kill him; comfort you                   100
  With full assurance of his quicke acquitall;
  Be not so passionate; rise, cease your teares.

  _Coun._ Then must my life cease. Teares are all the vent
  My life hath to scape death. Teares please me better
  Then all lifes comforts, being the naturall seede                  105
  Of heartie sorrow. As a tree fruit beares,
  So doth an undissembled sorrow, teares.
                    _Hee raises her, and leades her out. Exe[unt]._

  _Usher._ This might have beene before, and sav'd much charge.


           5  _brack's_. Emended by all editors; Q, brack.

          20  _and should; expresse it all_. So punctuated by all
              editors; Q, and should expresse it all.

          31  _Maillard_. Q, Mailiard.


  _A Room at the Court in Paris._]

          _Enter Henry, Guise, Baligny, Esp[ernone], Soisson.
          Pericot with pen, incke, and paper._

  _Guise._ Now, sir, I hope you're much abus'd eyes see
  In my word for my Clermont, what a villaine
  Hee was that whisper'd in your jealous eare
  His owne blacke treason in suggesting Clermonts,
  Colour'd with nothing but being great with mee.                      5
  Signe then this writ for his deliverie;
  Your hand was never urg'd with worthier boldnesse:
  Come, pray, sir, signe it. Why should Kings be praid
  To acts of justice? tis a reverence
  Makes them despis'd, and showes they sticke and tyre                10
  In what their free powers should be hot as fire.

  _Henry._ Well, take your will, sir;--Ile have mine ere long.--
  But wherein is this Clermont such a rare one?

  _Gui._ In his most gentle and unwearied minde,
  Rightly to vertue fram'd in very nature;                            15
  In his most firme inexorable spirit
  To be remov'd from any thing hee chuseth
  For worthinesse; or beare the lest perswasion
  To what is base, or fitteth not his object;
  In his contempt of riches, and of greatnesse                        20
  In estimation of th'idolatrous vulgar;
  His scorne of all things servile and ignoble,
  Though they could gaine him never such advancement;
  His liberall kinde of speaking what is truth,
  In spight of temporising; the great rising                          25
  And learning of his soule so much the more
  Against ill fortune, as shee set her selfe
  Sharpe against him or would present most hard,
  To shunne the malice of her deadliest charge;
  His detestation of his speciall friends,                            30
  When he perceiv'd their tyrannous will to doe,
  Or their abjection basely to sustaine
  Any injustice that they could revenge;
  The flexibilitie of his most anger,
  Even in the maine careere and fury of it,                           35
  When any object of desertfull pittie
  Offers it selfe to him; his sweet disposure,
  As much abhorring to behold as doe
  Any unnaturall and bloudy action;
  His just contempt of jesters, parasites,                            40
  Servile observers, and polluted tongues--
  In short, this Senecall man is found in him,
  Hee may with heavens immortall powers compare,
  To whom the day and fortune equall are;
  Come faire or foule, whatever chance can fall,                      45
  Fixt in himselfe, hee still is one to all.

  _Hen._ Showes he to others thus?

  _Omnes._                         To all that know him.

  _Hen._ And apprehend I this man for a traitor?

  _Gui._ These are your Machevilian villaines,
  Your bastard Teucers, that, their mischiefes done,                  50
  Runne to your shield for shelter; Cacusses
  That cut their too large murtherous theveries
  To their dens length still. Woe be to that state
  Where treacherie guards, and ruine makes men great!

  _Hen._ Goe, take my letters for him, and release him.               55

  _Om._ Thankes to your Highnesse; ever live your Highnesse!

  _Baligny._ Better a man were buried quicke then live
  A propertie for state and spoile to thrive.               _Exit._


              _Aversus._ In left margin in Q.

          51  _Cacusses_. Ed.; Q, Caucusses.


  _A Country Road, between Cambrai and Paris._]

          _Enter Clermont, Mail[lard], Chal[on] with Souldiers._

  _Maillard._ Wee joy you take a chance so ill, so well.

  _Clermont._ Who ever saw me differ in acceptance
  Of eyther fortune?

  _Chalon._          What, love bad like good!
  How should one learne that?

  _Cler._                     To love nothing outward,
  Or not within our owne powers to command;                            5
  And so being sure of every thing we love,
  Who cares to lose the rest? if any man
  Would neyther live nor dye in his free choise,
  But as hee sees necessitie will have it
  (Which if hee would resist, he strives in vaine)                    10
  What can come neere him that hee doth not well?
  And if in worst events his will be done,
  How can the best be better? all is one.

  _Mail._ Me thinkes tis prettie.

  _Cler._                         Put no difference
  If you have this, or not this; but as children                      15
  Playing at coites ever regard their game,
  And care not for their coites, so let a man
  The things themselves that touch him not esteeme,
  But his free power in well disposing them.

  _Chal._ Prettie, from toyes!

  _Cler._                      Me thinkes this double disticke        20
  Seemes prettily too to stay superfluous longings:
  "Not to have want, what riches doth exceede?
  Not to be subject, what superiour thing?
  He that to nought aspires, doth nothing neede;
  Who breakes no law is subject to no King."                          25

  _Mail._ This goes to mine eare well, I promise you.

  _Chal._ O, but tis passing hard to stay one thus.

  _Cler._ Tis so; rancke custome raps men so beyond it.
  And as tis hard so well mens dores to barre
  To keepe the cat out and th'adulterer:                              30
  So tis as hard to curbe affections so
  Wee let in nought to make them over-flow.
  And as of Homers verses, many critickes
  On those stand of which times old moth hath eaten
  The first or last feete, and the perfect parts                      35
  Of his unmatched poeme sinke beneath,
  With upright gasping and sloath dull as death:
  So the unprofitable things of life,
  And those we cannot compasse, we affect;
  All that doth profit and wee have, neglect,                         40
  Like covetous and basely getting men
  That, gathering much, use never what they keepe;
  But for the least they loose, extreamely weepe.

  _Mail._ This prettie talking, and our horses walking
  Downe this steepe hill, spends time with equall profit.             45

  _Cler._ Tis well bestow'd on ye; meate and men sicke
  Agree like this and you: and yet even this
  Is th'end of all skill, power, wealth, all that is.

  _Chal._ I long to heare, sir, how your mistresse takes this.

          _Enter Aumal with a cabinet._

  _Mail._ Wee soone shall know it; see Aumall return'd.               50

  _Aumale._ Ease to your bands, sir!

  _Cler._                            Welcome, worthy friend!

  _Chal._ How tooke his noblest mistresse your sad message?

  _Aum._ As great rich men take sodaine povertie.
  I never witness'd a more noble love,
  Nor a more ruthfull sorrow: I well wisht                            55
  Some other had beene master of my message.

  _Mail._ Y'are happy, sir, in all things, but this one
  Of your unhappy apprehension.

  _Cler._ This is to mee, compar'd with her much mone,
  As one teare is to her whole passion.                               60

  _Aum._ Sir, shee commends her kindest service to you,
  And this rich cabinet.

  _Chal._                O happy man!
  This may enough hold to redeeme your bands.

  _Cler._ These clouds, I doubt not, will be soone blowne over.

          _Enter Baligny, with his discharge: Renel, and others._

  _Aum._ Your hope is just and happy; see, sir, both                  65
  In both the looks of these.

  _Baligny._                  Here's a discharge
  For this your prisoner, my good Lord Lieutenant.

  _Mail._ Alas, sir, I usurpe that stile, enforc't,
  And hope you know it was not my aspiring.

  _Bal._ Well, sir, my wrong aspir'd past all mens hopes.             70

  _Mail._ I sorrow for it, sir.

  _Renel._                      You see, sir, there
  Your prisoners discharge autenticall.

  _Mail._ It is, sir, and I yeeld it him with gladnesse.

  _Bal._ Brother, I brought you downe to much good purpose.

  _Cler._ Repeate not that, sir; the amends makes all.                75

  _Ren._ I joy in it, my best and worthiest friend;
  O, y'have a princely fautor of the Guise.

  _Bal._ I thinke I did my part to.

  _Ren._                            Well, sir, all
  Is in the issue well: and (worthiest friend)
  Here's from your friend, the Guise; here from the Countesse,        80
  Your brothers mistresse, the contents whereof
  I know, and must prepare you now to please
  Th'unrested spirit of your slaughtered brother,
  If it be true, as you imagin'd once,
  His apparition show'd it. The complot                               85
  Is now laid sure betwixt us; therefore haste
  Both to your great friend (who hath some use waightie
  For your repaire to him) and to the Countesse,
  Whose satisfaction is no lesse important.

  _Cler._ I see all, and will haste as it importeth.                  90
  And good friend, since I must delay a little
  My wisht attendance on my noblest mistresse,
  Excuse me to her, with returne of this,
  And endlesse protestation of my service;
  And now become as glad a messenger,                                 95
  As you were late a wofull.

  _Aum._                     Happy change!
  I ever will salute thee with my service.                  _Exit._

  _Bal._ Yet more newes, brother; the late jesting Monsieur
  Makes now your brothers dying prophesie equall
  At all parts, being dead as he presag'd.                           100

  _Ren._ Heaven shield the Guise from seconding that truth
  With what he likewise prophesied on him!

  _Cler._ It hath enough, twas grac'd with truth in one;
  To'th other falshood and confusion!
  Leade to the Court, sir.

  _Bal._                   You Ile leade no more;                    105
  It was to ominous and foule before.                     _Exeunt._

          _Finis Actus quarti._


         105  _to the_. Shepherd, Phelps; Q, to'th.


  [_A Room in the Palace of the Duke of Guise._]

          _Ascendit Umbra Bussi._

  _Umbra Bussi._ Up from the chaos of eternall night
  (To which the whole digestion of the world
  Is now returning) once more I ascend,
  And bide the cold dampe of this piercing ayre,
  To urge the justice whose almightie word                             5
  Measures the bloudy acts of impious men
  With equall pennance, who in th'act it selfe
  Includes th'infliction, which like chained shot
  Batter together still; though (as the thunder
  Seemes, by mens duller hearing then their sight,                    10
  To breake a great time after lightning forth,
  Yet both at one time teare the labouring cloud)
  So men thinke pennance of their ils is slow,
  Though th'ill and pennance still together goe.
  Reforme, yee ignorant men, your manlesse lives                      15
  Whose lawes yee thinke are nothing but your lusts;
  When leaving (but for supposition sake)
  The body of felicitie, religion,
  Set in the midst of Christendome, and her head
  Cleft to her bosome, one halfe one way swaying,                     20
  Another th'other, all the Christian world
  And all her lawes whose observation
  Stands upon faith, above the power of reason--
  Leaving (I say) all these, this might suffice
  To fray yee from your vicious swindge in ill                        25
  And set you more on fire to doe more good;
  That since the world (as which of you denies?)
  Stands by proportion, all may thence conclude
  That all the joynts and nerves sustaining nature
  As well may breake, and yet the world abide,                        30
  As any one good unrewarded die,
  Or any one ill scape his penaltie.      _The Ghost stands close._

          _Enter Guise, Clermont._

  _Guise._ Thus (friend) thou seest how all good men would thrive,
  Did not the good thou prompt'st me with prevent
  The jealous ill pursuing them in others.                            35
  But now thy dangers are dispatcht, note mine.
  Hast thou not heard of that admired voyce
  That at the barricadoes spake to mee,
  (No person seene) "Let's leade my lord to Reimes"?

  _Clermont._ Nor could you learne the person?

  _Gui._                                       By no meanes.          40

  _Cler._ Twas but your fancie, then, a waking dreame:
  For as in sleepe, which bindes both th'outward senses
  And the sense common to, th'imagining power
  (Stird up by formes hid in the memories store,
  Or by the vapours of o'er-flowing humours                           45
  In bodies full and foule, and mixt with spirits)
  Faines many strange, miraculous images,
  In which act it so painfully applyes
  It selfe to those formes that the common sense
  It actuates with his motion, and thereby                            50
  Those fictions true seeme and have reall act:
  So, in the strength of our conceits awake,
  The cause alike doth [oft] like fictions make.

  _Gui._ Be what it will, twas a presage of something
  Waightie and secret, which th'advertisements                        55
  I have receiv'd from all parts, both without
  And in this kingdome, as from Rome and Spaine,
  Lorraine and Savoye, gives me cause to thinke,
  All writing that our plots catastrophe,
  For propagation of the Catholique cause,                            60
  Will bloudy prove, dissolving all our counsailes.

  _Cler._ Retyre, then, from them all.

  _Gui._                               I must not doe so.
  The Arch-Bishop of Lyons tels me plaine
  I shall be said then to abandon France
  In so important an occasion;                                        65
  And that mine enemies (their profit making
  Of my faint absence) soone would let that fall,
  That all my paines did to this height exhale.

  _Cler._ Let all fall that would rise unlawfully!
  Make not your forward spirit in vertues right                       70
  A property for vice, by thrusting on
  Further then all your powers can fetch you off.
  It is enough, your will is infinite
  To all things vertuous and religious,
  Which, within limits kept, may without danger                       75
  Let vertue some good from your graces gather.
  Avarice of all is ever nothings father.

  _Umb._ Danger (the spurre of all great mindes) is ever
  The curbe to your tame spirits; you respect not
  (With all your holinesse of life and learning)                      80
  More then the present, like illiterate vulgars;
  Your minde (you say) kept in your fleshes bounds
  Showes that mans will must rul'd be by his power:
  When by true doctrine you are taught to live
  Rather without the body then within,                                85
  And rather to your God still then your selfe.
  To live to Him is to doe all things fitting
  His image in which like Himselfe we live;
  To be His image is to doe those things
  That make us deathlesse, which by death is onely                    90
  Doing those deedes that fit eternitie;
  And those deedes are the perfecting that justice
  That makes the world last, which proportion is
  Of punishment and wreake for every wrong,
  As well as for right a reward as strong:                            95
  Away, then! use the meanes thou hast to right
  The wrong I suffer'd. What corrupted law
  Leaves unperform'd in Kings, doe thou supply,
  And be above them all in dignitie.                        _Exit._

  _Gui._ Why stand'st thou still thus, and applyest thine eares      100
  And eyes to nothing?

  _Cler._              Saw you nothing here?

  _Gui._ Thou dream'st awake now; what was here to see?

  _Cler._ My brothers spirit, urging his revenge.

  _Gui._ Thy brothers spirit! pray thee mocke me not.

  _Cler._ No, by my love and service.

  _Gui._                              Would he rise,                 105
  And not be thundring threates against the Guise?

  _Cler._ You make amends for enmitie to him,
  With tenne parts more love and desert of mee;
  And as you make your hate to him no let
  Of any love to mee, no more beares hee                             110
  (Since you to me supply it) hate to you.
  Which reason and which justice is perform'd
  In spirits tenne parts more then fleshy men;
  To whose fore-sights our acts and thoughts lie open:
  And therefore, since hee saw the treacherie                        115
  Late practis'd by my brother Baligny,
  Hee would not honor his hand with the justice
  (As hee esteemes it) of his blouds revenge,
  To which my sister needes would have him sworne,
  Before she would consent to marry him.                             120

  _Gui._ O Baligny!--who would beleeve there were
  A man that (onely since his lookes are rais'd
  Upwards, and have but sacred heaven in sight)
  Could beare a minde so more then divellish?
  As for the painted glory of the countenance,                       125
  Flitting in Kings, doth good for nought esteeme,
  And the more ill hee does, the better seeme.

  _Cler._ Wee easily may beleeve it, since we see
  In this worlds practise few men better be.
  Justice to live doth nought but justice neede,                     130
  But policie must still on mischiefe feede.
  Untruth, for all his ends, truths name doth sue in;
  None safely live but those that study ruine.
  A good man happy is a common good;
  Ill men advanc'd live of the common bloud.                         135

  _Gui._ But this thy brothers spirit startles mee,
  These spirits seld or never hanting men
  But some mishap ensues.

  _Cler._                 Ensue what can;
  Tyrants may kill but never hurt a man;
  All to his good makes, spight of death and hell.                   140

          _Enter Aumall._

  _Aumale._ All the desert of good renowne your Highnesse!

  _Gui._ Welcome, Aumall!

  _Cler._                 My good friend, friendly welcome!
  How tooke my noblest mistresse the chang'd newes?

  _Aum._ It came too late sir, for those loveliest eyes
  (Through which a soule look't so divinely loving,                  145
  Teares nothing uttering her distresse enough)
  She wept quite out, and, like two falling starres,
  Their dearest sights quite vanisht with her teares.

  _Cler._ All good forbid it!

  _Gui._                      What events are these!

  _Cler._ All must be borne, my lord; and yet this chance            150
  Would willingly enforce a man to cast off
  All power to beare with comfort, since hee sees
  In this our comforts made our miseries.

  _Gui._ How strangely thou art lov'd of both the sexes;
  Yet thou lov'st neyther, but the good of both.                     155

  _Cler._ In love of women my affection first
  Takes fire out of the fraile parts of my bloud;
  Which, till I have enjoy'd, is passionate
  Like other lovers; but, fruition past,
  I then love out of judgement, the desert                           160
  Of her I love still sticking in my heart,
  Though the desire and the delight be gone,
  Which must chance still, since the comparison
  Made upon tryall twixt what reason loves,
  And what affection, makes in mee the best                          165
  Ever preferd, what most love, valuing lest.

  _Gui._ Thy love being judgement then, and of the minde,
  Marry thy worthiest mistresse now being blinde.

  _Cler._ If there were love in mariage, so I would;
  But I denie that any man doth love,                                170
  Affecting wives, maides, widowes, any women:
  For neither flyes love milke, although they drowne
  In greedy search thereof; nor doth the bee
  Love honey, though the labour of her life
  Is spent in gathering it; nor those that fat                       175
  On beasts, or fowles, doe any thing therein
  For any love: for as when onely nature
  Moves men to meate, as farre as her power rules,
  Shee doth it with a temperate appetite,
  The too much men devoure abhorring nature,                         180
  And in our most health is our most disease:
  So, when humanitie rules men and women,
  Tis for societie confinde in reason.
  But what excites the beds desire in bloud,
  By no meanes justly can be construed love;                         185
  For when love kindles any knowing spirit,
  It ends in vertue and effects divine,
  And is in friendship chaste and masculine.

  _Gui._ Thou shalt my mistresse be; me thinkes my bloud
  Is taken up to all love with thy vertues.                          190
  And howsoever other men despise
  These paradoxes strange and too precise,
  Since they hold on the right way of our reason,
  I could attend them ever. Come, away;
  Performe thy brothers thus importun'd wreake;                      195
  And I will see what great affaires the King
  Hath to employ my counsell which he seemes
  Much to desire, and more and more esteemes.             _Exeunt._


          53  _doth oft like_. Emended by ed.; Q, doth of like.

          58  _Lorraine_. Emended by ed.; Q, Soccaine; see note on

          90  Repunctuated by ed.; Q has (;) at the end of the

         141  _All . . . renowne_. Q, All the desert of good,
              renowne your Highnesse.

         176  _On_. Shepherd, Phelps; Q, Or.


  _A Room at the Court._]

          _Enter Henry, Baligny, with sixe of the guard._

  _Henry._ Saw you his sawcie forcing of my hand
  To D'Ambois freedome?

  _Baligny._            Saw, and through mine eyes
  Let fire into my heart, that burn'd to beare
  An insolence so giantly austere.

  _Hen._ The more Kings beare at subjects hands, the more              5
  Their lingring justice gathers; that resembles
  The waightie and the goodly-bodied eagle,
  Who (being on earth) before her shady wings
  Can raise her into ayre, a mightie way
  Close by the ground she runnes; but being aloft,                    10
  All shee commands, she flyes at; and the more
  Death in her seres beares, the more time shee stayes
  Her thundry stoope from that on which shee preyes.

  _Bal._ You must be then more secret in the waight
  Of these your shadie counsels, who will else                        15
  Beare (where such sparkes flye as the Guise and D'Ambois)
  Pouder about them. Counsels (as your entrailes)
  Should be unpierst and sound kept; for not those
  Whom you discover you neglect; but ope
  A ruinous passage to your owne best hope.                           20

  _Hen._ Wee have spies set on us, as we on others;
  And therefore they that serve us must excuse us,
  If what wee most hold in our hearts take winde;
  Deceit hath eyes that see into the minde.
  But this plot shall be quicker then their twinckling,               25
  On whose lids Fate with her dead waight shall lie,
  And confidence that lightens ere she die.
  Friends of my Guard, as yee gave othe to be
  True to your Soveraigne, keepe it manfully.
  Your eyes have witnest oft th'ambition                              30
  That never made accesse to me in Guise
  But treason ever sparkled in his eyes;
  Which if you free us of, our safetie shall
  You not our subjects but our patrons call.

  _Omnes._ Our duties binde us; hee is now but dead.                  35

  _Hen._ Wee trust in it, and thanke ye. Baligny,
  Goe lodge their ambush, and thou God, that art
  Fautor of princes, thunder from the skies
  Beneath his hill of pride this gyant Guise.             _Exeunt._


  _A Room in Montsurry's House._]

          _Enter Tamyra with a letter, Charlotte in mans attire._

  _Tamyra._ I see y'are servant, sir, to my deare sister,
  The lady of her loved Baligny.

  _Charlotte._ Madame, I am bound to her vertuous bounties
  For that life which I offer, in her service,
  To the revenge of her renowned brother.                              5

  _Tam._ She writes to mee as much, and much desires
  That you may be the man, whose spirit shee knowes
  Will cut short off these long and dull delayes
  Hitherto bribing the eternall Justice:
  Which I beleeve, since her unmatched spirit                         10
  Can judge of spirits that have her sulphure in them.
  But I must tell you that I make no doubt
  Her living brother will revenge her dead,
  On whom the dead impos'd the taske, and hee,
  I know, will come t'effect it instantly.                            15

  _Char._ They are but words in him; beleeve them not.

  _Tam._ See; this is the vault where he must enter;
  Where now I thinke hee is.

          _Enter Renel at the vault, with the Countesse being

  _Renel._                   God save you, lady!
  What gentleman is this, with whom you trust
  The deadly waightie secret of this houre?                           20

  _Tam._ One that your selfe will say I well may trust.

  _Ren._ Then come up, madame.         _He helps the Countesse up._
                               See here, honour'd lady,
  A Countesse that in loves mishap doth equall
  At all parts your wrong'd selfe, and is the mistresse
  Of your slaine servants brother; in whose love,                     25
  For his late treachrous apprehension,
  She wept her faire eyes from her ivory browes,
  And would have wept her soule out, had not I
  Promist to bring her to this mortall quarrie,
  That by her lost eyes for her servants love                         30
  She might conjure him from this sterne attempt,
  In which (by a most ominous dreame shee had)
  Shee knowes his death fixt, and that never more
  Out of this place the sunne shall see him live.

  _Char._ I am provided, then, to take his place                      35
  And undertaking on me.

  _Ren._                 You sir, why?

  _Char._ Since I am charg'd so by my mistresse,
  His mournfull sister.

  _Tam._                See her letter, sir.          _Hee reades._
  Good madame, I rue your fate more then mine,
  And know not how to order these affaires,                           40
  They stand on such occurrents.

  _Ren._                         This, indeede,
  I know to be your lady mistresse hand;
  And know besides, his brother will and must
  Indure no hand in this revenge but his.

          _Enter Umbr[a] Bussy._

  _Umbra._ Away, dispute no more; get up, and see!                    45
  Clermont must auchthor this just tragedie.

  _Coun._ Who's that?

  _Ren._              The spirit of Bussy.

  _Tam._                                   O my servant!
  Let us embrace.

  _Umb._          Forbeare! The ayre, in which
  My figures liknesse is imprest, will blast.
  Let my revenge for all loves satisfie,                              50
  In which, dame, feare not, Clermont shall not dye.
  No word dispute more; up, and see th'event.      _Exeunt Ladyes._
  Make the guard sure, Renel; and then the doores
  Command to make fast, when the Earle is in.       _Exit Ren[el]._
  The blacke soft-footed houre is now on wing,                        55
  Which, for my just wreake, ghosts shall celebrate
  With dances dire and of infernall state.                  _Exit._


           2  _loved_. Shepherd, Phelps; Q, lou'd.

           4  _her service_. Ed.; Q, her vertuous service;
              vertuous, which is obviously hypermetrical, has been
              repeated by mistake from the previous line.

       47-48. Three lines in Q, broken at _Bussy_, _embrace_,


  _An Ante-room to the Council-Chamber._]

          _Enter Guise._

  _Guise._ Who sayes that death is naturall, when nature
  Is with the onely thought of it dismaid?
  I have had lotteries set up for my death,
  And I have drawne beneath my trencher one,
  Knit in my hand-kerchiefe another lot,                               5
  The word being, "Y'are a dead man if you enter";
  And these words this imperfect bloud and flesh
  Shrincke at in spight of me, their solidst part
  Melting like snow within mee with colde fire.
  I hate my selfe, that, seeking to rule Kings,                       10
  I cannot curbe my slave. Would any spirit
  Free, manly, princely, wish to live to be
  Commanded by this masse of slaverie,
  Since reason, judgement, resolution,
  And scorne of what we feare, will yeeld to feare?                   15
  While this same sincke of sensualitie swels,
  Who would live sinking in it? and not spring
  Up to the starres, and leave this carrion here,
  For wolfes, and vultures, and for dogges to teare?
  O Clermont D'Ambois, wert thou here to chide                        20
  This softnesse from my flesh, farre as my reason,
  Farre as my resolution not to stirre
  One foote out of the way for death and hell!
  Let my false man by falshood perish here;
  There's no way else to set my true man cleere.                      25

          _Enter Messenger._

  _Messenger._ The King desires your Grace to come to Councill.

  _Gui._ I come. It cannot be; hee will not dare
  To touch me with a treacherie so prophane.
  Would Clermont now were here, to try how hee
  Would lay about him, if this plot should be:                        30
  Here would be tossing soules into the skie.
  Who ever knew bloud sav'd by treacherie?
  Well, I must on, and will; what should I feare?
  Not against two, Alcides; against two,
  And Hercules to friend, the Guise will goe.                         35

          _He takes up the Arras, and the Guard enters upon him:
          hee drawes._

  _Gui._ Holde, murtherers!                _They strike him downe._
                            So then, this is confidence
  In greatnes, not in goodnes. Wher is the King?

          _The King comes in sight with Es[pernone], Sois[son], &

  Let him appeare to justifie his deede,
  In spight of my betrai'd wounds; ere my soule
  Take her flight through them, and my tongue hath strength           40
  To urge his tyrannie.

  _Henry._              See, sir, I am come
  To justifie it before men and God,
  Who knowes with what wounds in my heart for woe
  Of your so wounded faith I made these wounds,
  Forc't to it by an insolence of force                               45
  To stirre a stone; nor is a rocke, oppos'd
  To all the billowes of the churlish sea,
  More beate and eaten with them then was I
  With your ambitious, mad idolatrie;
  And this bloud I shed is to save the bloud                          50
  Of many thousands.

  _Gui._             That's your white pretext;
  But you will finde one drop of bloud shed lawlesse
  Will be the fountaine to a purple sea.
  The present lust and shift made for Kings lives,
  Against the pure forme and just power of law,                       55
  Will thrive like shifters purchases; there hangs
  A blacke starre in the skies, to which the sunne
  Gives yet no light, will raine a poyson'd shower
  Into your entrailes, that will make you feele
  How little safetie lies in treacherous steele.                      60

  _Hen._ Well, sir, Ile beare it; y'have a brother to
  Bursts with like threates, the skarlet Cardinall--
  Seeke, and lay hands on him; and take this hence,
  Their blouds, for all you, on my conscience!              _Exit._

  _Gui._ So, sir, your full swindge take; mine death hath curb'd.     65
  Clermont, farewell! O didst thou see but this!
  But it is better; see by this the ice
  Broke to thine owne bloud, which thou wilt despise
  When thou hear'st mine shed. Is there no friend here
  Will beare my love to him?

  _Aumale._                  I will, my lord.                         70

  _Gui._ Thankes with my last breath: recommend me, then,
  To the most worthy of the race of men.            _Dyes. Exeunt._


  _A Room in Montsurry's House._]

          _Enter Monts[urry] and Tamyra._

  _Montsurry._ Who have you let into my house?

  _Tamyra._                                    I? none.

  _Mont._ Tis false; I savour the rancke bloud of foes
  In every corner.

  _Tam._           That you may doe well;
  It is the bloud you lately shed you smell.

  _Mont._ Sdeath! the vault opens.               _The gulfe opens._

  _Tam._                           What vault? hold your sword.        5

                                                _Clermont ascends._

  _Clermont._ No, let him use it.

  _Mont._                         Treason! murther! murther!

  _Cler._ Exclaime not; tis in vaine, and base in you,
  Being one to onely one.

  _Mont._                 O bloudy strumpet!

  _Cler._ With what bloud charge you her? it may be mine
  As well as yours; there shall not any else                          10
  Enter or touch you: I conferre no guards,
  Nor imitate the murtherous course you tooke,
  But single here will have my former challenge
  Now answer'd single; not a minute more
  My brothers bloud shall stay for his revenge,                       15
  If I can act it; if not, mine shall adde
  A double conquest to you, that alone
  Put it to fortune now, and use no ods.
  Storme not, nor beate your selfe thus gainst the dores,
  Like to a savage vermine in a trap:                                 20
  All dores are sure made, and you cannot scape
  But by your valour.

  _Mont._             No, no, come and kill mee.

  _Cler._ If you will die so like a beast, you shall;
  But when the spirit of a man may save you,
  Doe not so shame man, and a Nobleman.                               25

  _Mont._ I doe not show this basenesse that I feare thee,
  But to prevent and shame thy victory,
  Which of one base is base, and so Ile die.

  _Cler._ Here, then.

  _Mont._             Stay, hold! One thought hath harden'd me,
                                                    _He starts up._
  And since I must afford thee victorie,                              30
  It shall be great and brave, if one request
  Thou wilt admit mee.

  _Cler._              What's that?

  _Mont._                           Give me leave
  To fetch and use the sword thy brother gave mee,
  When he was bravely giving up his life.

  _Cler._ No; Ile not fight against my brothers sword;                35
  Not that I feare it, but since tis a tricke
  For you to show your backe.

  _Mont._                     By all truth, no:
  Take but my honourable othe, I will not.

  _Cler._ Your honourable othe! Plaine truth no place has
  Where othes are honourable.

  _Tam._                      Trust not his othe.                     40
  Hee will lie like a lapwing; when shee flyes
  Farre from her sought nest, still "Here tis" shee cryes.

  _Mont._ Out on thee, damme of divels! I will quite
  Disgrace thy bravos conquest, die, not fight.       _Lyes downe._

  _Tam._ Out on my fortune, to wed such an abject!                    45
  Now is the peoples voyce the voyce of God;
  Hee that to wound a woman vants so much,
  As hee did mee, a man dares never touch.

  _Cler._ Revenge your wounds now, madame; I resigne him
  Up to your full will, since hee will not fight.                     50
  First you shall torture him (as hee did you,
  And justice wils) and then pay I my vow.
  Here, take this ponyard.

  _Mont._                  Sinke earth, open heaven,
  And let fall vengeance!

  _Tam._                  Come sir, good sir, hold him.

  _Mont._ O shame of women, whither art thou fled!                    55

  _Cler._ Why (good my lord) is it a greater shame
  For her then you? come, I will be the bands
  You us'd to her, prophaning her faire hands.

  _Mont._ No, sir, Ile fight now, and the terror be
  Of all you champions to such as shee.                               60
  I did but thus farre dally; now observe.
  O all you aking fore-heads that have rob'd
  Your hands of weapons and your hearts of valour,
  Joyne in mee all your rages and rebutters,
  And into dust ram this same race of Furies;                         65
  In this one relicke of the Ambois gall,
  In his one purple soule shed, drowne it all.             _Fight._

  _Mont._ Now give me breath a while.

  _Cler._                             Receive it freely.

  _Mont._ What thinke y'a this now?

  _Cler._                            It is very noble,
  Had it beene free, at least, and of your selfe;                     70
  And thus wee see (where valour most doth vant)
  What tis to make a coward valiant.

  _Mont._ Now I shall grace your conquest.

  _Cler._                                  That you shall.

  _Mont._ If you obtaine it.

  _Cler._                    True, sir, tis in fortune.

  _Mont._ If you were not a D'Ambois, I would scarce                  75
  Change lives with you, I feele so great a change
  In my tall spirits breath'd, I thinke, with the breath
  A D'Ambois breathes here; and necessitie
  (With whose point now prickt on, and so whose helpe
  My hands may challenge) that doth all men conquer,                  80
  If shee except not you of all men onely,
  May change the case here.

  _Cler._                   True, as you are chang'd;
  Her power, in me urg'd, makes y'another man
  Then yet you ever were.

  _Mont._                 Well, I must on.

  _Cler._ Your lordship must by all meanes.

  _Mont._                                   Then at all.              85

                                  _Fights, and D'Ambois hurts him._

          _[Enter Renel, the Countess, and] Charlotte above._

  _Charlotte._ Death of my father, what a shame is this!
  Sticke in his hands thus!                       _She gets downe._

  _Renel [trying to stop her]._ Gentle sir, forbeare!

  _Countess._ Is he not slaine yet?

  _Ren._                            No, madame, but hurt
  In divers parts of him.

  _Mont._                 Y'have given it me,
  And yet I feele life for another vennie.                            90

          _Enter Charlotte [below]._

  _Cler._ What would you, sir?

  _Char._                      I would performe this combat.

  _Cler._ Against which of us?

  _Char._                      I care not much if twere
  Against thy selfe; thy sister would have sham'd
  To have thy brothers wreake with any man
  In single combat sticke so in her fingers.                          95

  _Cler._ My sister! know you her?

  _Tam._                           I, sir, shee sent him
  With this kinde letter, to performe the wreake
  Of my deare servant.

  _Cler._              Now, alas! good sir,
  Thinke you you could doe more?

  _Char._                        Alas! I doe;
  And wer't not I, fresh, sound, should charge a man                 100
  Weary and wounded, I would long ere this
  Have prov'd what I presume on.

  _Cler._                        Y'have a minde
  Like to my sister, but have patience now;
  If next charge speede not, Ile resigne to you.

  _Mont._ Pray thee, let him decide it.

  _Cler._                               No, my lord,                 105
  I am the man in fate; and since so bravely
  Your lordship stands mee, scape but one more charge,
  And, on my life, Ile set your life at large.

  _Mont._ Said like a D'Ambois, and if now I die,
  Sit joy and all good on thy victorie!                              110

                                          _Fights, and fals downe._

  _Mont._ Farewell! I hartily forgive thee; wife,
  And thee; let penitence spend thy rest of life.
                   _Hee gives his hand to Cler[mont] and his wife._

  _Cler._ Noble and Christian!

  _Tam._                       O, it breakes my heart.

  _Cler._ And should; for all faults found in him before
  These words, this end, makes full amends and more.                 115
  Rest, worthy soule; and with it the deare spirit
  Of my lov'd brother rest in endlesse peace!
  Soft lie thy bones; Heaven be your soules abode;
  And to your ashes be the earth no lode!

          _Musicke, and the Ghost of Bussy enters, leading the
          Ghost[s] of the Guise, Monsieur, Cardinall Guise, and
          Shattilion; they dance about the dead body, and exeunt._

  _Cler._ How strange is this! The Guise amongst these spirits,      120
  And his great brother Cardinall, both yet living!
  And that the rest with them with joy thus celebrate
  This our revenge! This certainely presages
  Some instant death both to the Guise and Cardinall.
  That the Shattilions ghost to should thus joyne                    125
  In celebration of this just revenge
  With Guise that bore a chiefe stroke in his death,
  It seemes that now he doth approve the act;
  And these true shadowes of the Guise and Cardinall,
  Fore-running thus their bodies, may approve                        130
  That all things to be done, as here wee live,
  Are done before all times in th'other life.
  That spirits should rise in these times yet are fables;
  Though learnedst men hold that our sensive spirits
  A little time abide about the graves                               135
  Of their deceased bodies, and can take,
  In colde condenc't ayre, the same formes they had
  When they were shut up in this bodies shade.

          _Enter Aumall._

  _Aumale._ O sir, the Guise is slaine!

  _Cler._                               Avert it heaven!

  _Aum._ Sent for to Councill by the King, an ambush                 140
  (Lodg'd for the purpose) rusht on him, and tooke
  His princely life; who sent (in dying then)
  His love to you, as to the best of men.

  _Cler._ The worst and most accursed of things creeping
  On earths sad bosome. Let me pray yee all                          145
  A little to forbeare, and let me use
  Freely mine owne minde in lamenting him.
  Ile call yee straight againe.

  _Aum._                        We will forbeare,
  And leave you free, sir.                                _Exeunt._

  _Cler._                  Shall I live, and hee
  Dead, that alone gave meanes of life to me?                        150
  Theres no disputing with the acts of Kings;
  Revenge is impious on their sacred persons.
  And could I play the worldling (no man loving
  Longer then gaine is reapt or grace from him)
  I should survive; and shall be wondred at                          155
  Though (in mine owne hands being) I end with him:
  But friendship is the sement of two mindes,
  As of one man the soule and body is,
  Of which one cannot sever but the other
  Suffers a needfull separation.                                     160

  _Ren._ I feare your servant, madame: let's descend.
                                    _Descend Ren[el] & Coun[tess]._

  _Cler._ Since I could skill of man, I never liv'd
  To please men worldly, and shall I in death
  Respect their pleasures, making such a jarre
  Betwixt my death and life, when death should make                  165
  The consort sweetest, th'end being proofe and crowne
  To all the skill and worth wee truely owne?
  Guise, O my lord, how shall I cast from me
  The bands and coverts hindring me from thee?
  The garment or the cover of the minde                              170
  The humane soule is; of the soule, the spirit
  The proper robe is; of the spirit, the bloud;
  And of the bloud, the body is the shrowd.
  With that must I beginne then to unclothe,
  And come at th'other. Now, then, as a ship                         175
  Touching at strange and farre removed shores,
  Her men a shore goe, for their severall ends,
  Fresh water, victuals, precious stones, and pearle,
  All yet intentive, when the master cals,
  The ship to put off ready, to leave all                            180
  Their greediest labours, lest they there be left
  To theeves or beasts, or be the countries slaves:
  So, now my master cals, my ship, my venture
  All in one bottome put, all quite put off,
  Gone under saile, and I left negligent                             185
  To all the horrors of the vicious time,
  The farre remov'd shores to all vertuous aimes,
  None favouring goodnesse, none but he respecting
  Pietie or man-hood--shall I here survive,
  Not cast me after him into the sea,                                190
  Rather then here live, readie every houre
  To feede theeves, beasts, and be the slave of power?
  I come, my lord! Clermont, thy creature, comes.
                                               _Hee kils himselfe._

          _Enter Aumal, Tamyra, Charlotte._

  _Aum._ What! lye and languish, Clermont! Cursed man,
  To leave him here thus! hee hath slaine himselfe.                  195

  _Tam._ Misery on misery! O me wretched dame,
  Of all that breath! all heaven turne all his eyes
  In harty envie thus on one poore dame.

  _Char._ Well done, my brother! I did love thee ever,
  But now adore thee: losse of such a friend                         200
  None should survive, of such a brother [none.]
  With my false husband live, and both these slaine!
  Ere I returne to him, Ile turne to earth.

          _Enter Renel leading the Countesse._

  _Ren._ Horror of humane eyes! O Clermont D'Ambois!
  Madame, wee staid too long, your servant's slaine.                 205

  _Coun._ It must be so; he liv'd but in the Guise,
  As I in him. O follow life mine eyes!

  _Tam._ Hide, hide thy snakie head; to cloisters flie;
  In pennance pine; too easie tis to die.

  _Char._ It is. In cloisters then let's all survive.                210
  Madame, since wrath nor griefe can helpe these fortunes,
  Let us forsake the world in which they raigne,
  And for their wisht amends to God complaine.

  _Count._ Tis fit and onely needfull: leade me on;
  In heavens course comfort seeke, in earth is none.      _Exeunt._  215

          _Enter Henry, Espernone, Soissone, and others._

  _Henry._ Wee came indeede too late, which much I rue,
  And would have kept this Clermont as my crowne.
  Take in the dead, and make this fatall roome
  (The house shut up) the famous D'Ambois tombe.           _Exeunt._



              _opens_. Emended by ed.; Q, opes.

          25  _Nobleman_. Two words in Q.

          29  _Cler._ _Here, then._ Placed by Q at the end of l.

          44  _bravos_. Emended by ed.; Q, braves.

       73-74. Three lines in Q, broken at _conquest_, _it_, and

       88-89. Three lines in Q, broken at _yet_, _him_, and _me_.

         125  _Shattilions_. Ed.; Q, Shattilians.

         144  _accursed_. Shepherd, Phelps; Q, accurst.

         201  _none_. Added by ed.

         210  _Char_. Shepherd, Phelps; Q, Cler.

Notes to The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois

_For the meaning of single words see the Glossary._

=168. To the right vertuous . . . Sr. Thomas Howard, &c.= Thomas Howard,
born before 1594, was the second son of the first Earl of Suffolk. He
was created a Knight of the Bath in January, 1605, and in May, 1614, was
appointed Master of the Horse to Charles, Prince of Wales. In 1622 he
became Viscount Andover, and in 1626 Earl of Berkshire. He held a number
of posts till the outbreak of the Civil War, and after the Restoration
was appointed Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Charles II, and Privy
Councillor. He died on July 16, 1669. His daughter Elizabeth married
Dryden, and his sixth son, Sir Robert Howard, became distinguished as a
dramatic writer and critic. Chapman addresses to this patron one of the
Sonnets appended to his translation of the _Iliad_, in which he compares
him to Antilochus, and calls him "valiant, and mild, and most

=169=, 35-36. =the most divine philosopher.= The reference is doubtless
to Epictetus, the influence of whose _Discourses_ appears throughout
_The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_.

=174=, 70. =That thinke . . . that=, that do not consider heavenly bliss
complete folly, when compared with money.

=175=, 71-2. =Well . . . arise.= A hypocritical appeal by Baligny to the
absent Duke of Guise, of whose ambitious schemes he suspects Renel to be
a supporter.

=175=, 79-82. =My brother . . . brother.= Cf. _Introduction_, p. xxxvii.

=176=, 97. =stands now on price with him:= is now the subject of
bargaining between him and me.

=178. Monsieur taking leave of the King.= Henry apparently leaves the
stage, after this formal ceremony of farewell, without speaking, for he
takes no part in the dialogue, and he is not mentioned among those who
_exeunt_ at l. 290.

=178=, 145. =See . . . Brabant.= The expedition of the Duke of Anjou
here alluded to is that of 1582, when he was crowned Duke of Brabant at

=181=, 202-4. =durst . . . lady.= Cf. _Bussy D'Ambois_, I, ii, 96-179.

=181=, 204-8. =emptied . . . were.= Cf. _Bussy D'Ambois_, III, ii,

=182=, 234-5. =When . . . commanders.= Monsieur's description in these
and the following lines of Clermont's and Bussy's first appearance at
Court is purely fictitious.

=183=, 254. =a keele of sea-coale.= A keel was a flat-bottomed boat,
used in the northeast of England, for loading and carrying coal.
Afterwards the word was also used of the amount of coal a keel would
carry, i. e. 8 chaldrons, or 21 tons 4 cwt. Sea-coal was the original
term for the fossil coal borne from Newcastle to London by sea, to
distinguish it from _char-coal_. Cf. Shakespeare, _Merry Wives of
Windsor_, I, iv, 9, "at the latter end of a sea-coal fire."

=184=, 267. =a poore knights living.= The knights of Windsor, a small
body who had apartments in the Castle, and pensions, were often known as
"poor knights."

=185=, 278. =But killing of the King!= Cf. _Bussy D'Ambois_, III, ii,

=188=, 332-3. =Why, is not . . . worthily.= If this is a complimentary
allusion to Jaques' speech in _As You Like It_, II, vii, 140-166, it is
remarkable as coming from the writer whom Shakespeare at an earlier date
had probably attacked in his _Sonnets_.

=188=, 335-42. =what the good Greeke moralist sayes . . . of both.= This
passage is based upon the _Discourses_ of Epictetus, bk. IV, vii, 13,
which, however, Chapman completely misinterprets. Epictetus is
demonstrating that a reasonable being should be able to bear any lot
contentedly. "θέλεις πενίαν? φέρε καὶ γνώσῃ τί ἐστιν πενία τυχοῦσα καλοῦ
ὑποκριτοῦ. θέλεις ἀρχὰς? φέρε, καὶ πόνους."

ὑποκρίτης is used here metaphorically, of one who acts a part in life,
not, as Chapman takes it, of an actor in the professional

=188-189=, 354-5. =The splenative philosopher . . . all.= Democritus.

=189=, 356-74. =All objects . . . they were.= These lines are suggested
by Juvenal's _Satire_, X, ll. 33-55, but they diverge too far from the
original to be merely a paraphrase, as they are termed by the editor of
the 1873 reprint.

=191=, 17-18. =That . . . fire.= Cf. _Bussy D'Ambois_, V, iv, 148-53.

=194=, 75. =These . . . armes.= Cf. _Bussy D'Ambois_, V, i, 128-154.

=200-201=, 40-3. =Since they . . . wrong'd:= since these decrees ensure
the performance of that guardianship, so that earth and heaven are kept
true to their original order and purpose, in no case must the wrong
suffered by an individual man, as he thinks, be considered really a
wrong done to him.

=203=, 105. =Euphorbus=, son of Panthous, a Trojan hero, who first
wounded Patroclus, but was afterwards slain by Menelaus. Pythagoras, as
part of his doctrine of the transmigration of souls, is said to have
claimed to have been formerly Euphorbus.

=204=, 113-22. =What said . . . power.= The reference is to Sophocles'
_Antigone_, 446-457, where the Princess justifies herself for burying
her brother's body in defiance of Creon's edict.

=205=, 135-6. =For . . . authoritie.= The lines here paraphrased, to
which Chapman gives a marginal reference, are from the _Antigone_,

     Ἀμήχανον δὲ παντὸς ἀνδρὸς ἐκμαθεῖν
     ψυχήν τε καὶ φρόνημα καὶ γνώμην, πρὶν ᾄν
     ἀρχαῖς τε καὶ νόμοισιν ἐντριβὴς φᾳνῇ.

=205=, 141. =virtuosi.= The word is here used not in the sense of
_connoisseurs_, but of _devotees of virtue_. The editor has not been
able to trace any other instance of this.

=206=, 157-60. =that lyons . . . prey.= Adapted and expanded from the
_Discourses_ of Epictetus, bk. IV, i, 25. The original of the words
quoted marginally by Chapman in a Latin version is, οὐχὶ δ' ὅσῳ
μαλακώτερον διεξάγει, τοσούτῳ δουλικώτερον?

=207=, 181. =Simil[iter].= By this marginal reference Chapman seems to
indicate that ll. 176-181 are drawn from the same source--the
_Discourses_ of Epictetus--as ll. 157-160, to which the previous
marginal note refers. But no such passage occurs in the _Discourses_.

=209-210=, 205-34 =The Massacre . . . never massacerd.= On this strange
_apologia_ for the Guise's share in the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, see
_Introduction_, pp. xxxix-xl.

=209-210=, 211-32. =Who was in fault . . . lost.= Freely adapted and
transposed from the _Discourses_ of Epictetus, I, xxviii, 11-20.

=210-211=, 246-9. =your brave . . . deere.= Cf. Appendix B, where De
Serres mentions the Count of Auvergne's "Scottish horse (which Vitry had
given him) the which would have outrunne all the horses of France."

=213=, 5-6. =th'insulting Pillars Of Bacchus and Alcides.= These
"Pillars" are mentioned together by Strabo (bk. III, vi), who relates
that during Alexander's expedition to India the Macedonians did not see
them, but identified those places with them, where they found records of
the god or the hero.

=216=, 69-70. =What thinke . . . lackies coates.= Cf. Appendix B, where
Nerestan has _three_ "lackquaies," who are in reality "soldiars so
attyred" for the purpose of arresting the Count of Auvergne.

=217=, 82-6. =Who knowes . . . made:= who is unaware that crafty policy
pads out the giant that does his will, so that his wisdom may seem
commensurate with his bulk, though it is merely for a trifling encounter
with what, when touched, proves a shadow, though policy makes it out to
be a monster.

=219=, 12. =The Locrian princes.= The inhabitants of Locri, a settlement
near the promontory of Zephyrium, were celebrated for the excellence of
their code of laws, drawn up by Zaleucus.

=220=, 41-46. =Demetrius Phalerius=, born about B. C. 345, was a
follower of Phocion, and on the death of the latter in B. C. 317, became
head of the Athenian administration. The citizens, in gratitude for his
services, erected 360 statues to him, but afterwards turned against him.
In B. C. 307 he was driven from Athens, sentence of death was passed on
him, and the statues were demolished.

=220=, 47. =Demades=, a contemporary of Demosthenes, who, by his genius
for extempore oratory, raised himself to a predominant position in
Athens as a champion of the Macedonian influence, but afterwards
incurred the penalty of ἀτιμία.

=228-230=, 209-34. =I will search you . . . search no more.= This
episode is suggested by the following passage concerning the Count of
Auvergne in Appendix B. "Hee was ready to call the two brothers of Murat
into his cabinet, and to cause them to be searcht, for that he was well
advertised that they alwayes carryed the Kings letters and his
commandments. But a great resolution, thinking that there is no more
harme in fearing, then in the thing that causeth feare, feares extremely
to make shewe that hee hath any feare."

=233=, 24. =Two . . . Hercules.= A proverbial expression. Cf. V, iv,

=234=, 14-25. =When Homer . . . despis'd.= The editor of the 1873
edition of Chapman's Plays points out that "these twelve lines headed
_Of great men_ appear, with a few unimportant verbal differences, among
the Epigrams printed at the end of Chapman's Petrarch in 1612."

=234=, 20. =for disposing these:= for regulating these gifts of fame,
strength, noble birth, and beauty. _These_ is used loosely to qualify
the nouns implied by the adjectives, _Strong'st_, _noblest_, _fairest_,
in l. 19.

=236=, 56-7. =You can . . . minde.= If the text is correct, the lines
mean: you can never find means to give attention to externals without
neglecting the improvement of your mind. Mr. Brereton has suggested to
the editor that the true reading may be, _Things out worth care_, in
which case "out" = "outward."

=236=, 58-75. =God . . . birth.= A free paraphrase of the _Discourses_
of Epictetus, bk. IV, vii, 6-11.

=236=, 78-9. =But . . . honour=, but the reason alleged, to see these
battalions in review order, is a great compliment to you.

=237=, 84-95. =I over-tooke . . . the Earle of Oxford.= The subject of
this remarkable encomium was Edward de Vere (1550-1604), seventeenth
Earl of Oxford. He was educated at Cambridge, and from an early age
became a prominent figure at the Court of Elizabeth, who, it was said in
1573, "delighteth more in his personage, and his dancing and
valiantness, than any other." In 1575 he paid a visit to Italy, and it
is apparently to an episode on his return journey in the spring of 1576
that reference is made here, and in the following lines. The portrait
here drawn of him is too flattering, as he was violent in temper and
extravagant, but the Earl's literary gifts merited the praise of
Chapman. Puttenham and Meres speak highly of him as a writer of comedy,
and Webbe pays a tribute to his excellence in "the rare devises of
poetry." Over twenty of his lyrics survive, chiefly in anthologies.

=237=, 95-103. =being offer'd . . . quit.= The _Duke Cassimere_ here
spoken of was John Casimir, Count Palatine, who in the autumn of 1575
entered into alliance with the Huguenots and invaded France, but, after
suffering a check at the hands of the Duke of Guise, made a truce and
retired. The incident here spoken of apparently took place in the spring
of the next year (cf. the previous note). Why, however, does Chapman
introduce it here, and how did he know of it? Can he, immediately after
leaving Oxford, which he entered, according to Wood, "in 1574 or
thereabouts," have gone in Oxford's train to the Continent?

=238=, 112. =a Sir John Smith.= Though alluded to in so contemptuous a
way, this Sir John Smith appears to be the noted soldier of fortune,
diplomatist, and military writer, who lived from about 1534 to 1607.
After serving for many years in continental armies, in 1574 he became an
agent of the English government, and took part in various diplomatic
missions. In 1590 he published "Certain Discourses concerning the formes
and effects of divers sorts of Weapons" and dedicated the work to the
English nobility, whom he calls in one part of his "proeme" the "verie
eyes, eares and language of the king, and the bodie of the watch, and
redresse of the Commonwealth." Hence perhaps the allusion in l. 113 to
"common Nobles fashions."

=238-9=, 127-41. =If you would Consull be . . . no thought?= A
translation of the _Discourses_ of Epictetus, bk. IV, x, 20-22.

=238-9=, 129-30. =gloryfying Plebeians, Kissing Patricians hands.=
Epictetus has simply, τὰς χεῖρας καταφιλῆσαι.

=239=, 134. =sit for the whole tribunall.= A mistranslation of ἐρὶ βῆμα
καθίσαι, i. e. "sit on the tribunal."

=239=, 138-9. =And to be voide . . . constancie.= An obscure rendering
of ὑπὲρ ἀπαθείας οὖν, ὑπὲρ ἀταραξίας. _For constancie_ = for the sake of
tranquillity of mind.

=240=, 152. =Colonell.= Clermont seems to be addressed by this title
because of the statement in Appendix B that "D'Eurre intreated the count
of Auvergne to see [the muster] to the ende . . . that all his
companions should be wonderfully honored with the presence of their

=242-3=, 11-39. =What spirit . . . of the skie.= This account of
Clermont's desperate struggle to avoid capture is an invention of
Chapman. P. Matthieu says of the Count of Auvergne: "It was feared that
he would not have suffered himselfe to bee taken so easily nor so
quietly." Cf. Appendix B.

=245=, 77. ="Who . . . none."= Cf. III, ii, 242.

=245=, 80-5. =But . . . more.= Cf. Appendix B. "Hee was mooved to see
himselfe so intreated by laquais, intreating D'Eurre . . . that hee
might not see those rascals any more."

=246=, 99. =organe of his danger:= instrument of his dangerous designs.

=246=, 109. =To leave . . . trumpets.= Cf. Appendix B. "'Well,' said
hee, 'I yeeld, what will you have mee to doe?' 'That you mount upon the
trompets horse,' sayd D'Eurre."

=247=, 112-24. =let mee begge . . . rather die.= Cf. Appendix B. "He
intreated D'Eurre to lend him one of his troupe to carry some message of
his remembrance, and of his miserie, to a ladie that attended him. . . .
Shee loved him well, and was well beloved: for the Count of Auvergne
hath been heard say, that if the King did set him at libertie and send
him back to his house, uppon condition that he should not see this
ladie, hee would rather desire to die."

=250=, 30. =Something . . . goe.= An obscure line. It seems to mean
that, as the wealth of merchants may be scattered by storms, so the
performances of "state-merchants" or rulers may be cut short before
obtaining their end.

=254=, 44-5. =let . . . danger:= let them be afraid that the precedents
set by Kings in violating obligations may prove a dangerous example.

=255=, 70-76. =O knew I . . . a pistoll.= Cf. Appendix B. "If I knew . .
. that I might save him, in forcing through your troupe, I would
willingly doe it, and if I had but tenne men of my courage and
resolution, you should not carrie him where you thinke. But I will never
die till I have given D'Eurre a hundred shott with a pistoll, and to
Murat a hundred blowes with a sword."

=256=, 87. =Exit Ancil[la].= i. e. Riova, the Countess's waiting-maid.

=257=, 108. =This . . . charge.= The thrifty Usher is apparently
deploring that the Countess, before retiring, had sent so rich a gift of
jewels to Clermont.

=259=, 42-3. =this Senecall man . . . compare.= He is so completely a
Senecall man that he may be compared with, etc.

=259=, 51-3. =Cacusses . . . still.= The legend of the Italian shepherd
and robber Cacus, who carried his plunder to his cave or "den," is told
by Ovid (_Fasti_, I, 544 ff.), Virgil (_Æneid_, VIII, 190 ff.), and
other writers.

=260=, 57-8. =Better . . . thrive:= it were better for a man to be
buried alive than exist as a mere property for a despoliating government
to grow rich upon.

=265=, 98-102. =the late . . . on him.= It is singular that _Bussy
D'Ambois_ contains no such "dying prophesie" as is here alluded to,
unless the reference is to V, iv, 76-78. Bussy, as he dies, forgives his
murderers (V, iv, 112).

=267=, 37-9. =Hast thou . . . Reimes.= Cf. Appendix B. "At the
Barricades this voice was heard: 'It is no longer time to dally, let us
lead my lord to Reimes.'"

=268=, 53. =The cause alike doth.= The same cause doth.

=268=, 55-61. =which . . . counsailes.= Cf. Appendix B. "Advertisements
were come to him from all parts, both within and without the realme,
from Rome, Spaine, Lorraine, and Savoye, that a bloodie catastrophe
would dissolve the assemblie."

=268-69=, 62-8. =Retyre . . . exhale.= Cf. Appendix B. "The Archbishop
of Lion . . . 'Retyring yourselfe from the Estates' (said he unto him)
'you shall beare the blame to have abandoned France in so important an
occasion, and your enemies, making their profit of your absence, wil
sone overthrowe al that which you have with so much paine effected for
the assurance of religion.'"

=270=, 89-91. =To be . . . eternitie:= to be His image is to do the
deeds that confer immortality, which, owing to the existence of death,
consists only in doing the deeds that befit eternal life.

=270=, 102. =Thou dream'st awake now.= Guise here turns Clermont's own
words in l. 41 against him.

=272=, 144-8. =those loveliest eyes . . . teares.= A much more
overwhelming calamity than that which befell the lady in the original
narrative, where it is stated that owing to her "passion . . . she lost
the sight of one eye for a tyme."

=276=, 18-19. =for not . . . neglect:= for the counsels that you
disclose you do not render of no account.

=278=, 29. =this mortal quarrie:= this deadly attack. _Quarry_ is
generally used of slaughtered game, but it also signifies the attack or
swoop of the bird or beast of prey on its victim, and here we have an
extension of this sense.

=280=, 3-6. =I . . . enter.= Chapman here combines two episodes assigned
by De Serres to different days. Cf. Appendix B. "The eve before his
death, the Duke himselfe sitting down to dinner, found a scroule under
his napkin, advertising him of this secret ambush." On the following
morning "the Duke of Guise comes, and attending the beginning of the
councell sends for a handkercher. . . . Pericart, his secretarie . . .
ties a note to one of the corners thereof, saying, 'Come forth and save
your selfe, else you are but a dead man.'"

=281=, 34-5. =Not . . . goe.= Taken in conjunction with III, iii, 24,
this means: Hercules is no match for two foes, but Guise will encounter
two, though with Hercules as their ally.

=283=, 61-3. =y'have a brother to . . . on him.= Louis de Lorraine,
youngest brother of the Duke of Guise, became Archbishop of Rheims in
1574, and Cardinal in 1578.

=286=, 33-4. =the sword . . . life.= Cf. _Bussy D'Ambois_, V, iv,

=286=, 41-2. =Hee will lie . . . shee cryes.= This habit of the lapwing
gave the bird an evil reputation as a symbol of deceitfulness. Cf.
_Measure for Measure_, I, iv, 32.

             Though 'tis my familiar sin
     With maids to seem the lapwing and to jest,
     Tongue far from heart.

For a sarcastic hit at a different trick of the lapwing, cf. _Hamlet_,
V, ii, 174.

=289=, 85. =[Enter Renel, the Countess, and] Charlotte above.= The
addition of the bracketed words is necessary, as the Q gives no
indication of the entrance of these two characters. They appear with
Charlotte "above," i. e. in a gallery at the back of the stage. When
Charlotte, enraged at Clermont's slowness in dispatching Montsurry,
"gets downe" (l. 87), they remain in the gallery unobserved.

=291=, 125-7. =That the Shatillions ghost . . . death.= Gaspar de
Chatillon, better known as Admiral de Coligny, the champion of the
Huguenot party, was murdered during "the Massacre of St. Bartholomew,"
on Aug. 24, 1572, at the instigation of the Duke of Guise.

=293=, 161. =I . . . descend.= Renel and the Countess have overheard
from the gallery (cf. note on l. 85) Clermont's speech, and Renel,
realising that it foreshadows suicide, descends in the hope of
preventing this. But, as he has to lead his blind companion, his
progress is slow, and when they "enter" the main stage (l. 203), it is
too late.



Under this title, in the 17th of the series of tales founded on fact
which he calls _Les Histoires Tragiques de Nostre Temps_, François de
Rosset relates in 1615 the story of Bussy's death. In the Preface to the
volume he declares: "Ce ne sont pas des contes de l'Antiquité fabuleuse
. . . Ce sont des histoires autant veritables que tristes et funestes.
Les noms de la pluspart des personnages sont seulement desguisez en ce
Théatre, à fin de n'affliger pas tant les familles de ceux qui en ont
donné le suject, puis qu'elles en sont assez affligées." We thus find
that the outlines of the story of "Lysis" tally with what we know about
Bussy from other sources, and Rosset not improbably preserves details
omitted by the historians of the period.

Lysis, Rosset tells us, was sprung from one of the most noble and
renowned Houses of France. At seventeen he had acquired an extraordinary
reputation for bravery, which increased till "jamais la France depuis le
valeureux Roland, ne porta un tel Palladin." Afterwards "il vint à la
cour du Prince qui venoit de quiter une Couronne estrangere, pour
recevoir celle qui luy appartenoit par les droits de la loy Salique, [i.
e. Henry III, who gave up the throne of Poland on succeeding to that of
France.] . . . Les rares dons dont il estoit accomply luy acquirent tant
de part aux bonnes graces du premier Prince du sang Royal, qu'il estoit
tousiours aupres de luy. . . . Mais l'envie . . . tous les jours . . .
faisait de mauvais rapports a sa Maiesté de Lysis, de sorte qu'elle le
voyoit d'aussi mauvais oeil, que l'autre Prince, son proche parent,
faisoit conte de sa prouësse."

He had never been the victim of love, but he was instantly captivated by
the beautiful eyes of a lady whom he met at an assembly at the house of
a Judge in one of the towns of which he was Governor.

"Ceste beauté, pour le respect que je dois à ceux a qui elle
appartenoit, sera nommée Sylvie. . . . Cette dame . . . estoit mariée
avec un grand Seigneur, jeune, vaillan, sage, discret et courtois." She
would not at first gratify her lover's passion, though she granted him
"de petites privautez," which only fanned the flame. He wrote her a
letter in which he declared that if she refused him her favour, it meant
his sentence of death. She replied in a temporising manner that when he
had given proofs of his fidelity, she would decide as to what she ought
to do. Rosset asserts that these two letters are not invented, but that
he obtained them from a friend who had made a collection of such
epistles, and who "a esté curieux de sçavoir le nom des personnes qui
les ont escrites."

Meanwhile, he continues, "elle donne le vray moyen à Lysis de la voir,
sans le souciet qu'on en parle, pourveu que sa conscience la deffende.
Et particulierement ce fut en un jardin qui est à l'un des fauxbourgs de
la ville." Some tale-bearers, putting the worst construction on their
behaviour, gave information to Lisandre, the husband of Sylvie, but he
refused to credit anything to the dishonour of his wife. To stop gossip,
however, he took her with him to a house he had not far from the town.
But the lovers communicated with one another by messengers, till
Lisandre's departure on a journey removed all obstacle to their
intercourse. "Ce Seigneur avait des affaires hors de la province où il
faisoit pour lors sa demeure. Pour les terminer, il s'y achemine au
grand contentement de Sylvie, qui neantmoins contrefaisoit la dolente à
son depart & le sommoit de revenir le plustot qu'il luy seroit possible,
tandis que dans son ame elle prioit à Dieu que son voyage fust aussi
long que celuy d'Ulysse." When he was gone, she immediately sent for
Lysis, and they spent two or three days in transports of delight, though
she continued to safeguard her honour.

On Lisandre's return the King, instigated by the enemies of Lysis,
reproached the former for tamely enduring dishonour, and bade him never
reappear in the royal presence till he had wiped out the stain. Lisandre
therefore offered his wife the choice of three courses. She was to
swallow poison, or die beneath his dagger, or write to Lysis, telling
him that Lisandre was still absent, and begging him to come to her.
After a struggle Sylvie wrote the fatal missive, and Lysis, though at
the castle gate he was overcome by a premonition of evil and almost
turned back, was obedient to her summons, and entered her chamber
unarmed. The final scene is thus described.

"A l'instant il se void environné d'une douzaine d'hommes armez, qui de
pistolets, qui d'espees nues, et qui de hallebardes. Lisandre est parmy
eux, qui luy crie: 'C'est maintenant que tu recevras le salaire de la
honte que tu as faicte à ma maison. Ce disant, il lasche un pistolet, et
luy perce un bras. Les autres le chargent avec leurs halebardes, et avec
leurs espees. . . . Le valeureux Lysis . . . avec un escabeau qu'il
tient en main donne si rudement sur la teste de l'un de ses adversaires,
qu'il en fait sortir la cervelle. Il en assomme encores deux autres:
mais que peut-il faire contre tant de gens, & ainsi desarmé qu'il est?
Son corps percé comme un crible, verse un grand ruisseau de sang. En fin
il se jette sur Lisandre, et bien que par derriere on luy baille cent
coups de poignards, il le prend, et le souleve, prest à le jetter du
haut en bas d'une fenestre, si tous les autres ensemble, en se jettant
sur luy, ne l'en eussent empesché. Il les escarte encores à coups de
poings & neantmoins il sesent tousiours percer de part en part. Voyant
qu'il ne pouvoit eschapper la mort, il s'approche de la fenestre & puis,
tout sanglant qu'il est, il saute legerement en bas. Mais, ô malheur, il
portoit un accoustrement decouppé, qui est arresté par le fer d'un
treillis. Ses adversaires le voyant ainsi empestré comme un autre
Absalon, luy donnent tant de coups de halebardes, qu'à la fin, ils
privent le monde du plus grand courage, et de la plus grande valeur du
siecle. O valeureux Lysis! que je plains l'injustice de ton sort!"

It will be seen that Rosset's account of the final episodes, beginning
with the intervention of the King, agrees, in the main details, with the
following description by De Thou, which appeared in 1620, in the Genevan
edition of the _Historiae Sui Temporis_, lib. LXVIII, p. 330 (vol. III,
p. 675, of Buckley's edition, 1733).

"Dum[310:1] adhuc Andinus in aula esset, literas per jocum regi
ostenderat a Ludovico Claramontio Ambosiano Bussio ad se scriptas;
quibus, pro summa quae ei cum hero suo juvene erat familiaritate,
significabat se feram magni venatoris (ita uxorem vocabat Caroli Cambii
Monsorelli comitis, quem ea dignitate Andinus paulo ante Bussii
commendatione ornaverat) indagine cinxisse, et in plagas conjecisse.
Quas literas rex retinuerat, et Bussii jam a longo tempore insolenti
arrogantia et petulantia irritatus, occasionem inde sumpsit veteres ab
eo acceptas injurias ulciscendi. Is siquidem, et dum in aula esset,
nullo non contumeliae genere in proceres et gynaeceum etiam aulicum usus
fuerat, fiducia pugnacitatis qua se terribilem cunctis reddiderat; sed
etiam postquam se ad comitatum Andini receperat, dum Andegavi arcem toto
illo tractu munitissimam et urbi populosae impositam teneret, oppidanis
et toti provinciae gravis ob crebras exactiones, quas privata
auctoritate, non consulto plerumque Andino ipso, faciebat, summum omnium
odium in se concitaverat. Igitur rex Monsorellum, qui tunc forte in aula
erat, clam revocat, et literas Bussii ei ostendit; additque se decoris
familiae et ejus dignitatis perquam studiosum, noluisse rem adeo
injuriosam eum celare; ceterum scire ipsum debere, quid consilii in tali
occasione se capere deceat et oporteat. Nec plura elocutus hominem
dimittit, qui, non solum injuriae tantae morsu perculsus, sed monitis
regis incitatus, quae ille tanquam ignaviae exprobationem si injuriam
ferret accipiebat, protinus domum revolat, summo silentio, ut Bussium
lateret: astuque per uxorem ad Bussium literas dari curat, quibus ei
horam ad secretum Coustanteriae condicebat; ea erat arx voluptuaria et
venationibus opportuna; ad quam cum Bussius cum Colladone conscio sub
vesperam XIV Kal. Sept. venisset, ab ipso Monsorello et aliis loricatis
oppressus: tamen, qua erat animi praesentia, quamvis unus contra plures,
summa vi percussores initio disjecit; tandemque numero victus, spiritu
inter certandum deficiente, cum se in fossam per fenestram praecipitare
vellet, a tergo interfectus est."


[310:1] While the Duke of Anjou was still at Court, he had shown in jest
to the King, a letter which had been written to him by Louis de Clermont
Bussy d'Ambois. In this letter, owing to the very intimate terms on
which he stood with his young patron, he told him that he had enclosed
and caught in his net the hind of a mighty hunter. Thus he termed the
wife of Charles de Chambes, Count of Montsoreau, on whom the Duke had
conferred that title a short time before, at the recommendation of
Bussy. This letter the King had kept, and as he had long been annoyed by
Bussy's insolent arrogance and his petulant temper, he availed himself
of this opportunity of avenging the old insults he had received from
him. Even while he was at Court, he had been guilty of every sort of
insult to nobles and Court ladies, trusting to his prowess as a
swordsman, by which he made himself a terror to every one. So also after
he had betaken himself to the district of Anjou, occupying, as he did,
the citadel of Angers, the most powerful stronghold in all that
district, and commanding the populous city, he had made himself a burden
to the townspeople and the whole province by his frequent exactions,
generally made on his own authority, without consulting the Duke of
Anjou. He had thus stirred up against himself a deep-seated and
universal hatred.

Therefore the King secretly called aside Montsoreau, who was then at
Court, and showed him Bussy's letter, and added that, as he was
extremely solicitous about his family honour and his dignity, he did not
wish to conceal so insulting a matter from him; for the rest he ought to
know himself what measures it behoved him to take under such
circumstances. Without further words he dismissed Montsoreau. The Count,
stung to the quick by so grave an injury to his honour, and excited by
the admonitions of the King, which he interpreted as reproaches for his
cowardice, should he tamely bear the insult, at once flew home, in the
greatest secrecy, so that Bussy should not know of his return. By a
stratagem he arranged that a letter should be sent by his wife to Bussy,
making a secret assignation with him at La Coutancière, which was a
pleasure-resort and convenient for hunting purposes. When Bussy came
there with his associate Colasseau at nightfall on the nineteenth of
August, he was fallen upon by Montsoreau and other armed men. Yet, such
was his coolness, that though he was one against many, he at first by
mighty exertions discomfited his assailants. At length, overcome by
numbers, and breath failing him in the struggle, he tried to throw
himself out of the window into the castle-moat, but was stabbed in the
back and killed.





(1046.)[313:1] "The King offended with the practises of the Count of
Auvergne, commanded him to come unto him, and to trust unto his
clemency, the which was not unknowne unto him. Descures made some
jorneys unto him, from whome he brought nothing but delaies and excuses.
. . .

(1047.) "The King, therefore, seeing that he would not come but with
conditions that did not agree with a perfect obedience, resolved to have
him by one means or other. . . . The King's intention was imparted to
the Vicont of Pont du Chasteau, to D'Eurre, Lieutenant of the Duke of
Vandosmes company, to the Baron of Camilac, to La Boulaye, Lieutenant to
the company of the Marquis of Verneuil, to Nerestan, Colonell of a
Regiment of foote, and to so many others as it is a wonder it was not
divulged being in so many heads. In this action all shewed the duties
and affections of good men which respected their honours. Many means
were attempted but they were incountred with great difficulties and
crosses. . . . The surest meanes (& that wherein there was least trouble
and scandall) was the mustring of the Duke of Vandosmes company. . . .
D'Eurre who prest Murat (Treasorer extraordinary of the warres) to paie
his company a muster, intreated the count of Auvergne to see it, to the
ende hee might assure the King that hee had gallant men and good horses,
and that all his companions should be wonderfully honored with the
presence of their coronell. 'I will part to morrowe' sayd the Count of
Auvergne 'to hunt at Alezou, and will returne againe on Monday at night;
I pray you bee heere at super, and lodge your company at Normain, to the
ende that the next day, after that wee have dronke, runne at the ring,
and dined, we may see it.'

(1048.) "This was done as he had appointed. . . . D'Eurre came to
Clermont on Monday at night, and goes unto him where he supped in one of
their houses that managed this businesse. . . . The next day, the ninth
of November, the morning was spent in running at the ring. . . . They
went to dinner, and it was well observed that the Count of Auvergne had
some distrust. He hath since confest that hee was ready to call the two
brothers of Murat into his cabinet, and to cause them to be searcht, for
that he was well advertised that they alwayes carryed the Kings letters
and his commandments. But a great resolution, thinking that there is no
more harme in fearing then in the thing that causeth feare, feares
extremely to make shewe that hee hath any feare. After dinner D'Eurre
asked, 'If it pleased him to go to horse to see the musters.' He
answered him; 'That it should be presently, and that he should use
speed.' He retyred himselfe soone after into his cabinet and went downe
. . . mounted upon a Scottish horse (which Vitry had given him) the
which would have outrunne all the horses of France. He would not attend
the other noblemen for that he distrusted them, having an intent to
passe on, if he found them not ready. But beeing come to the place, he
found the company in battell. This great diligence made him somewhat
jealous, and they might perceive him, that, pulling up his cloake, he
drewe his sword foure fingers out, yet without any amazement. D'Eurre,
seeing him make even the reynes of his horse, came to him trotting, with
his hat in his hand, and hearing him sweare with a great oath that he
had been very dilligent, 'You may see, my lord' (answered he) 'I have
caused my companions to advance, for that I would not trouble you with
attendance.' 'Monsieur D'Eurre' (replyed the Earle) 'you are one of my
friends, I cannot make any long stay here.' To whome D'Eurre said: 'All
my companions are not yet here, but, if it please you, you shall see
this troupe, and judge of the whole by a part.' Hereupon he sees some
horsemen come and demands what they were. D'Eurre told him: 'That it was
Nerestan, who had beene at Rion about a sute of his daughters.' He
beleeved it, for he knewe that Nerestan had stayd some dayes at Rion and
yet his heart began to suspect more. But it was too late, hee was
environed on every side, and hardly can one resist many. Nerestan
lighted to salute him, and having entertayned him with some discourse
uppon the occasion of his staye at Rion, or of his returne to Court, he
went presently to horse-back, and thrust on one of the lackquaies with
his foote, for a signe and token of the beginning of the execution.

"One of Nerestans three lackquaies takes holde of his horse by the
bridle. D'Eurre, seeing that Nerestan had taken the right side to salute
the Count of Auvergne, went unto the left, and laying hold with his hand
uppon the hilt of his sword, he sayd unto him that hee had commandement
from the King to take him. The other two laquais pulled him so roughly
from his horse, as he had like to have fallen to the ground; hee was
mooved to see himselfe so intreated by laquais, intreating D'Eurre to
cause two of his companions to light, and that hee might not see those
rascalls any more. Nerestan sayd unto him that they were soldiars so
attyred to serve the King in this action. A peece shott into the ayre by
chance made him to doubt worse measure, so as hee intreated D'Eurre that
he would not use his pistolet. D'Eurre freed him from these
apprehensions, intreating him to resolve upon the Kings will, and not to
force them to intreat him otherwise than they desired. 'Well,' said hee,
'I yeeld, what will you have mee to doe?' 'That you mount upon the
trompets horse,' sayd D'Eurre. It was feared that he would not have
suffered himselfe to bee taken so easily nor so quietly, as wee have
seene many great courages choose rather to be cut in peeces then to see
themselves reserved for some shamefull end, and others that have
willingly dyed, for that they would not die by force. When as he sees
himselfe in the toyles invironed on al sides . . . hee sayd, 'Ah! in the
Divels name, I doubted all this.' Being mounted upon the trompets nagg,
they conduct him presently to Aigueperse. Before hee had gone a hundred
paces, he intreated D'Eurre to lend him one of his troupe, to carry some
message of his remembrance, and of his miserie, to a ladie that attended
him. De Pleche had the charge. Shee who had not prepared her heart to
withstand the assaults of a most extreame and sensible griefe, tooke
D'Eurre for the object, against whome shee poured forth the furie of her
passions. 'If I knew' (sayd shee unto this gentleman) 'that I might save
him in forcing through your troupe, I would willingly doe it, and if I
had but tenne men of my courage and resolution, you should not carrie
him where you thinke. But I will never die till I have given D'Eurre a
hundred shott with a pistoll, and to Murat a hundred blowes with a
sword.' These were the passions of her love, transported with a
resolution beyond her sexe, and which did participate of a man, of a
troubled mind, and of love. This last makes miracles of marvells and
marvells of miracles, in wills that are equally toucht with his
inspirations. . . . Shee loved him well, and was well beloved: for the
Count of Auvergne hath been heard say, that if the King did set him at
libertie, and send him back to his house, uppon condition that hee
should not see this ladie, hee would rather desire to die. Shee
presently ordered the affaires of her house, the disposition of her
furniture, and the retreat of her servants. This passion going from the
memorie to the thought, from the thought to the heart, from the heart to
the eyes, made her to powre forth so many teares, as shee lost the sight
of one eye for a tyme. . . .

"All the way hee seemed no more afflicted, then when hee was at
libertie. He tould youthfull and idle tales of his love, and the
deceiving of ladies. Hee shott in a harquebuse at birds, wherein hee was
so perfect and excellent, as hee did kill larkes as they were flying. .
. .

(1050.) "We may observe in this apprehension many things that may breed
admiration and amazement, and which shewe that men do in vaine furnish
themselves with wisedome against Heaven and with intelligences against
the King. The Count of Auvergne had advertisements from all places that
they should take him, and that the Kings pensioners were in the field to
that effect. His most inward and neerest friends and, among others
Florac, knewe it, and said nothing unto him, preferring his duty to his
Prince before all affection. The Constable was also as well informed
thereof as any other and yet he made no shewe thereof. . . . His duty
prescribed him a law to all the bounds of nature; so there is not any
one but is more bound to the service of the King and his country then
to his owne health, or to that of his children. A gentleman, being at
his table, speaking of this taking, said, 'Sir, if the King should
command mee to take you, I would doe it, although I bee your most humble
servant, that you march in the first rankes of greatnesse in the realm,
and that all things touching armes, depend upon your commandments.' 'I
beleeve it' (answered the Constable) 'else you should do ill, for the
King is both your King and mine. I am your friend.' There is no love nor
affection to dispence any one from the Kings commandments."



The King determines to get rid of Guise, "this newe starre in the East
whom the people worshipped already." (722.) "Hee hath caused bookes to
bee printed in favour of the lawfull succession of the House of Lorraine
to the Crowne. At the Barricades this voice was heard: 'It is no longer
time to dally, let us lead my lord to Reimes.' He hath suffered himselfe
to be saluted by the people, with cries and acclamations which belong
only to the Soveraigne Prince."

The Duke, scenting danger, thinks of absenting himself from the meetings
of the Estates, but is dissuaded.

(723.) "The Archbishop of Lion, attending a Cardinals hatt within a few
dayes from Rome, 'Retyring your selfe from the Estates' (said he unto
him) 'you shall beare the blame to have abandoned France in so important
an occasion, and your enemies, making their profit of your absence, wil
sone overthrowe al that which you have with so much paine effected for
the assurance of religion.'

"Man doth often loose his judgement upon the point of his fal.
Advertisements were come to him from all parts, both within and without
the realme, from Rome, Spaine, Lorraine and Savoye, that a bloodie
catastrophe would dissolve the assemblie. The almanakes had well
observed it: it was generally bruted in the Estates, that the execution
should be on Saint Thomas day. The eve before his death, the Duke
himselfe sitting downe to dinner, found a scroule under his napkin,
advertising him of this secret ambush. But (as ambition blinds those
whome shee hath raised up to the pies nest, and the furie of Gods
judgements confounds such as trust in their authoritie) he writ
underneath, with his owne hand 'They dare not'; and threw it under the

"The Duke of Guise, following the councell of the Cardinall Morosin, had
the one and twentith of December incensed the King a new by some bold
and presumptous speeches. . . . The King had the two and twentith day
following prepared seven of his five and fortie (they were gentlemen
whome hee had appointed to be neere his person, besides the ordinarie
archers of his gard) to execute his will, and by many dispatches had
assured those townes which hee held to bee most mutinous. The three and
twentith he assembles his Councell somewhat more early in the morning
then was usuall, having a devotion to go after dinner, and to spend the
holidayes at our Ladie of Clery. . . . The Duke of Guise comes, and
attending the beginning of the councell sends for a handkercher: (the
groome of [724] his chamber had forgotten to put one into his hose.)
Pericart, his secretarie, not daring to commit this new advertisement to
any mans report, ties a note to one of the corners thereof, saying,
'Come forth and save your selfe, else you are but a dead man.' But they
stay the page that carried it. Larchant, captaine of the Kings gard,
causeth an other to be given unto him with all speed by Saint Prix, the
chiefe grome of the Kings chamber. The Castle gates are shutt, and the
Councell sits about eight of the clocke.

"The spirit of man doth often prophecie of the mischeefe that doth
pursue him. So whilest they dispute of a matter propounded by
Petremolle, the Duke feeles strange alterations, and extraordinary
distemperatures, and, amidest his distrust, a great fainting of his
heart. Saint Prix presents unto him some prunes of Brignolles and
raisins of the sunne. Hee eats, and thereupon the King calls him into
his Cabinet by Revoll, one of the secretaries of his Estate, as it were
to confer with him about some secret of importance. The Duke leaves the
Councell to passe unto the Cabinet: and as he did lift up the tapistrie
with one hand to enter, they charge him with their swords, daggers, and
pertuisans: yet not with so great violence, but he shewed the murtherers
the last endeavours of an invincible valour and courage.

"Thus lived and thus died Henry of Lorraine, Duke of Guise: a Prince
worthie to be in the first rankes of Princes, goodly, great, tall of
proportion, amiable of countenance, great of courage, readie in the
execution of his enterprises, popular, dissembling, but covering the
secrets of his minde with his outward behaviour, imbracing all times and
occasions, politike in stratagems, making much of his souldiars, and
honouring his captaines. But a Prince who hath blemished the greatest
beautie of his practises by extreame ambition; factious, a great
bragger, vaine in beleeving of soothsayers who assured him of his
greatnes, and of the change of his familie into a royaltie, proud, not
able to submit his hopes, even to those from whome hee should hope for
his advancement, giving men to understand by his inclination, that he
was not borne to obey, but to commaund, and with this dessein, he framed
the minds of the French, by his first actions, to beleeve that he had
partes fit to make a strange alteration in a realme."


[313:1] The numbers refer to the pages of Grimeston's volume.


_The place of publication is London unless otherwise indicated._


=1607=, 4o. BUSSY D'AMBOIS: A TRAGEDIE: As it hath been often presented
at Paules. London, Printed for William Aspley, [B. M. C. 34. c. 12.]

=1608=, 4o. BUSSY D'AMBOIS: [&c. A reissue of the 1607 edition, with the
date altered. B. M. 644. d. 41.]

=1613=, 4o. THE REVENGE OF BUSSY D'AMBOIS. A TRAGEDIE. As it hath beene
often presented at the private Play-house in the White-Fryers. Written
by George Chapman, Gentleman. London. Printed by T. S. and are to be
solde by Iohn Helme, at his Shop in S. Dunstones Church-yard, in
Fleetstreet. [B. M. C. 34. c. 16.]

=1641=, 4o. BUSSY D'AMBOIS: A TRAGEDIE: As it hath been often Acted with
great Applause. Being much corrected and amended by the Author before
his death. London. Printed by A. N. for Robert Lunne. [B. M. 644. d.

=1646=, 4o. BUSSY D'AMBOIS: [A . . . London, as in 1641 edition.]
Printed by T. W. for Robert Lunne and are to be sold at his house next
doore to the signe of the Crane on Lambeth Hill at the end of old
Fishstreet. [B. M. 644. d. 43. A reissue of the 1641 edition with the
imprint altered.]

=1657=, 4o. BUSSY D'AMBOIS: A TRAGEDIE: As it hath been often Acted with
great applause. Being much corrected and amended by the Author, George
Chapman, Gent. Before his death. London, Printed, for Joshua Kirton, at
his Shop in St. Pauls Church-yard, at the sign of the Kings-Arms. [B. M.
644. d. 44. Another reissue of the 1641 edition, with a new title-page.]

[Baker in his _Biographia Dramatica_ (1812) II, 73, mentions an edition
of Bussy D'Ambois in 1616, but no copy of such an edition has been
traced, and Dilke, _Old English Plays_ (1814) vol. III, p. 228, is
probably right in considering that the entry is an error for that of
1646, which Baker does not mention.]

Acted at the Theatre Royal. Newly Revised by Mr. D'Urfey [quotation from
the Satires of Horace]. London. Printed for R. Bently in Covent Garden,
Jo. Hindmarsh over against the Royal Exchange, and Abel Roper at the
Mitre near Temple Bar.

=1814=, 8o. OLD ENGLISH PLAYS; being a selection from the early dramatic
writers. [Volume III contains _Bussy D'Ambois_, together with _Monsieur
D'Olive_, and Dekker's _The Wonder of a Kingdom_ and _Old Fortunatus_. A
short life of Chapman is prefixed to _Bussy D'Ambois_. The text is that
of the edition of 1641, in modernised spelling. The notes contain some
of the variants in the Q of 1607, and explanations of many difficult
phrases. The editor, though his name does not appear, was C. W. Dilke,
afterwards editor of the _Athenæum_, and grandfather of the present Sir
C. W. Dilke.]

collected, with illustrative notes and a memoir of the author. In three
volumes. London. John Pearson York Street Covent Garden. [Vol. II
contains _Bussy D'Ambois_ and _The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_, together
with _Byron's Conspiracie and Tragedie_ and _May-Day_. The text of
_Bussy D'Ambois_ is, where differences of reading occur, that of the
edition of 1641, the variants of 1607 being given (with some
inaccuracies) at the foot of the page. Otherwise the spelling of 1607 is
followed, and the title-page of the 1607 Quarto is faultily reproduced.
_The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_ is reprinted from the 1613 Quarto, in
the original spelling, and with a faulty reproduction of the title-page.
The explanatory notes to both plays are very slight, but there is a
valuable introductory memoir to vol. I, giving extracts from previous
criticisms of Chapman.]

=1874-5=, 8o. THE WORKS OF GEORGE CHAPMAN: edited with notes, by Richard
Herne Shepherd. [Vol. I, Plays, vol. II, Homer's _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_,
vol. III, Poems and Minor Translations, Chatto and Windus. An edition in
modernised spelling, and with merely a sprinkling of notes. To vol. III
is prefixed Mr. A. C. Swinburne's _Essay on the Poetical and Dramatic
Works of George Chapman_, the finest and most comprehensive study of
Chapman's writings.]

=1895=, 8o. GEORGE CHAPMAN edited, with an Introduction and Notes, by
William Lyon Phelps, M.A. Ph.D. London: T. Fisher Unwin. New York:
Charles Scribner's Sons. [This volume of the _Mermaid Series_ contains
_Bussy D'Ambois_ and _The Revenge_, together with _Byron's Conspiracie
and Tragedie_ and _All Fools_. The text is reprinted from the edition of
1873, but with the spelling modernised. There is an introductory memoir
containing an "appreciation" of Chapman as a dramatist, and brief
explanatory notes are added at the foot of the text.]


=1681.= DEDICATION OF THE SPANISH FRIAR, J. Dryden. Reprinted in W. P.
Ker's _Essays of John Dryden_, vol. I, pp. 244-50, Oxford, 1900.

Langbaine. Oxford.

=1691.= ATHENÆ OXONIENSES, Anthony à Wood: vol. II, pp. 575-81 (edition
continued by Ph. Bliss, 1815). Short life of Chapman.

=1808.= SPECIMENS OF ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS, Charles Lamb. Lamb quotes
the following passages from _Bussy D'Ambois_: II, 1, 33-135; I, 1, 5-17;
I, 1, 20-23; I, 1, 134-9; I, 2, 10-33. Further extracts, together with
several from _The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois_, were added in 1827.

Hazlitt. Lecture III, _On Marston, Chapman, Decker, and Webster_.

=1821.= THE RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW, vol. IV: Article on _Chapman's Plays_.
This Article deals with the Tragedies and gives long extracts from
_Bussy D'Ambois_ and the two "Byron" plays. It concludes: "_The Revenge
of Bussy D'Ambois_ we regret to say we have never seen. The rarity of
the old plays is such, that they are only to be found in some public
libraries, and in the extensive hoards of private collectors; and in
such applications as we have reluctantly caused to be made, we confess,
we have rather found the exclusive spirit of the monopolist, than the
liberality of the enlightened lover of literature." A second Article, on
the Comedies, is contained in vol. V.

=1841.= THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, April: Article on _Beaumont and Fletcher
and their Contemporaries_.

_Shakspere Jahrbuch_, I, Berlin.

=1874.= THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE, July: article on _Chapman's Dramatic

=1875.= GEORGE CHAPMAN: A CRITICAL ESSAY, A. C. Swinburne. A reprint of
the Introductory Essay to vol. II of the Edition of Chapman's works
edited by R. H. Shepherd. Chatto & Windus.

=1887.= THE DICTIONARY OF NATIONAL BIOGRAPHY, vol. X, Article on _George
Chapman_ by A. H. Bullen.

I, pp. 50-66. Reeves and Turner.

ANNE, A. W. Ward. New and Revised Edition, vol. II, chap. vi, 408-450.


MASSINGER'S UND JOHN FORD'S, Emil Koeppel. An account of this important
monograph, which is the 82d volume of the Strassburg _Quellen und
Forschungen_ is given in the Introduction, p. xxxi.

_Shakspere Jahrbuch_, XXXV. Deals chiefly with the relation between
Chapman's _May-Day_ and A. Piccolomini's _Alessandro_.

Bertram Dobell, printed in _The Athenæum_, Nos. 3830-3833. These
"letters and documents" form part of a small quarto MS. volume of about
90 leaves, containing "copies of letters, petitions, or other documents
dating from about 1580 to 1613." Mr. Dobell, to whom their publication
is due, considers "that the writer or collector of the documents can
have been no other than George Chapman." Six of these letters are
reprinted in Prof. Schelling's edition of _Eastward Hoe_ and _The
Alchemist_, 1903.

in _The Athenæum_, No. 3924, Jan. 10th.

=1903.= SHAKESPEARE AND THE RIVAL POET, Arthur Acheson. John Lane. An
attempt to identify Chapman with "the rival poet" alluded to in
Shakespeare's Sonnets.

=MS.= CHORUS VATUM, Joseph Hunter, British Museum Addit. MSS. 24488,
vol. v, pp. 61-66. Article on _George Chapman_.


=1604-20.= HISTORIÆ SUI TEMPORIS, J. A. De Thou. The earliest editions,
published in 1604, do not mention Bussy. That of 1609, which carries on
the narrative to the year 1584, only mentions (lib. LII, p. 132) his
proceedings during the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. It is the edition of
1620, published at Geneva, and embracing events till 1607 that includes
(lib. LXVIII, p. 330 ff.) the narrative of Bussy's murder, in printed
Appendix A, and (lib. CXIII, p. 558) of Renée D'Ambois's meditated
revenge (cf. Introduction, p. xxxvi). The most convenient edition of De
Thou's History is that published by S. Buckley in 1733.

story of Bussy's love for the Countess of Montsoreau, and his murder
forms the subject of the 17th Histoire, _De la mort pitoyable du
valeureux Lysis_, the most important parts of which are printed in
Appendix A.

=1621.= JOURNAL DE HENRI III, P. de L'Estoile. Paris.

=1628.= MEMOIRES ET LETTRES, Marguerite de Valois. Paris. The edition
published by F. Guessard for _La Societe de l'Histoire de France_ (1842)
is the most convenient.

Bourdeille, Seigneur de Brantôme. Leyden.

=1722.= DISCOURS SUR LES DUELS, Pierre de Bourdeille, etc. Leyden.

=1877.= LE MAINE, L'ANJOU ET BUSSY D'AMBOISE, Arthur Bertrand. Le Mans.

André Joubert. Angers and Paris. A full and interesting study of Bussy's
career based upon first-hand materials.

=1888.= BUSSY D'AMBOISE, Leon Marlet. Paris. A sketchy memoir.


later edition in 1603 continues the narrative to the peace of Vervins in
1598. Paris.

IV, Pierre Matthieu. Paris.


From the beginning of that monarchie unto the treatie of Vervins, in the
yeare 1598. Written by Jhon de Serres, And continued unto these times,
out of the best Authors which have written of that subject. Translated
out of French into English. [A second edition, in 1611, continues the
narrative till 1610.] Upon this volume see Introduction, pp. xxxii-xxxv.


=absolute=, perfect.

=abus'd=, deceived.

=additions=, titles.

=admiration=, wonder.

=advis'd=, cautious, wary.

=affect=, desire.

=allow=, =allow'd=, approve, approved.

=amazes=, bewilders.

=annoy=, injure.

=antickes=, buffoons.

=apishnesse=, ridiculous imitation.

=approves=, proves.

=Argosea=, a large trading vessel.

=arguments=, proofs.

=auchthor=, be the agent of.

=autenticall=, legally valid.

=avise=, intelligence.

=bare=, bareheaded.

=barks=, outer coverings.

=basilisks=, fabulous reptiles, whose glance was supposed to be fatal.

=battailia=, order of battle.

=belly-gods=, gluttons.

=brack=, breach.

=brave=, =braverie=, fine, finery.

=bumbast=, _n._, padding.

=bumbasts=, _vb._, stuffs out.

=case=, skin.

=cast=, (1) _p. p._, cast off, disused; (2) _vb._, conjecture.

=censure=, judge.

=challenge=, claim.

=characters=, outward symbols.

=check(e) at=, (1) take offence at; (2) go in pursuit of. _Used
    technically of a hawk which turns aside from its proper quarry to
    follow inferior game._

=clear=, pure, innocent.

=close=, secret.

=coast=, travel in circuitous fashion.

=colour=, pretence.

=comfortable=, comforting.

=companion=, base fellow.

=conceit=, conception, thought.

=confirm'd=, well-regulated.

=consent=, sympathy.

=contemptfull=, contemptible.

=cries clinke=, strikes the favourable hour.

=curious=, careful, scrupulous.

=decent=, appropriate.

=denizond=, naturalized.

=designements=, arrangements.

=discover=, reveal.

=disparking=, turning park-land into plough-land.

=emply=, imply.

=encompast=, taken at a disadvantage.

=enseame=, bring together, introduce. Cf. _Spens._ F. Q. IV, II, 35-6,
    _where the word_ = "includes," "contains together."

=errant=, productive of wandering.

=events=, issues.

=exhale=, draw up, raise.

=exhalations=, meteors (cf. _Jul. Cæsar_, II, i, 44).

=explicate=, unfold.

=expugn'd=, taken by storm.

=exquire=, find out.

=facts=, deeds.

=fautor=, patron.

=fivers=, _variant of_ fibres.

=fleerings=, sneers.

=forfeit=, fault.

=foutre=, an exclamation of contempt.

=fray=, frighten.

=giddinesse=, foolhardiness.

=glorious=, swelling, boastful.

=Gordian=, Gordian knot.

=graduate=, rise by steps.

=grasse=, graze.

=hackster=, a prostitute's gallant or protector.

=haie=, a boisterous country dance.

=heartlesse=, cowardly.

=humourous=, full of humours, variable in temper.

=idols=, images, counterfeits.

=ill-favour'd=, of unpleasant appearance.

=impe=, piece out. _Used, originally, in hawking, of the process of
    grafting new feathers on a maimed wing._

=implide=, _variant of_ employed.

=inennerable=, indescribable.

=informed=, moulded, fashioned.

=ingenuous=, discerning; _used mistakenly for_ ingenious.

=injurious=, insulting.

=innative=, native.

=intelligencers=, spies.

=jealousie=, suspicion.

=jet=, strut.

=jiggs=, farces, jocular performances.

=last=, a certain weight or quantity of goods. _In the case of powder,
    it represented twenty-four barrels._

=let=, hinder, prevent.

=limit=, limitation.

=lucerns=, hunting dogs. _Used in the same sense by Chapman in trans.
    of_ Iliad, XI, 417. _The usual meaning of the word is lynx._

=mall'd=, beaten with a mall or mallet, crushed.

=manlessly=, inhumanly.

=maritorious=, over-fond of a husband.

=mate=, match oneself against.

=meane=, moderation.

=mezel'd=, leprous, fr. M. E. _mesel_, < O. F. _mesel_, _mezel_, leper,
    < M. L. _misellus_, a wretched person.

=mere=, complete.

=misers=, wretched persons.

=moon-calves=, false conceptions.

=naps=, glossy surfaces on cloth.

=naturalls=, idiots.

=nice=, dainty, scrupulous.

=nick=, notch.

=novation=, revolution.

=openarses=, medlars.

=ostents=, manifestations.

=part=, depart.

=pedisequus=, (Lat.) lackey.

=peece=, firearm, gun.

=period=, conclusion.

=politicall=, scheming.

=pide=, dressed in motley.

=prevented=, anticipated.

=pricksong=, music written down with points.

=proof=, firmness, impenetrability.

=put-ofs=, excuses.

=queich=, thicket.

=quicke=, alive.

=randon=, _earlier and more correct form of_ random, _O. F._ _randon_ f.
    _randir_, to run fast.

=ready=, dressed.

=rebating=, blunting.

=rebatoes=, ruffs.

=rebutters=, rejoinders.

=reminiscion=, remembrance.

=remission=, forgiveness.

=resolv'd=, informed.

=revoke=, call back.

=rivality=, rivalry.

=scapes=, escapades.

=secureness=, carelessness.

=seres=, claws.

=sensive=, endowed with sensation.

=servant=, lover.

=several=, separate.

=shadowes=, sunshades, or broad-brimmed hats.

=shifters=, tricksters, rogues.

=skittish=, changeable, capricious.

=sooth=, confirm, approve of.

=spice=, piece, kind.

=spinners=, spiders.

=splinted=, supported.

=standish=, inkstand.

=stillado=, _rare variant of_ stiletto.

=still'd=, distilled.

=strappl'd=, strapped.

=successe=, result.

=surcharg'd=, overladen, vanquished.

=swindge=, _n._, sway.

=swindging=, swinging to and fro.

=tall=, excellent, brave.

=temper=, regulate.

=touch=, censure.

=toy=, whim.

=tracts=, tracks, traces.

=train=, stratagem.

=triumphs=, pageants.

=troe=, an exclamation of surprise, added after a question.

=trumpet=, trumpeter.

=trusse=, seize (_used specially of birds of prey_).

=warning peece=, a shot discharged as a signal.

=weather=, tempestuous commotion.

=weed=, garment.

=witty=, intelligent.

=wrack=, wreck.

=wreak=, revenge.

=unready=, undressed.

=vennie=, bout at fencing.

Transcriber's Note:

No changes have been made to spelling or punctuation in the plays.

The following corrections have been made to notes and commentary:

     page xxxiv--"sequel to his most popular[original has popuular]

     page xxxvii--"et Monsorellum transactum fuit."[original is
     missing ending quotation mark]

     page xl--"well-known passage (II, i[original has 1], 205 ff.)"

     page 298--added missing ending quotation mark in note =188=,

The following words used an oe ligature in the original:

     Noevius       Oetaeus
     oeil          Phoenician

Superscripted letters have been ignored.

The following words were hyphenated across line breaks. They have been
rejoined and moved to the upper line. A dash indicates where the word
was broken in the original.

     Act I. Sc. II., lines 106-7: mis-tresse
     Act I. Sc. II., lines 200-1: him-selfe
     Act III. Sc. II, lines 190-1: re-membred
     Act III. Sc. II, lines 288-9: in-quisition
     Act III. Sc. II, lines 292-3: there-fore
     Dedication Letter to Revenge, lines 1-2: es-teemed
     Dedication Letter to Revenge, lines 6-7: dedica-tion
     Dedication Letter to Revenge, lines 8-9: great-nesse
     Dedication Letter to Revenge, lines 14-15: judge-ments
     Dedication Letter to Revenge, lines 21-22: ele-gant
     Dedication Letter to Revenge, lines 34-35: pre-sent

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