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                           FRANCIS BEAUMONT

                          Born 1584 Died 1616

                             JOHN FLETCHER

                          Born 1579 Died 1625




                        _BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER_

                         THE MAID IN THE MILL
                          THE KNIGHT OF MALTA
                    LOVES CURE, OR THE MARTIAL MAID
                             WOMEN PLEAS'D
                    THE NIGHT-WALKER, OR THE LITTLE
                                 THIEF


                          THE TEXT EDITED BY
                          A. R. WALLER, M.A.

                            [Illustration]

                              Cambridge:
                        at the University Press
                                 1909

                      CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

                       London: FETTER LANE, E.C.

                          C. F. CLAY, MANAGER

                            [Illustration]

                    Edinburgh: 100, PRINCES STREET
                       Berlin: A. ASHER AND CO.
                       Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS
                     New York: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
             Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.

                         _All rights reserved_




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE

  The Maid in the Mill                                                 1

  The Knight of Malta                                                 78

  Loves Cure, or the Martial Maid                                    164

  Women Pleas'd                                                      237

  The Night-Walker, or the Little Thief                              311

  Notes                                                              385




THE

Maid in the Mill.

A COMEDY.


The Persons Represented in the Play.

  _Don_ Philippo _King of_ Spain.
  Otrante _a Spanish Count, in love with_ Florimel.
  Julio, _A Noble Man, Uncle to_ Antonio.
  Bellides, _Father to_ Ismenia, _Enemy to_ Julio.
  Lisauro, _Brother to_ Ismenia, Bellides _Son_.
  Terzo, _Kinsman to_ Lisauro, _and friend to_ Bellides.
  Antonio, _In love with_ Ismenia, _an enemy to_ Bellides.
  Martino, _Friend to_ Antonio, _and his secret Rival_.
  Gerasto, _Friend to_ Otrante.
  Pedro.     } _Two Courtiers._
  Moncado.   }
  Gostanzo,   } _Three Gentlemen, Friends to_ Julio.
  Giraldo,    }
  Philippo,   }
  Vertigo, _A French Taylor_.
  _Lords, attending the King in progress._
  Franio, _A Miller, supposed Father to_ Florimell.
  Bustopha, Franio _his Son, a Clown_.
  _Constable._
  _Officers._
  Pedro, _A Songster_.
  _Servants._

                                 WOMEN.

  Ismenia, _Daughter to_ Bellides, _Mistriss of_ Antonio.
  Aminta, _Cousen to_ Ismenia, _and her private competrix in_
    Antonio's _love_.
  Florimell, _Supposed Daughter to_ Franio, _Daughter to_ Julio,
    _stolen from him a child_.
  Gillian, Franio _the Millers Wife_.
  _Countrey Maids._

                           The Scene Spaine.

                       The principal Actors were

  _Joseph Tailor_,
  _John Lowin_,
  _John Underwood_,
  _William Rowly_,
  _John Thomson_,
  _Robert Benfield_,
  _Tho. Polard_.




_Actus Primus. Scaena Prima._


             _Enter_ Lisauro, Terzo, Ismenia, _and_ Aminta.

    _Lis._ Let the Coach go round, we'll walk along these Meadows:
    And meet at Port again: Come my fair Sister,
    These cool shades will delight ye.

    _Am._ Pray be merry,
    The Birds sing as they meant to entertain ye,
    Every thing smiles abroad; methinks the River
    (As he steals by) curles up his head, to view ye:
    Every thing is in love.

    _Ism._ You would have it so.
    You that are fair, are easie of belief, Cosen,
    The theam slides from your tongue.

    _Am._ I fair? I thank ye:
    Mine's but shadow when your Sun shines by me.

    _Ism._ No more of this, you know your worth (_Aminta_)
    Where are we now?

    _Am._ Hard by the Town (_Ismena_).

    _Ter._ Close by the Gates.

    _Ism._ 'Tis a fine Ayr.

    _Lis._ A delicate;
    The way so sweet and even, that the Coach
    Would be a tumbling trouble to our pleasures:
    Methinks I am very merry:

    _Ism._ I am sad:

    _Am._ You are ever so when we entreat ye (Cosen)

    _Ism._ I have no reason: such a trembling here
    Over my heart methinks:

    _Am._ Sure you are fasting;
    Or not slept well to night; some dream (_Ismena_?)

    _Ism._ My dreams are like my thoughts, honest and innocent,
    Yours are unhappy; who are these that coast us?

                                           [_Enter Antonio and Martin._

    You told me the walk was private.

    _Ter._ 'Tis most commonly:

    _Ism._ Two proper men: It seems they have some business,
    With me none sure; I do not like their faces;
    They are not of our Company:

    _Ter._ No Cosen:
    _Lisauro_, we are dog'd.

    _Lis._ I find it (Cosen)

    _Ant._ What handsome Lady?

    _Mar._ Yes, she's very handsome.
    They are handsome both.

    _Ant. Martin_, stay we are cosen'd.

    _Mar._ I will go up; a woman is no wild-fire.

    _Ant._ Now by my life she is sweet: Stay good _Martin_,
    They are of our enemies; the house of _Bellides_.
    Our mortal enemies:

    _Mar._ Let 'em be devils,
    They appear so handsomly, I will go forward;
    If these be enemies, I'll ne'r seek friends more.

    _Ant._ Prethee forbear, the Gentlewomen.

    _Mar._ That's it (man)
    That moves me like a Gin.
    'Pray ye stand off Ladies:

    _Lis._ They are both our enemies: both hate us equally;
    By this fair day our mortal foes.

    _Ter._ I know 'em,
    And come here to affront: how they gape at us!
    They shall have gaping work.

    _Ism._ Why your swords, Gentlemen?

    _Ter._ Pray ye stand you off, Cosen,
    And good now leave your whistling: we are abus'd all:
    Back, back I say:

    _Lis._ Go back.

    _Ant._ We are no dogs Sir,
    To run back on command.

    _Ter._ We'll make ye run, Sir.

    _Ant._ Having a civil charge of handsome Ladies,
    We are your servants: pray ye no quarrel Gentlemen.
    There's way enough for both.

    _Lis._ We'll make it wider.

    _Ant._ If you will fight, arm'd from this Saint; have at ye.

    _Ism._ O me unhappy, are ye Gentlemen?
    Discreet, and Civil, and in open view thus?

    _Am._ What will men think of us; nay you may kill us;
    Mercy o'me; through my petticoat; what bloody Gentlemen!

    _Ism._ Make way through me, ye had best, and kill an innocent:
    Brother, why Cosen: by this light I'll dye too:
    This Gentleman is temperate: be you merciful:
    Alass, the Swords.

    _Am._ You had best run me through [the belly]
    'Twill be a valiant thrust.

    _Ism._ I faint amongst ye.

    _Ant._ Pray ye be not fearful: I have done (sweet Lady)
    My swords already aw'd, and shall obey ye:
    I come not here to violate sweet beauty,
    I bow to that.

    _Ism._ Brother, you see this Gentleman,
    This noble Gentleman.

    _Lis._ Let him avoid then,
    And leave our Walk.

    _Ant._ The Lady may command Sir,
    She bears an eye more dreadful than your weapon.

    _Ism._ What a sweet nature this man has! dear brother,
    Put up your sword.

    _Ter._ Let them put up and walk then:

    _Ant._ No more loud words: there's time enough before us:
    For shame put up, do honor to these beauties:

    _Mar._ Our way is this,
    We will not be denyed it.

    _Ter._ And ours is this, we will not be cross'd in it.

    _Ant._ What ere your way is (Lady) 'tis a fair one;
    And may it never meet with rude hands more,
    Nor rough uncivil Tongues.                                [_Exeunt._

    _Ism._ I thank ye Sir,
    Indeed I thank ye nobly: a brave Enemy,
    Here's a sweet temper now: This is a man (Brother)
    This Gentleman's anger is so nobly seated,
    That it becomes him: Yours proclaim ye Monsters.
    What if he be our House-Foe? we may brag on't:
    We have ne'er a friend in all our House so honorable:
    I had rather from an Enemy, my Brother,
    Learn worthy distances and modest difference,
    Than from a race of empty friends, loud nothings:
    I am hurt between ye.

    _Am._ So am I, I fear too:
    [I am sure their swords were between my leggs]: Dear Cosen
    Why look ye pale? where are ye hurt?

    _Ism._ I know not,
    But here methinks.

    _Lis._ Unlace her gentle Cousen.

    _Ism._ My heart, my heart, and yet I bless the Hurter.

    _Am._ Is it so dangerous?

    _Ism._ Nay, nay, I faint not.

    _Am._ Here is no blood that I find, sure 'tis inward:

    _Ism._ Yes, yes, 'tis inward: 'twas a subtle weapon,
    The hurt not to be cur'd I fear.

    _Lis._ The Coach there.

    _Am._ May be a fright.

    _Ism. Aminta_, 'twas a sweet one,
    And yet a cruel.

    _Am._ Now I find the wound plain:
    A wondrous handsome Gentleman.

    _Ism._ Oh no deeper:
    Prethee be silent, (wench) it may be thy case.

    _Am._ You must be searched; the wound will