Beaumont and Fletcher's Works. Volume 9. Beaumont Francis
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a Dolphin in your double Ruffe?
Fran. Ye are merry, but if I take it thus,
If I be foisted and jeer'd out of my goods.
Lam. Nor I, I vow thee.
Nor Master, nor Mate, I see your cunning.
Alb. Oh be not angry Gentlemen.
Moril. Yes Sir, we have reason.
And some friends I can make.
Mast. What I did Gentlemen, was for the general safety.
If ye aim at me, I am not so tame.
Tib. Pray take my counsel Gallants.
Fight not till the Surgeon be well,
He's damnable sea-sick, and may spoil all;
Besides he has lost his Fiddlestick, and the best
Box of Bores-grease; why do you make such faces,
And hand your swords?
Alb. Who would ye fight with Gentlemen?
Who has done ye wrong? for shame be better temper'd.
No sooner come to give thanks for our safeties,
But we must raise new civil broils amongst us
Inflame those angry powers, to shower new vengeance on us?
What can we expect for these unmanly murmurs,
These strong temptations of their holy pitties,
But plagues in another kind, a fuller, so dreadful,
That the singing storms are slumbers to it?
Tib. Be men, and rule your minds;
If you will needs fight, Gentlemen,
And think to raise new riches by your valours,
Have at ye, I have little else to do now
I have said my prayers; you say you have lost,
And make your loss your quarrel.
And grumble at my Captain here, and the Master
Two worthy persons, indeed too worthy for such rascals,
Thou Galloon gallant, and Mammon you
That build on golden Mountains, thou Money-Maggot;
Come all, draw your swords, ye say ye are miserable.
Alb. Nay, hold good Tibalt.
Tib. Captain, let me correct 'em;
I'll make ye ten times worse, I will not leave 'em;
For look ye, fighting is as nourishing to me as eating,
I was born quarrelling.
Mast. Pray Sir.
Tib. I will not leave 'em skins to cover 'em;
Do ye grumble, when ye are well, ye rogues?
Mast. Noble Du-pont.
Tib. Ye have cloaths now: and ye prate.
Amin. Pray Gentlemen, for my sake be at peace.
Let it become me to make all friends.
Fran. You have stopt our angers Lady.
Alb. This shews noble.
Tib. 'Tis well: 'tis very well: there's half a Bisket,
Break't amongst ye all, and thank my bounty.
This is Cloaths and Plate too; come no more quarrelling.
Amin. But ha! what things are these,
Are they humane creatures?
Tib. I have heard of Sea-Calves.
Alb. They are no shadows sure, they have Legs and Arms.
Tib. They hang but lightly on though.
Amint. How they look, are they mens faces?
Tib. They have horse-tails growing to 'em.
Goodly long manes.
Amint. Alas what sunk eyes they have!
How they are crept in, as if they had been frighted!
Sure they are wretched men.
Tib. Where are their Wardrobes?
Look ye Franvile, here are a couple of Courtiers.
Amint. They kneel, alas poor souls.
Alb. What are ye? speak; are ye alive,
Or wandring shadows, that find no peace on earth,
Till ye reveal some hidden secret?
Sebast. We are men as you are;
Only our miseries make us seem monsters,
If ever pitty dwelt in noble hearts.
Alb. We understand 'em too: pray mark ['em] Gentlemen.
Sebast. Or that heaven is pleas'd with humane charity;
If ever ye have heard the name of friendship,
Or suffered in your selves, the least afflictions,
Have gentle Fathers that have bred ye tenderly,
And Mothers that have wept for your misfortunes,
Have mercy on our miseries.
Alb. Stand up wretches;
Speak boldly, and have release.
Nicus. If ye be Christians,
And by that blessed name, bound to relieve us,
Convey us from this Island.
Alb. Speak; what are ye?
Seb. As you are, Gentle born; to tell ye more,
Were but to number up our own calamities,
And turn your eyes wild with perpetual weepings;
These many years in this most wretched Island
We two have liv'd: the scorn and game of fortune;
Bless your selves from it Noble Gentlemen;
The greatest plagues that humane nature suffers,
Are seated here, wildness, and wants innumerable.
Alb. How came ye hither?
Nicus. In a ship as you do, and [as] you might have been.
Had not Heaven preserv'd ye for some more noble use;
Wrackt desperately; our men, and all consum'd,
But we two; that still live, and spin out
The thin and ragged threds of our misfortunes.
Alb. Is there no meat above?
Sebast. Nor meat nor quiet;
No summer here, to promise any thing;
Nor Autumn, to make full the reapers hands;
The earth obdurate to the tears of heaven,
Lets nothing shoot but poison'd weeds.
No Rivers, nor no pleasant Groves, no Beasts;
All that were made for man's use,