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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 rancle, Cosen
    And of so sweet a nature.

    _Ism._ Dear _Aminta_:
    Make it not sorer.

    _Am._ And on my life admires ye.

    _Ism._ Call the Coach, Cosen.

    _Am._ The Coach, the Coach.

    _Ter._ 'Tis ready bring the Coach there.

    _Lis._ Well my brave Enemies, we shall yet meet ye,
    And our old hate shall testifie.

    _Ter._ It shall (Cosen.)                                  [_Exeunt._


_Scaena Secunda._

                     _Enter_ Antonio _and_ Martine.

    _Ant._ Their swords, alass, I weigh 'em not (dear Friend)
    The indiscretion of the Owners blunts 'em;
    The fury of the House affrights not me,
    It spends it self in words: (Oh me _Martine_)
    There was a two edg'd eye, a Lady carried
    A weapon that no valor can avoyd,
    Nor Art (the hand of Spirit) put aside.
    O Friend, it broke out on me like a bullet
    Wrapt in a cloud of fire: that point (_Martine_)
    Dazled my sence, and was too subtle for me,
    Shot like a Comet in my face, and wounded
    (To my eternal ruine,) my hearts valor.

    _Mar._ Methinks she was no such piece.

    _Ant._ Blaspheme not Sir,
    She is so far beyond weak commendation,
    That impudence will blush to think ill of her.

    _Mar._ I see it not, and yet I have both eyes open:
    And I could judge, I know there is no beauty
    Till our eyes give it 'em, and make 'em handsome;
    What's red and white, unless we do allow 'em?
    A green face else; and me-thinks such an other.

    _Ant._ Peace thou leud Heretick; Thou judge of beauties?
    Thou hast an excellent sense for a sign-post (Friend)
    Dost thou not see? I'll swear thou art soon blind else,
    As blind as ignorance; when she appeared first
    _Aurora_ breaking in the east, and through her face,
    As if the hours and graces had strew'd Roses,
    A blush of wonder flying; when she was frighted
    At our uncivil swords, didst thou not mark
    How far beyond the purity of snow
    The soft wind drives, whiteness of innocence,
    Or any thing that bears Celestial paleness,
    She appear'd o'th'sodain? Didst thou not see her tears
    When she intreated? O thou Reprobate!
    Didst thou not see those orient tears flow'd from her,
    The little Worlds of Love? A set (_Martine_)
    Of such sanctified Beads, and a holy heart to love
    I could live ever a Religious Hermite.

    _M[a]r._ I do believe a little, and yet methinks
    She was of the lowest stature.

    _Ant._ A rich Diamond
    Set neat and deep, Natures chief Art (_Martine_)
    Is to reserve her Models curious,
    Not cumbersome and great; and such an one
    For fear she should exceed, upon her matter
    Has she fram'd this; Oh 'tis a spark of beauty,
    And where they appear so excellent in little,
    They will but flame in great; Extention spoils 'em:
    _Martine_ learn this, the narrower that our eyes
    Keep way unto our object, still the sweeter
    That comes unto us: Great bodies are like Countries,
    Discovering still, toyl and no pleasure finds 'em.

    _Mar._ A rare Cosmographer for a small Island,
    Now I believe she is handsome.

    _Ant._ Believe heartily,
    Let thy belief, though long a coming, save thee.

    _Mar._ She was (certain) fair.

    _Ant._ But heark ye (friend _Martine_)
    Do not believe your self too far before me,
    For then you may wrong me, Sir.

    _Mar._ Who bid ye teach me?
    Do you show me meat, and stitch my lips (_Antonio_?)
    Is that fair play?

    _Ant._ Now if thou shouldst abuse me,
    And yet I know thee for an errant wencher,
    A most immoderate thing, thou canst not love long.

    _Mar._ A little serves my turn, I fly at all games,
    But I believe.

    _Ant._ How if we never see her more?
    She is our enemy.

    _Mar._ Why are you jealous then?
    As far as I conceive she hates our whole House.

    _Ant._ Yet (good _Martine_)

    _Mar._