SCENE II.
The same.
Enter young Cromwell.
Crom.
Good morrow, morn; I do salute thy brightness.
The night seems tedious to my troubled soul,
Whose black obscurity binds in my mind
A thousand sundry cogitations:
And now Aurora with a lively dye
Adds comfort to my spirit, that mounts on high4 note;
Too high indeed, my state being so mean.
My study, like a mineral of gold,
Makes my heart proud, wherein my hope's enroll'd:
My books are all the wealth I do possess,
And unto them I have engag'd my heart.
O, learning, how divine thou seem'st to me,
Within whose arms is all felicity!
[The smiths beat with their hammers, within.
Peace with your hammers! leave your knocking there!
You do disturb my study and my rest:
Leave off, I say: you mad me with the noise.
Enter Hodge, Will, and Tom.
Hodge.
Why, how now, master Thomas? how
now? will you not let us work for you?
-- 376 --
Crom.
You fret my heart with making of this noise.
Hodge.
How, fret your heart? ay, but Thomas,
you'll fret your father's purse, if you let us from
working5 note
.
Tom.
Ay, this 'tis for him to make him a gentleman.
Shall we leave work for your musing?
that's well i'faith:—But here comes my old master
now.
Enter old Cromwell.
Old Crom.
You idle knaves, what are you loit'ring now?
No hammers walking, and my work to do69Q1359 note
!
What not a heat among your work to day?
-- 377 --
Hodge.
Marry, sir, your son Thomas will not let
us work at all.
Old Crom.
Why knave, I say, have I thus cark'd and car'd7 note,
And all to keep thee like a gentleman;
And dost thou let my servants at their work8 note,
That sweat for thee, knave, labour thus for thee?
Crom.
Father, their hammers do offend my study.
Old Crom.
Out of my doors, knave, if thou lik'st it not.
I cry you mercy; are your ears so fine?
I tell thee, knave, these get when I do sleep;
I will not have my anvil stand for thee.
Crom.
There's money, father; I will pay your men.
[Throws money among them.
Old Crom.
Have I thus brought thee up unto my cost,
In hope that one day thou'd'st relieve my age;
And art thou now so lavish of thy coin,
To scatter it among these idle knaves?
Crom.
Father, be patient, and content yourself:
The time will come I shall hold gold as trash.
And here I speak with a presaging soul,
To build a palace where this cottage stands,
As fine as is king Henry's house at Sheen.
Old Crom.
You build a house? you knave, you'll be a beggar.
Now afore God all is but cast away,
That is bestow'd upon this thriftless lad.
Well, had I bound him to some honest trade,
This had not been; but 'twas his mother's doing,
To send him to the university.
How? build a house where now this cottage stands,
-- 378 --
As fair as that at Sheen?—They shall not hear me.
[Aside.
A good boy Tom, I con thee thank Tom;
Well said Tom; gramercy Tom.—
In to your work, knaves; hence, you saucy boy9 note
.
[Exeunt all but young Cromwell.
Crom.
Why should my birth keep down my mounting spirit?
Are not all creatures subject unto time,
To time, who doth abuse the cheated world1 note,
And fills it full of hodge-podge bastardy?
There's legions now of beggars on the earth,
That their original did spring from kings;
And many monarchs now, whose fathers were
The riff-raff of their age: for time and fortune
Wears out a noble train to beggary;
And from the dunghil minions do advance
To state and mark in this admiring world.
This is but course, which in the name of fate
Is seen as often as it whirls about2 note
.
-- 379 --
The river Thames, that by our door doth pass,
His first beginning is but small and shallow;
Yet, keeping on his course, grows to a sea.
And likewise Wolsey, the wonder of our age,
His birth as mean as mine, a butcher's son;
Now who within this land a greater man?
Then, Cromwell, cheer thee up, and tell thy soul,
That thou may'st live to flourish and control.
Enter Old Cromwell.
Old Crom.
Tom Cromwell; what, Tom, I say.
Crom.
Do you call, sir?
Old Crom.
Here is master Bowser come to know if
you have dispatch'd his petition for the lords of the
council or no.
Crom.
Father, I have; please you to call him in.
Old Crom.
That's well said, Tom; a good lad,
Tom.
Enter Bowser.
Bow.
Now, master Cromwell, have you dispatch'd
this petition?
Crom.
I have, sir; here it is: please you peruse it.
Bow.
It shall not need; we'll read it as we go
By water.
And, master Cromwell, I have made a motion
May do you good, an if you like of it.
-- 380 --
Our secretary at Antwerp, sir, is
Dead; and the merchants there have sent to me,
For to provide a man fit for the place:
Now I do know none fitter than yourself,
If with your liking it stand, master Cromwell.
Crom.
With all my heart, sir; and I much am bound
In love and duty, for your kindness shown.
Old Crom.
Body of me, Tom, make haste, lest
some body get between thee and home, Tom. I
thank you, good master Bowser, I thank you for my
boy; I thank you always, I thank you most heartily,
sir: ho, a cup of beer here for master Bowser.
Bow.
It shall not need, sir.—Master Cromwell,
will you go?
Crom.
I will attend you, sir.
Old Crom.
Farewel, Tom: God bless thee, Tom!
God speed thee, good Tom!
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
London.
A street before Frescobald's house.
Enter Bagot.
Bag.
I hope this day is fatal unto some,
And by their loss must Bagot seek to gain.
This is the lodging of master Frescobald3 note,
A liberal merchant, and a Florentine;
To whom Banister owes a thousand pound,
-- 381 --
A merchant-bankrupt, whose father was my master.
What do I care for pity or regard?
He once was wealthy, but he now is fallen;
And I this morning have got him arrested
At suit of this same master Frescobald;
And by this means shall I be sure of coin,
For doing this same good to him unknown:
And in good time, see where the merchant comes.
Enter Frescobald.
Good morrow to kind master Frescobald.
Fres.
Good morrow to yourself, good master Bagot:
And what's the news, you are so early stirring?
It is for gain, I make no doubt of that.
Bag.
'Tis for the love, sir, that I bear to you.
When did you see your debtor Banister?
Fres.
I promise you, I have not seen the man
This two months day4 note: his poverty is such,
As I do think he shames to see his friends.
Bag.
Why then assure yourself to see him straight,
For at your suit I have arrested him,
And here they will be with him presently.
Fres.
Arrest him at my suit? you were to blame.
I know the man's misfortunes to be such,
As he's not able for to pay the debt;
And were it known to some, he were undone.
Bag.
This is your pitiful heart to think it so;
But you are much deceiv'd in Banister.
Why, such as he will break for fashion-sake,
And unto those they owe a thousand pound,
Pay scarce a hundred. O, sir, beware of him.
The man is lewdly given to dice and drabs;
-- 382 --
Spends all he hath in harlots' companies:
It is no mercy for to pity him.
I speak the truth of him, for nothing else,
But for the kindness that I bear to you.
Fres.
If it be so, he hath deceiv'd me much;
And to deal strictly with such a one as he5 note
,
Better severe than too much lenity.
But here is master Banister himself,
And with him, as I take it, the officers.
Enter Mr. and Mrs. Banister, and two Officers.
Ban.
O, master Frescobald, you have undone me.
My state was well-nigh overthrown before;
Now altogether down-cast by your means.
Mrs. Ban.
O, master Frescobald, pity my husband's case.
He is a man hath liv'd as well as any,
Till envious Fortune and the ravenous sea
Did rob, disrobe, and spoil us of our own.
Fres.
Mistress Banister, I envy not your husband,
Nor willingly would I have us'd him thus,
But that I hear he is so lewdly given;
Haunts wicked company, and hath enough
To pay his debts, yet will not be known thereof6 note
.
Ban.
This is that damned broker, that same Bagot,
Whom I have often from my trencher fed.
Ungrateful villain for to use me thus!
Bag.
What I have said to him is nought but truth.
-- 383 --
Mrs. Ban.
What thou hast said springs from an envious heart:
A cannibal, that doth eat men alive!
But here upon my knee believe me, sir,
(And what I speak, so help me God, is true,)
We scarce have meat to feed our little babes.
Most of our plate is in that broker's hand:
Which, had we money to defray our debts,
O think, we would not 'bide that penury.
Be merciful, kind master Frescobald;
My husband, children, and myself will eat
But one meal a day; the other will we keep,
And sell, as part to pay the debt we owe you7 note.
If ever tears did pierce a tender mind,
Be pitiful; let me some favour find.
Fres.
Go to, I see thou art an envious man.
Good mistress Banister, kneel not to me;
I pray rise up; you shall have your desire.
Hold officers; be gone; there's for your pains.
You know you owe to me a thousand pound:
Here, take my hand; if e'er God make you able,
And place you in your former state again,
Pay me; but yet if still your fortune frown,
Upon my faith I'll never ask a crown.
I never yet did wrong to men in thrall,
For God doth know what to myself may fall.
Ban.
This unexpected favour, undeserv'd,
Doth make my heart bleed inwardly with joy.
Ne'er may aught prosper with me is my own8 note,
If I forget this kindness you have shown.
Mrs. Ban.
My children in their prayers, both night and day,
For your good fortune and success shall pray.
-- 384 --
Fres.
I thank you both; I pray go dine with me.
Within these three days, if God give me leave,
I will to Florence, to my native home.
Hold, Bagot, there's a portague to drink9 note
,
Although you ill deserv'd it by your merit.
Give not such cruel scope unto your heart;
Be sure the ill you do will be requited:
Remember what I say, Bagot: farewel.
Come, master Banister, you shall with me;
My fare's but simple, but welcome heartily.
[Exeunt all but Bagot.
Bag.
A plague go with you! would you had eat your last!
Is this the thanks I have for all my pains?
Confusion light upon you all for me!
Where he had wont to give a score of crowns,
Doth he now foist me with a portague?
Well, I will be reveng'd upon this Banister.
I'll to his creditors; buy all the debts he owes,
As seeming that I do it for good will;
I am sure to have them at an easy rate:
And when 'tis done, in Christendom he stays not,
But I'll make his heart to ake with sorrow.
And if that Banister become my debtor,
By heaven and earth I'll make his plague the greater.
[Exit.
-- 385 --
Edmond Malone [1780], Supplement to the edition of Shakspeare's plays published in 1778 By Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. In two volumes. Containing additional observations by several of the former commentators: to which are subjoined the genuine poems of the same author, and seven plays that have been ascribed to him; with notes By the editor and others (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10911].
