TRIN. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last, that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing. SEB. Why, how now, Stephano! STE. O, touch me not;-I am not Stephano, but a cramp. PROS. You 'ld be king o' the isle, sirrah? STE. I should have been a sore one, then. ALON. This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on. [Pointing to CALIBAN, PROS. He is as disproportion'd in his man As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; CAL. Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter, And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass PROS. SEB. Or stole it, rather. [Exeunt CAL, STE., and TRIN. PROS. Sir, I invite your Highness and your train 300 To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night; which, part of it, I'll waste EPILOGUE.* Now my charms are all o'erthrown, BEN JONSON (1573?-1637) 10 20 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample1 to thy book and fame; 24 lack * Probably not written by Shakespeare. 1 liberal With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall Written after Shakespeare's death, which took place in April, 1616. Beaumont died in March and was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of Chaucer and Spenser, where twenty-one years later Jonson himself was to lie. Shakespeare, however, was buried at Stratford. (Eng. Lit., p. 411.) Lines 19-21 refer to the following "Epitaph on Shakespeare" which was written by William Basse: "Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh To learned Chaucer; and, rare Beaumont, lie A little nearer Spenser, to make room For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tomb. To lodge all four in one bed make a shift, A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre, alone: sleep Thy unmolested peace, in an unshared cave, The tenor of Jonson's praise appears to be that other English poets, though great, are "disproportioned," that is, inferior to Shakespeare: his peers are to be found only among the ancients, though he himself knew little about them. While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage.2 But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 10 But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, 20 My Shakespeare rise! I will not lodge thee by From thence to honour thee, I will not seek+ 50 ancient tragic actors; figurative for "tragedy." 7 A low shoe worn by ancient comedians; hence "comedy." The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Yet must I not give nature all; thy art, And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly New tricks for safety are sought; they thrive: when bold, Each tempts the other again, and all are sold. 8 captivate Queen Elizabeth *This Argument-which is in the form of an acrostic, the initial letters of the seven lines spelling the title-gives in condensed form the plot of the play. The purpose is to present instructively some of the worst passions of men, especially avarice. Volpō'ne, the rich, hypocritical old "fox," assisted by his parasite, Mosca ("fly"), amuses himself with deluding those who hope to become his heirs, namely, the advocate Voltore ("vulture"), Corbaccio ("old raven"), etc.; but all come to grief in the end. The selection here printed constitutes the major portion of Act T. On Jonson's use of "humours," see Eng. Lit., p. 122. Аст І. Scene I.-A Room in Volpone's House. Enter Volpone and Mosca. What should I do, But cocker up3 my genius, and live free To all delights my fortune calls me to? I have no wife, no parent, child, ally, 50 Volpone. Good morning to the day; and To give my substance to; but whom I make next, my gold! Open the shrine, that I may see my saint. [Mosca withdraws the curtain, and discovers piles of gold, plate, jewels, etc. Hail the world's soul, and mine! more glad 10 than is The teeming earth to see the longed-for sun scending 20 all things; 30 The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame, Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee, He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise Mos. And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune A greater good than wisdom is in nature. Volp. True, my beloved Mosca. Yet I glory To feed the shambles; have no mills for iron, 1 The first sign of the zodiac, ascendant at the vernal equinox. Must be my heir; and this makes men observe me: This draws new clients daily to my house, 60 With hope that when I die (which they expect 70 [Knocking without. Who's that? . . Look, Mosca. Mos. 'Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate; I know him by his knock. Volp. Fetch me my gown, My furs, and night-caps; say my couch is changing, And let him entertain himself awhile Re-enter Mosca, with the gown, etc. How now! the news? Mos. A piece of plate, sir. Volp. Of what bigness? Mos. Huge, 80 Massy, and antique, with your name inscribed, And arms engraven. Volp. Good! and not a fox Stretched on the earth, with fine delusive sleights, Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca! Volp. Give me my furs. 90 [Puts on his sick dress. Why dost thou laugh so, man? Mos. I cannot choose, sir, when I apprehend What thoughts he has without now, as he walks: That this might be the last gift he should give; How he should worshipped be, and reverenced; Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple, Volp. My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in. Mos. Stay, sir; your ointment for your eyes. Re-enter Mosca, introducing Voltore with a piece of Plate. I long to feel his hand. Mos. Voip. I feel me going: Uh! uh! uh! uh! I'm sailing to my port, Uh! uh! uh! uh! Mos. You still are what you were, sir. Only | And I am glad I am so near my haven. 170 Alas, kind gentleman! Well, we must all go Volt. But, Mosca Mos. Age will conquer. Volt. Pray thee, hear me; Am I inscribed his heir for certain? I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe 8 The great square and mart of Venice. 180 To write me in your family. All my hopes Mos. Sir, I am a man that hath not done your love Your plate, and monies; am your steward, sir, Volt. But am I sole heir? Stand there and multiply. [Putting the plate to the rest.] Now we shall see Mos. Without a partner, sir: confirmed this A wretch who is indeed more impotent 210 I oft have heard him say how he admired Scarce Lie still, without a fee; when every word And yet pretend you came, and went in haste; Mos. When will you have your inventory brought, sir? 230 13 sequin; an Italian coin worth about 9s Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends. Corb. What! mends he? Mos. No, sir: he's rather worse. Corb. Mos. That's well. Where is he? 250 Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. Corb. Does he sleep well? Mos. No wink, sir, all this night, Nor yesterday; but slumbers. Corb. Good! he should take Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him An opiate here, from mine own doctor. Stood by while it was made, saw all the in Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does think Most of your doctors are the greater danger, And worse disease, to escape. I often have Heard him protest that your15 physician Should never be his heir. Corb. Not I his heir? Mos. Not your physician, sir. I do not mean it. Mos. No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook: he says they flay a man 14 at once (addressed to the one knocking) 15 a 270 |