Bussy D_Ambois and The Revenge of Bussy D_Ambois George Chapman 1813 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Bussy D'Ambois and The
Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois

Author: George Chapman

Editor: Frederick S. Boas

Release date: March 24, 2007 [eBook #20890]
Most recently updated: March 16, 2013

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20890

Credits: Produced by Melissa Er-Raqabi, Ted Garvin, Lisa Reigel,
Michael Zeug, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team
at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUSSY
D'AMBOIS AND THE REVENGE OF BUSSY D'AMBOIS ***

Transcriber's Note:

Greek words that may not display correctly in all browsers
are transliterated in the text like this: βιβλος. Position your
mouse over the line to see the transliteration.
A few typographical errors have been corrected--a
complete list follows the text.

BUSSY D'AMBOIS
AND

THE REVENGE OF
BUSSY D'AMBOIS

By GEORGE CHAPMAN

EDITED BY

FREDERICK S. BOAS, M.A.
PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN
QUEEN'S COLLEGE, BELFAST

BOSTON, U.S.A., AND LONDON
D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS
1905

COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
D. C. HEATH & CO.

Table of Contents
Prefatory Note
Biography
Introduction
BUSSY D'AMBOIS
The Text
Sources
Prologue
Dramatis Personæ
Actus primi Scena prima.
Scena Secunda.
Actus Secund[i.] Scena Prima.
Scena Secunda.
Actus Tertii Scena Prima.
Scena Secunda.
Actus Quarti Scena Prima.
Scena Secunda.
Actus Quinti Scena Prima.
Scena Secunda.
Scena Tertia.
Scena Quarta.
Epilogue
Notes To Bussy D'Ambois

THE REVENGE OF BUSSY D'AMBOIS
The Text
Sources
The Actors Names
Actus primi Scæna prima.
Scæna Secunda.
Actus secundi Scæna prima.
Actus tertii Scæna prima.

Scæna Secunda.
Scæna Tertia.
Scæna Quarta.
Actus quarti Scæna prima.
Scæna secunda.
Scæna tertia.
Scæna quarta.
Scæna quinta.
Actus quinti Scæna prima.
Scæna secunda.
Scæna tertia.
Scæna quarta.
Scæna quinta.
Notes to The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois

Appendix A
Appendix B
Bibliography
Glossary

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 Œta. 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.

Biography
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.

FOOTNOTES:

[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).

Introduction
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 papistry."
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 d'Amboise.[xii:1]
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 généreux."
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 Œta (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 continues:
"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 consensit."
[xxxvii:2]

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[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."

THE TEXT
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 D'Ambois.
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:

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.
1641.

SOURCES
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 Œtaeus 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).

PROLOGUE
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.

LINENOTES:

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 oubting.

[DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.[4:1]

Henry III, King of France.
Monsieur, his brother.
The Duke of Guise.
Montsurry, a Count.
Bussy D'Ambois.
Barrisor,
L'Anou, Courtiers: enemies of D'Ambois.
Pyrhot,
Brisac,
Courtiers: friends of D'Ambois.
Melynell,
Comolet, a Friar.
Maffe, steward to Monsieur.
Nuncius.
Murderers.

Behemoth,
Cartophylax, Spirits.
Umbra of Friar.

Elenor, Duchess of Guise.
Tamyra, Countess of Montsurry.
Beaupre, niece to Elenor.
Annable, maid to Elenor.
Pero, maid to Tamyra.
Charlotte, maid to Beaupre.
Pyra, a court lady.

Courtiers, Ladies, Pages, Servants, Spirits, &c.

Scene.—Paris[4:2]]

FOOTNOTES:

[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
Tragedie

Actus primi Scena prima.
[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! Exit.

LINENOTES:

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 heere.
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 excellencie.
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.

[Scena Secunda.
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
lord?

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 Nœvius! 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
riddle.

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

him.

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
D'Ambois.

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
Exeunt.

Finis Actus Primi.

LINENOTES:

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 her.
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.

Actus Secund[i.] Scena Prima.
[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? Exit.

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.

LINENOTES:

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. 149.
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 end.
I have obtained a kingdome with my friend.

[Actus Secundi Scena Secunda.
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.

LINENOTES:

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 booke.
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 swallow
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.

Actus Tertii Scena Prima.
[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.

LINENOTES:

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 omits.
92 thine eies. A, thy beauties.
118 under our Kings arme. A, underneath the King.

[Actus Tertii Scena Secunda.
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
made?

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
possible?

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.

LINENOTES:

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 . . . there.
179 Starting back. Omitted in A, which instead continues
Montsurry's speech with: And we will to the other.
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 banquet.
213 I sweare. A, No, my lord.
215-216 Why this . . . Oh, the. A omits, possibly by mistake.
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 instead:
—

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 things.
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.

Actus Quarti Scena Prima.
[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.

LINENOTES:

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 instead:—

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 noblesse:
Mercilesse creature; but it is enough.

B has three lines broken at forehead, warres, enough.
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
instead:—

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.

[Actus Quarti Scena Secunda.
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 spirits].

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 paper.

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.

LINENOTES:

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: Articular.
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.

Actus Quinti Scena Prima.
[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].

LINENOTES:

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.

[Scena Secunda.
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

Exit.

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.

LINENOTES:

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 instead:
—

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.

[Scena Tertia.
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 fore-warn'd.
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.

LINENOTES:

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 presence.

91-92 I beleeved . . . give. One line in B.

[Scena Quarta.
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.

LINENOTES:

Thunder . . . Tamyra. A has: Intrat umbra Comolet to the
Countesse, wrapt in a canapie.
1-6 Up . . . not study. Omitted in A, which has instead:—

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 instead:—

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 omits.
90-93 And if . . . groomes. A omits.
She offers to help him. Inserted before 95 in B. A omits.
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 inserts:—

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.

EPILOGUE
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

FINIS.

LINENOTES:

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 office.
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 Sovereign.
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, fops.
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 (Phelps).

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 returns.

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 faculties.
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. Etna.

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 revenge.
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 power.
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
. . .bsp;. . 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, 3-4.
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 phrase.
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 world.
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 Phœnician moon-goddess; here mistakenly used for the name
of a male spirit.
104. Cartophylax. A post-classical Greek term for "guardian of papers."
106, 97. great in our command: powerful in exercising command over us.
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 remarkable.
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
Herculem.
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, expires.

THE TEXT
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.

THE
REVENGE
OF

Bussy D'Ambois.

A
Tragedie
As it hath beene often presented at the
priuate 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. 1613.

SOURCES
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
Appendix.
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.

TO THE RIGHT

VERTUOUS, AND

truely Noble Knight, Sr.

Thomas Howard, &c.

Sir,
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
estimation.

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.

THE ACTORS NAMES

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.

Espernone.
Soissone.
Perricot, [An Usher.]
[A Messenger.]
The Guard.
Souldiers.
Servants.

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
of
Bussy D'Ambois

A
Tragedie

Actus primi Scæna prima.
[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
See good, and
Monsieur God, now
taking are made but cloakes
his leave for for ill.
Brabant; 145
The Guise & his deare minion, Clermont Enter Henry,
Monsieur, Guise,
D'Ambois, Clerm[ont],
Whispering together, not of state affaires, Espernone, Soisson.
Monsieur taking
I durst lay wagers, (though the Guise be leave of the King.
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.

LINENOTES:

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).

[Scæna Secunda.
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.

LINENOTES:

4 honours. Emended by Phelps; Q, humors.
Enter Montsurry. Emended by all editors; Q, Monsieur.
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.

Actus secundi Scæna prima.
[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].

Bal. Thus must wee play on both sides,
and thus harten Ἀμήχανον δὲ
In any ill those men whose good wee παντὸς, &c.
hate. Impossible est viri
Kings may doe what they list, and for cognoscere mentem
ac voluntatem,
Kings, subjects, priusquam in
Eyther exempt from censure or Magistratibus
exception; apparet.

For, as no mans worth can be justly Sopho. Antig.
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.

Cler. They are the breathing sepulchres of
noblesse: Quo mollius degunt,
No trulier noble men then lions eo servilius.
pictures, 155 Epict.
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.

LINENOTES:

Ἀμήχανον (misprinted Αυκχανου) . . . Antig. In left margin of
Q.

Actus tertii Scæna prima.
[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.

LINENOTES:

Trumpets within. Drums beate. In Q these directions follow
instead of precede l. 59.
Exeunt. Q, Exit.

[Scæna Secunda.
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 within.

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