Chapter 88
CHIFFIN [_to THE PLAYER_].
Ballad, sir?
"Hear All!" A fine brave ballad of a Fish Just caught off Dover; nay, a one-eyed fish, With teeth in double rows.
THE PLAYER. Nay, nay, go to.
CHIFFIN.
"My Fortune's Folly," then; or "The True Tale Of an Angry Gull;" or "Cherries Like Me Best."
"Black Sheep, or How a Cut-Purse Robbed His Mother;"
"The Prentice and the Dell!"... "Plays Play not Fair,"
Or how a _gentlewoman's_ heart was took By a player that was king in a stage-play....
"The Merry Salutation," "How a Spark Would Woo a Tanner's Wife!" "The Direful Fish"-- c.o.c.k's pa.s.sion, sir! not buy a cleanly ballad Of the great fish, late ta'en off Dover coast, Having two heads and teeth in double rows....
Salt fish catched in fresh water?...
'Od's my life!
What if or salt or fresh? A prodigy!
A ballad like "Hear All!" And me and mine, Five children and a wife would bait the devil, May lap the water out o' Lambeth Marsh Before he'll buy a ballad. My poor wife, That lies a-weeping for a tansy-cake!
Body o' me, shall I scent ale again?
THE PLAYER.
Why, here's persuasion; logic, arguments.
Nay, not the ballad. Read for thine own joy.
I doubt not but it stretches, honest length, From Maid Lane to the Bridge and so across.
But for thy length of thirst--
[_Giving him a coin._]
That touches near.
CHIFFIN [_apart_].
A vagrom player, would not buy a tale O' the Great Fish with the twy rows o' teeth!
Learn you to read! [_Exit._]
SIMEON.
Thou seemest, sir, from that I have overheard, A man, as one should grant, beyond thy calling....
I would I might a.s.sure thee of the way, To urge thee quit this painted infamy.
There may be time, seeing thou art still young, To pluck thee from the burning. How are ye 'stroyed, Ye foolish gra.s.shoppers! Cut off, forgotten, When moth and rust corrupt your flaunting shows, The Earth shall have no memory of your name!
d.i.c.kON.
Pray you, what's yours?
SIMEON. I am called Simeon Dyer.
[_There is the sudden uproar of a crowd in the distance. It continues at intervals for some time._]
} Hey, lads?
PRENTICES. } Some noise beyond: Come, cudgels, come!
} Come on, come on, I'm for it.
[_Exeunt all but THE PLAYER, SIMEON, and d.i.c.kON._]
SIMEON.
Something untoward, without: or is it rather The tumult of some uproar incident To this... vicinity?
THE PLAYER. It is an uproar Most incident to bears.
d.i.c.kON.
THE PLAYER [_holding him off at arm's length_].
Hey, boy? We would have tidings of the bear: Go thou, I'll be thy surety. Mark him well.
Omit no fact; I would have all of it: What manner o' bear he is,--how bears himself; Number and pattern of ears, and eyes what hue; His voice and fas.h.i.+on o' coat. Nay, come not back, Till thou hast all. Skip, sirrah!
[_Exit d.i.c.kON._]
SIMEON. Think, fair sir.
Take this new word of mine to be a seed Of thought in that neglected garden plot, Thy mind, thy worthier part. But think!
THE PLAYER. Why, so; Thou hast some right, friend; now and then it serves.
Sometimes I have thought, and even now sometimes,... I think.
SIMEON [_benevolently_]. Heaven ripen thought unto an harvest!
[_Exit._]
[THE PLAYER _rises, stretches his arms, and paces the floor, wearily._]
THE PLAYER [_alone_].
Some quiet now.... Why should I thirst for it As if my thoughts were n.o.ble company?
Alone with the one man of all living men I have least cause to honor....
I'm no lover, That seek to be alone!... She is too false-- At last, to keep a spaniel's loyalty.
I do believe it. And by my own soul, She shall not have me, what remains of me That may be beaten back into the ranks.
I will not look upon her.... Bitter Sweet.
This fever that torments me day by day-- Call it not love--this servitude, this spell That haunts me like a sick man's fantasy, With pleading of her eyes, her voice, her eyes-- It shall not have me. I am too much stained: But, G.o.d or no G.o.d, yet I do not live And have to bear my own soul company, To have it stoop so low. She looks on Herbert.
Oh, I have seen. But he,--he must withstand.
He knows that I have suffered,--suffer still-- Although I love her not. Her ways, her ways-- It is her ways that eat into the heart With beauty more than Beauty; and her voice That silvers o'er the meaning of her speech Like moons.h.i.+ne on black waters. Ah, uncoil!...
He's the sure morning after this dark dream; Clear daylight and west wind of a lad's love; With all his golden pride, for my dull hours, Still climbing sunward! Sink all loves in him!
And cleanse me of this cursed, fell distrust That marks the pestilence....
_'Fair, kind, and true.'_ Lad, lad. How could I turn from friendliness To wors.h.i.+p such false G.o.ds?-- There cannot thrive a greater love than this, 'Fair, kind, and true.' And yet, if She were true To me, though false to all things else;--one truth, So one truth lived--. One truth! O beggared soul --Foul Lazarus, so starved it can make s.h.i.+ft To feed on crumbs of honor!--Am I this?
[_Enter ANNE HUGHES. She has been running in evident terror, and stands against the door looking about her._]
ANNE.
Are you the inn-keeper?
[_THE PLAYER turns and bows courteously._]
Nay, sir, your pardon.
I saw you not... And yet your face, methinks, But--yes, I'm sure....
But where's the inn-keeper?
I know not where I am, nor where to go.
THE PLAYER.