Scene II London. The Court of Athelstane
Enter Athelstane, Lincoln with Agripyne, Cyprus, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Longaville and Montrose.
Athelst. Lincoln, how set’st thou her at liberty?
Linc. No other prison held her but your court,
There in her chamber hath she hid herself
These two days, only to shake off that fear,
Which her late violent rapture cast upon her.
Cypr. Where hath the beauteous Agripyne been?
Agrip. In Heaven or hell, in or without the world,
I know not which, for as I oft have seen,
When angry Thamesis hath curled her locks,
A whirlwind come, and from her frizzled brows,
Snatch up a handful of those sweaty pearls,
That stood upon her forehead, which awhile,
Being by the boist’rous wind hung in the air,
At length hath flung them down and raised a storm,—
Even with such fury was I wherried up,
And by such force held prisoner in the clouds,
And thrown by such a tempest down again.
Cornw. Some soul is damned in hell for this black deed.
Agrip. I have the purse safe, and anon your grace
Shall hear the wondrous history at full.
Cypr. Tell me, tormentor, shall fair Agripyne,
Without more difference be now christened mine!
Agrip. My choice must be my father’s fair consent.
Athelst. Then shall thy choice end in this Cyprus prince.
Before the sun shall six times more arise,
His royal marriage will we solemnise.
Proclaim this honoured match! Come, Agripyne,
I am glad th’ art here, more glad the purse is mine.
[As they are going in, enter Andelocia and Shadow, disguised as Irish coster-mongers. Agripyne, Longaville, and Montrose stay listening to them, the rest exeunt.
Both. Buy any apples, feene apples of Tamasco,396 feene Tamasco peepins: peeps feene, buy Tamasco peepins.
Agrip. Damasco apples? good my Lord Montrose,
Call yonder fellows.
Montr. Sirrah coster-monger.
Shad. Who calls: peeps of Tamasco, feene peeps: Ay, fat ’tis de sweetest apple in de world, ’tis better den de Pome water,397 or apple John.398
Andel. By my trat, madam, ’tis reet Tamasco peepins, look here els.
Shad. I dare not say, as de Irishman my countryman say, taste de goodness of de fruit: no, sayt, ’tis farie teere, mistriss, by Saint Patrick’s hand ’tis teere Tamasco apple.
Agrip. The fairest fruit that ever I beheld.
Damasco apples, wherefore are they good?
Longa. What is your price of half a score of these?
Both. Half a score, half a score? dat is doos many, mester.399
Longa. Ay, ay, ten, half a score, that’s five and five.
Andel. Feeve and feeve? By my trat and as Creeze save me la, I cannot tell wat be de price of feeve and feeve, but ’tis tree crown for one peepin, dat is de preez if you take ’em.
Shad. Ay fat, ’tis no less for Tamasco.
Agrip. Three crowns for one? what wondrous virtues have they?
Shad. O, ’tis feene Tamasco apple, and shall make you a great teal wise, and make you no fool, and make feene memory.
Andel. And make dis fash be more fair and amiable, and make dis eyes look always lovely, and make all de court and country burn in desire to kiss di none sweet countenance.
Montr. Apples to make a lady beautiful?
Madam, that’s excellent.
Agrip. These Irishmen,
Some say, are great dissemblers, and I fear
These two the badge of their own country wear.
Andel. By my trat, and by Saint Patrick’s hand, and as Creez save me la, ’tis no dissembler: de Irishman now and den cut di countryman’s throat, but yet in fayt he love di countryman, ’tis no dissembler: dis feene Tamasco apple can make di sweet countenance, but I can take no less but three crowns for one, I wear out my naked legs and my foots, and my tods,400 and run hidder and didder to Tamasco for dem.
Shad. As Creez save me la, he speaks true: Peeps feene.
Agrip. I’ll try what power lies in Damasco fruit.
Here are ten crowns for three. So fare you well.
Montr. Lord Longaville, buy some.
Longa. I buy? not I:
Hang them, they are toys; come, madam, let us go. [Exeunt Agripyne, Longaville and Montrose.
Both. Saint Patrick and Saint Peter, and all de holy angels look upon dat fash and make it fair.
Re-enter Montrose softly.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! she’s sped, I warrant.
Andel. Peace, Shadow, buy any peepins, buy.
Both. Peeps feene, feene Tamasco apples.
Montr. Came not Lord Longaville to buy some fruit?
Andel. No fat, master, here came no lords nor ladies, but di none sweet self.
Montr. ’Tis well, say nothing, here’s six crowns for two:
You say the virtues are to make one strong.
Both. Yes fat, and make sweet countenance and strong too.
Montr. ’Tis excellent: here! farewell! if these prove,
I’ll conquer men by strength, women by love. [Exit.
Re-enter Longaville.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha! why this is rare.
Shad. Peace, master, here comes another fool.
Both. Peepes feene, buy any peepes of Tamasco?
Longa. Did not the Lord Montrose return to you?
Both. No fat, sweet master, no lord did turn to us: peepes feene!
Longa. I am glad of it; here are nine crowns for three.
What are the virtues besides making fair?
Andel. O, ’twill make thee wondrous wise.
Shad. And dow shall be no more a fool, but sweet face and wise.
Longa. ’Tis rare, farewell, I never yet durst woo.
None loves me: now I’ll try what these can do. [Exit.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha. So, this is admirable, Shadow, here end my torments in Saint Patrick’s Purgatory, but thine shall continue longer.
Shad. Did I not clap on a good false Irish face?
Andel. It became thee rarely.
Shad. Yet that’s lamentable, that a false face should become any man.
Andel. Thou art a gull,401 tis all the fashion now, which fashion because we’ll keep, step thou abroad, let not the world want fools; whilst thou art commencing thy knavery there, I’ll precede Dr. Dodipoll402 here: that done, thou, Shadow, and I will fat ourselves403 to behold the transformation of these fools: go fly.
Shad. I fear nothing, but that whilst we strive to make others fools, we shall wear the cock’s combs ourselves. Pips fine. [Exit Shadow.
Enter Ampedo.
Andel. S’heart, here’s my brother whom I have abused:
His presence makes me blush, it strikes me dead,
To think how I am metamorphosèd.
Feene peepins of Tamasco!
Amp. For shame cast off this mask.
Andel. Wilt thou buy any pips?
Amp. Mock me no longer
With idle apparitions: many a land
Have I with weary feet and a sick soul
Measured to find thee; and when thou art found,
My greatest grief is that thou art not lost.
Yet lost thou art, thy fame, thy wealth are lost,
Thy wits are lost, and thou hast in their stead,
With shame and cares, and misery crowned thy head.
That Shadow that pursues thee, filled mine ears
With sad relation of thy wretchedness,
Where is the purse, and where my wishing hat?
Andel. Where, and where? are you created constable? You stand so much upon interrogatories. The purse is gone, let that fret you, and the hat is gone, let that mad you: I run thus through all trades to overtake them, if you be quiet, follow me, and help, if not, fly from me, and hang yourself. Wilt thou buy any pippins? [Exit.
Amp. Oh, how I grieve, to see him thus transformed?
Yet from the circles of my jealous eyes
He shall not start, till he have repossessed
Those virtuous jewels, which found once again,
More cause they ne’er shall give me to complain,
Their worth shall be consumed in murdering flames,
And end my grief, his riot, and our shames. [Exit.