The Poetaster Act 1. Scene 1

SCENE,-Rome
After the second sounding.
ENVY arises in the midst of the stage.

Light, I salute thee, but with wounded nerves,
Wishing the golden splendor pitchy darkness.
What's here? THE ARRAIGNMENT! ay; this, this is it,
That our sunk eyes have waked for all this while:
Here will be subject for my snakes and me.
Cling to my neck and wrists, my loving worms,
And cast you round in soft and amorous folds,
Till I do bid uncurl; then, break your knots,
Shoot out yourselves at length, as your forced stings
Would hide themselves within his maliced sides,
To whom I shall apply you. Stay! the shine
Of this assembly here offends my sight;
I'll darken that first, and outface their grace.
Wonder not, if I stare: these fifteen weeks,
So long as since the plot was but an embrion,
Have I, with burning lights mixt vigilant thoughts,
In expectation of this hated play,
To which at last I am arrived as Prologue.
Nor would I you should look for other looks,
Gesture, or compliment from me, than what
The infected bulk of Envy can afford:
For I am risse here with a covetous hope,
To blast your pleasures and destroy your sports,
With wrestings, comments, applications,
Spy-like suggestions, privy whisperings,
And thousand such promoting sleights as these.
Mark how I will begin: The scene is, ha!
Rome? Rome? and Rome? Crack, eye-strings, and your balls
Drop into earth; let me be ever blind.
I am prevented; all my hopes are crost,
Check'd, and abated; fie, a freezing sweat
Flows forth at all my pores, my entrails burn:
What should I do? Rome! Rome! O my vext soul,
How might I force this to the present state?
Are there no players here? no poet apes,
That come with basilisk' s eyes, whose forked tongues
Are steeped in venom, as their hearts in gall?
Either of these would help me; they could wrest,
Pervert, and poison all they hear or see,
With senseless glosses, and allusions.
Now, if you be good devils, fly me not.
You know what dear and ample faculties
I have endowed you with: I'll lend you more.
Here, take my snakes among you, come and eat,
And while the squeez'd juice flows in your black jaws,
Help me to damn the author. Spit it forth
Upon his lines, and shew your rusty teeth
At every word, or accent: or else choose
Out of my longest vipers, to stick down
In your deep throats; and let the heads come forth
At your rank mouths; that he may see you arm'd
With triple malice, to hiss, sting, and tear.
His work and him; to forge, and then declaim,
Traduce, corrupt, apply, inform, suggest;
O, these are gifts wherein your souls are blest.
What? Do you hide yourselves? will none appear?
None answer? what, doth this calm troop affright you?
Nay, then I do despair; down, sink again:
This travail is all lost with my dead hopes.
If in such bosoms spite have left to dwell,
Envy is not on earth, nor scarce in hell. [Descends slowly.
The third sounding.

[As she disappears, enter PROLOGUE hastily, in armour.

Stay, monster, ere thou sink-thus on thy head
Set we our bolder foot; with which we tread
Thy malice into earth: so Spite should die,
Despised and scorn'd by noble industry.
If any muse why I salute the stage,
An armed Prologue; know, 'tis a dangerous age:
Wherein who writes, had need present his scenes
Forty-fold proof against the conjuring means
Of base detractors, and illiterate apes,
That fill up rooms in fair and formal shapes.
'Gainst these, have we put on this forced defence:
Whereof the allegory and hid sense
Is, that a well erected confidence
Can fright their pride, and laugh their folly hence.
Here now, put case our author should, once more,
Swear that his play were good; he doth implore,
You would not argue him of arrogance:
Howe'er that common spawn of ignorance,
Our fry of writers, may beslime his fame,
And give his action that adulterate name.
Such full-blown vanity he more doth loth,
Than base dejection; there's a mean 'twixt both,
Which with a constant firmness he pursues,
As one that knows the strength of his own Muse.
And this he hopes all free souls will allow:
Others that take it with a rugged brow,
Their moods he rather pities than envies:
His mind it is above their injuries.

ACT I SCENE 1
Scene draws, and discovers OVID in his study.

Ovid.
Then, when this body falls in funeral fire,
My name shall live, and my best part aspire.
It shall go so.

[Enter Luscus, with a gown and cap.

Lusc.
Young master, master Ovid, do you hear? Gods a'me! away with
your songs and sonnets and on with your gown and cap quickly: here, here, your father will be a man of this room presently. Come, nay, nay, nay, nay, be brief. These verses too, a poison on 'em! I
cannot abide them, they make me ready to cast, by the
banks of Helicon! Nay, look, what a rascally untoward thing this
poetry is; I could tear them now.

Ovid.
Give me; how near is my father?

Lusc.
Heart a'man: get a law book in your hand, I will not answer
you else. [Ovid puts on his cap and gown ]. Why so! now there's
some formality in you. By Jove, and three or four of the gods more,
I am right of mine old master's humour for that; this villainous
poetry will undo you, by the welkin.

Ovid.
What, hast thou buskins on, Luscus, that thou swearest so
tragically and high?

Lusc.
No, but I have boots on, sir, and so has your father too by
this time; for he call'd for them ere I came from the lodging.

Ovid.
Why, was he no readier?

Lusc.
O no; and there was the mad skeldering captain, with the
velvet arms, ready to lay hold on him as he comes down: he that
presses every man he meets, with an oath to lend him money, and
cries, Thou must do't, old boy, as thou art a man, a man of
worship.

Ovid.
Who, Pantilius Tucca?

Lus.
Ay, he; and I met little master Lupus, the tribune, going
thither too.

Ovid.
Nay, an he be under their arrest, I may with safety enough
read over my elegy before he come.

Lus.
Gods a'me! what will you do? why, young master, you are not
Castalian mad, lunatic, frantic, desperate, ha!

Ovid.
What ailest thou, Luscus?

Lus.
God be with you, sir; I'll leave you to your poetical fancies,
and furies. I'll not be guilty, I.

[Exit.

Ovid.
Be not, good ignorance. I'm glad th'art gone;
For thus alone, our ear shall better judge
The hasty errors of our morning muse.

Envy, why twit'st thou me my time's spent ill,
And call'st my verse, fruits of an idle quill?
Or that, unlike the line from whence I sprung,
War's dusty honours I pursue not young?
Or that I study not the tedious laws,
And prostitute my voice in every cause?
Thy scope is mortal; mine eternal fame,
Which through the world shall ever chaunt my name.
Homer will live whilst Tenedos stands, and Ide,
Or, to the sea, fleet Simois doth slide:
And so shall Hesiod too, while vines do bear,
Or crooked sickles crop the ripen'd ear.
Callimachus, though in invention low,
Shall still be sung, since he in art doth flow.
No loss shall come to Sophocles' proud vein;
With sun and moon, Aratus shall remain.
While slaves be false, fathers hard, and bawds be whorish
Whilst harlots flatter, shall Menander flourish.
Ennius, though rude, and Accius's high-rear'd strain,
A fresh applause in every age shall gain,
Of Varro's name, what ear shall not be told,
Of Jason's Argo and the fleece of gold?
Then shall Lucretius' lofty numbers die,
When earth and seas in fire and flame shall fry.
Tityrus, Tillage, AEnee shall be read,
Whilst Rome of all the conquered world is head!
Till Cupid's fires be out, and his bow broken,
Thy verses, neat Tibullus, shall be spoken.
Our Gallus shall be known from east to west;
So shall Lycoris, whom he now loves best.
The suffering plough-share or the flint may wear;
But heavenly Poesy no death can fear.
Kings shall give place to it, and kingly shows,
The banks o'er which gold-bearing Tagus flows.
Kneel hinds to trash: me let bright Phoebus swell
With cups full flowing from the Muses' well.
Frost-fearing myrtle shall impale my head,
And of sad lovers I be often read.
Envy the living, not the dead, doth bite!
For after death all men receive their right.
Then, when this body falls in funeral fire,
My name shall live, and my best part aspire.

Enter OVID senior, followed by Luscus,
Tucca, and Lupus.

Ovid se.
Your name shall live, indeed, sir! you say true: but how
infamously, how scorn'd and contemn'd in the eyes and ears of the
best and gravest Romans, that you think not on; you never so much as dream of that. Are these the fruits of all my travail and
expenses? Is this the scope and aim of thy studies? Are these the
hopeful courses, wherewith I have so long flattered my expectation
from thee? Verses! Poetry! Ovid, whom I thought to see the pleader, become Ovid the play-maker!

Ovid ju.
No, sir.

Ovid se.
Yes, sir; I hear of a tragedy of yours coming forth for
the common players there, call'd Medea. By my household gods, if I come to the acting of it, I'll add one tragic part more than is yet
expected to it: believe me, when I promise it. What! shall I have
my son a stager now? an enghle for players? a gull, a rook, a
shot-clog, to make suppers, and be laugh'd at? Publius, I will set
thee on the funeral pile first.

Ovid ju.
Sir, I beseech you to have patience.

Lus.
Nay, this 'tis to have your ears damn'd up to good counsel. I
did augur all this to him beforehand, without poring into an ox's
paunch for the matter, and yet he would not be scrupulous.

Tuc.
How now, goodman slave! what, rowly-powly? all rivals, rascal?
Why, my master of worship, dost hear? are these thy best projects? is this thy designs and thy discipline, to suffer knaves to be competitors with commanders and gentlemen? Are we parallels, rascal, are we parallels?

Ovid se.
Sirrah, go get my horses ready. You'll still be prating.

Tuc.
Do, you perpetual stinkard, do, go; talk to tapsters and
ostlers, you slave; they are in your element, go; here be the
emperor's captains, you raggamuffin rascal, and not your comrades.

[Exit Luscus.

Lup.
Indeed. Marcus Ovid, these players are an idle generation, and
do much harm in a state, corrupt young gentry very much, I know it; I have not been a tribune thus long and observed nothing: besides, they will rob us, us, that are magistrates, of our respect, bring us upon their stages, and make us ridiculous to the plebeians; they will play you or me, the wisest men they can come by still, only to bring us in contempt with the vulgar, and make us cheap.

Tur.
Thou art in the right, my venerable cropshin, they will
indeed; the tongue of the oracle never twang'd truer. Your courtier
cannot kiss his mistress's slippers in quiet for them; nor your
white innocent gallant pawn his revelling suit to make his punk a
supper. An honest decayed commander cannot skelder, cheat, nor be seen in a bawdy-house, but he shall be straight in one of their
wormwood comedies. They are grown licentious, the rogues;
libertines, flat libertines. They forget they are in the statute,
the rascals; they are blazon'd there; there they are trick'd, they
and their pedigrees; they need no other heralds, I wiss.

Ovid se.
Methinks, if nothing else, yet this alone, the very
reading of the public edicts, should fright thee from commerce with them, and give thee distaste enough of their actions. But this
betrays what a student you are, this argues your proficiency in the
law!

Ovid ju.
They wrong me, sir, and do abuse you more,
That blow your ears with these untrue reports.
I am not known unto the open stage,
Nor do I traffic in their theatres:
Indeed, I do acknowledge, at request
Of some near friends, and honourable Romans,
I have begun a poem of that nature.

Ovid se.
You have, sir, a poem! and where is it? That's the law you
study.

Ovid ju.
Cornelius Gallus borrowed it to read.

Ovid se.
Cornelius Gallus! there's another gallant too hath drunk
of the same poison, and Tibullus and Propertius. But these are
gentlemen of means and revenues now. Thou art a younger brother, and hast nothing but they bare exhibition; which I protest shall be bare indeed, if thou forsake not these unprofitable by-courses, and that timely too. Name me a profest poet, that his poetry did ever afford him so much as a competency. Ay, your god of poets there, whom all of you admire and reverence so much, Homer, he whose worm-eaten statue must not be spewed against, but with hallow'd lips and groveling adoration, what was he? what was he?

Tuc.
Marry, I'll tell thee, old swaggerer; he was a poor blind,
rhyming rascal, that lived obscurely up and down in booths and
tap-houses, and scarce ever made a good meal in his sleep, the
whoreson hungry beggar.

Ovid se.
He says well:—nay, I know this nettles you now; but
answer me, is it not true? You'll tell me his name shall live; and
that now being dead his works have eternised him, and made him
divine: but could this divinity feed him while he lived? could his
name feast him?

Tuc.
Or purchase him a senator's revenue, could it?

Ovid se.
Ay, or give him place in the commonwealth? worship, or
attendants? make him be carried in his litter?

Tuc.
Thou speakest sentences, old Bias.

Lup.
All this the law will do, young sir, if you'll follow it.

Ovid se.
If he be mine, he shall follow and observe what I will apt
him to, or I profess here openly and utterly to disclaim him.

Ovid ju.
Sir, let me crave you will forego these moods;
I will be any thing, or study any thing;
I'll prove the unfashion'd body of the law
Pure elegance, and make her rugged'st strains
Run smoothly as Propertius' elegies

Ovid se.
Propertius' elegies? good!

Lup.
Nay, you take him too quickly, Marcus

Ovid se.
Why, he cannot speak, he cannot think out of poetry; he is
bewitch'd with it.

Lup.
Come, do not misprise him. Ovid se. Misprise! ay, marry, I
would have him use some such words now; they have some touch, some taste of the law. He should make himself a style out of these, and let his Propertius' elegies go by.

Lup.
Indeed, young Publius, he that will now hit the mark, must
shoot through the law; we have no other planet reigns, and in that
sphere you may sit and sing with angels. Why, the law makes a man happy, without respecting any other merit; a simple scholar, or none at all, may be a lawyer.

Tuc.
He tells thee true, my noble neophyte; my little gram
maticaster, he does: it shall never put thee to thy mathematics,
metaphysics, philosophy, and I know not what supposed Suficiencies; if thou canst but have the patience to plod enough, talk, and make a noise enough, be impudent enough, and 'tis enough.

Lup.
Three books will furnish you. Tuc. And the less art the
better: besides, when it shall be in the power of thy chevril
conscience, to do right or wrong at thy pleasure, my pretty
Alcibiades.

Lup.
Ay, and to have better men than himself, by many thousand
degrees, to observe him, and stand bare.

Tuc.
True, and he to carry himself proud and stately, and have the
law on his side for't, old boy.

Ovid se.
Well, the day grows old, gentlemen, and I must leave
you. Publius, if thou wilt hold my favour, abandon these idle,
fruitless studies, that so bewitched thee. Send Janus home his back
face again, and look only forward to the law: intend that. I will I
allow thee what shall suit thee in the rank of gentlemen, and
maintain thy society with the best; and under these conditions I
leave thee. My blessings light upon thee, if thou respect them; if
not, mine eyes may drop for thee, but thine own heart will ache for
itself; and so farewell! What, are my horses come?

Lus.
Yes, sir, they are at the gate Without.

Ovid se.
That's well.—Asinius Lupus, a word. Captain, I shall take
my leave of you?

Tuc.
No, my little old boy, dispatch with Cothurnus there: I'll
attend thee, I—

Lus.
To borrow some ten drachms: I know his project.
[Aside.

Ovid se.
Sir, you shall make me beholding to you. Now, captain
Tucca, what say you?

Tuc.
Why, what should say, or what can I say, my flower O' the
order? Should I say thou art rich, or that thou art honourable, or
wise, or valiant, or learned, or liberal? why, thou art all these,
and thou knowest it, my noble Lucullus, thou knowest it. Come, be
not ashamed of thy virtues, old stump: honour's a good brooch to
wear in a man's hat at all times. Thou art the man of war's
Mecaenas, old boy. Why shouldst not thou be graced then by them, as well as he is by his poets?

[Enter PYRGUS and whispers TUCCA.

How now, my carrier, what news?

Lus.
The boy has stayed within for his cue this half-hour.
[Aside.

Tuc.
Come, do not whisper to me, but speak it out: what; it is no
treason against the state I hope, is it?

Lus.
Yes, against the state of my master's purse.
[Aside, and exit.

Pyr.
[aloud.] Sir, Agrippa desires you to forbear him till the next
week; his mules are not yet come up.

Tuc.
His mules! now the bots, the spavin, and the glanders, and
some dozen diseases more, light on him and his mules! What, have
they the yellows, his mules, that they come no faster? or are
they foundered, ha? his mules have the staggers belike, have they?

Pyr.
O no, sir;—then your tongue might be suspected for one of his
mules.
[Aside.

Tuc.
He owes me almost a talent, and he thinks to bear it away with
his mules, does he? Sirrah, you nut cracker. Go your ways to him
again, and tell him I must have money, I: I cannot eat stones and
turfs, say. What, will he clem me and my followers? ask him an he
will clem me; do, go. He would have me fry my jerkin, would he?
Away, setter, away. Yet, stay, my little tumbler, this old boy
shall supply now. I will not trouble him, I cannot be importunate,
I; I cannot be impudent.

Pyr.
Alas, sir, no; you are the most maidenly blushing creature
upon the earth.
[Aside

Tuc.
Dost thou hear, my little six and fifty, or thereabouts? thou
art not to learn the humours and tricks of that old bald cheater,
Time; thou hast not this chain for nothing. Men of worth have their
chimeras, as well as other creatures; and they do see monsters
sometimes, they do, they do, brave boy.

Pyr. Better cheap than he shall see you, I warrant him.
[Aside.

Tuc.
Thou must let me have six-six drachma, I mean, old boy: thou
shalt do it; I tell thee, old boy, thou shalt, and in private
too,—dost thou see?—Go, walk off: [to the Boy]-There, there. Six
is the sum. Thy son's a gallant spark and must not be put out of a
sudden. Come hither, Callimachus; thy father tells me thou art too
poetical, boy: thou must not be so; thou must leave them, young
novice, thou must; they are a sort of poor starved rascals, that
are ever wrap'd up in foul linen; and can boast of nothing but a
lean visage, peering out of a seam-rent suit, the very emblems of
beggary. No, dost hear, turn lawyer, thou shalt be my solicitor.—-
'Tis right, old boy, is't?

Ovid Sr.
You were best tell it, captain.

Tuc.
No; fare thou well, mine honest horseman; and thou, old
beaver. [To Lupus]-Pray thee, Roman, when thou comest to town, see me at my lodging, visit me sometimes? thou shalt be welcome. old boy. Do not balk me, good swaggerer. Jove keep thy chain from pawning; go thy ways, if thou lack money I'll lend thee some; I'll leave thee to thy horse now. Adieu...

Ovid Sr.
Farewell, good captain.

Tuc.
Boy, you can have but half a share now, boy
[Exit, followed by Pyrgus.

Ovid Sr.
'Tis a strange boldness that accompanies this fellow. Come.

Ovid ju.
I'll give attendance on you to your horse, sir, please
you.

Ovid se.
No; keep your chamber, and fall to your studies; do so:
The gods of Rome bless thee! [Exit with Lupus.

Ovid ju.
And give me stomach to digest this law:
That should have follow'd sure, had I been he.
O, sacred Poesy, thou spirit of arts,
The soul of science, and the queen of souls;
What profane violence, almost sacrilege,
Hath here been offered thy divinities!
That thine own guiltless poverty should arm
Prodigious ignorance to wound thee thus!
For thence is all their force of argument,
Drawn forth against thee; or, from the abuse
Of thy great powers in adulterate brains:
When, would men learn but to distinguish spirits
And set true difference 'twixt those jaded wits
That run a broken pace for common hire,
And the high raptures of a happy muse,
Borne on the wings of her immortal thought,
That kicks at earth with a disdainful heel,
And beats at heaven gates with her bright hoofs;
They would not then, with such distorted faces,
And desperate censures, stab at Poesy.
They would admire bright knowledge, and their minds
Should ne'er descend on so unworthy objects
As gold, or titles; they would dread far more
To be thought ignorant, than be known poor.
The time was once, when wit drown'd wealth; but now,
Your only barbarism is t'have wit, and want.
No matter now in virtue who excels,
He that hath coin, hath all perfection else.

Tib.
[within.] Ovid!

Ovid.
Who's there? Come in.
Enter Tibullus.

Tib.
Good morrow, lawyer.

Ovid.
Good morrow, dear Tibullus; welcome: sit down.

Tib.
Not I. What, so hard at it? Let's see, what's here? Numa in
decimo nono. I Nay, I will see it

Ovid.
Prithee away

Tib.
If thrice in field a man vanquish his foe,
'Tis after in his choice to serve or no.
How, now, Ovid! Law cases in verse?

Ovid.
In truth, I know not; they run from my pen unwittingly if
they be verse. What's the news abroad?

Tib.
Off with this. gown; I come to have thee walk.

Ovid.
No, good Tibullus, I'm not now in case. Pray let me alone.

Tib.
How! Not in case?
Slight, thou'rt in too much case, by all this law.

Ovid.
Troth, if I live, I will new dress the law
In sprightly Poesy's habiliments.

Tib.
The hell thou wilt! What! turn law into verse
Thy father has school'd thee, I see. Here, read that same;
There's subject for you; and, if I mistake not, A supersedeas
to your melancholy.

Ovid.
How! subscribed Julia! O my life, my heaven!

Tib.
Is the mood changed?

Ovid.
Music of wit! note for th' harmonious spheres!
Celestial accents, how you ravish me!

Tib.
What is it, Ovid?

Ovid.
That I must meet my Julia, the princess Julia.

Tib.
Where?

Ovid.
Why, at—-
Heart, I've forgot; my passion so transports me.

Tib.
I'll save your pains: it is at Albius' house,
The jeweller's, where the fair Lycoris lies.

Ovid.
Who? Cytheris, Cornelius Gallus' love?

Tib.
Ay, he'll be there too, and my Plautia.

Ovid.
And why not your Delia?

Tib.
Yes, and your Corinna.

Ovid.
True; but, my sweet Tibullus, keep that secret
I would not, for all Rome, it should be thought
I veil bright Julia underneath that name:
Julia, the gem and jewel of my soul,
That takes her honours from the golden sky,
As beauty doth all lustre from her eye.
The air respires the pure Elysian sweets
In which she breathes, and from her looks descend
The glories of the summer. Heaven she is,
Praised in herself above all praise; and he
Which hears her speak, would swear the tuneful orbs
Turn'd in his zenith only.

Tib.
Publius, thou'lt lose thyself.

Ovid.
O, in no labyrinth can I safelier err,
Than when I lose myself in praising her.
Hence, law, and welcome Muses, though not rich,
Yet are you pleasing: let's be reconciled,
And new made one. Henceforth, I promise faith
And all my serious hours to spend with you;
With you, whose music striketh on my heart,
And with bewitching tones steals forth my spirit,
In Julia's name; fair Julia: Julia's love
Shall be a law, and that sweet law I'll study,
The law and art of sacred Julia's love:
All other objects will but abjects prove.

Tib.
Come, we shall have thee as passionate as Propertius, anon.

Ovid.
O, how does my Sextus?

Tib.
Faith, full of sorrow for his Cynthia's death.

Ovid.
What, still?

Tib.
Still, and still more, his griefs do grow upon him
As do his hours. Never did I know
An understanding spirit so take to heart
The common work of Fate.

Ovid.
O, my Tibullus,
Let us not blame him; for against such chances
The heartiest strife of virtue is not proof.
We may read constancy and fortitude.
To other souls; but had ourselves been struck
With the like planet, had our loves, like his,
Been ravish'd from us by injurious death,
And in the height and heat of our best days,
It would have crack'd our sinews, shrunk our veins,
And made our very heart-strings jar, like his.
Come, let's go take him forth, and prove if mirth
Or company will but abate his passion.

Tib.
Content, and I implore the gods it may.

[Exeunt.