



Produced by Richard Tonsing, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net






                           FRANCIS BEAUMONT

                               Born 1584
                               Died 1616

                             JOHN FLETCHER

                               Born 1579
                               Died 1625




                        _BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER_

                         THIERRY AND THEODORET

                            THE WOMAN-HATER

                              NICE VALOUR

                       THE HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE

                    THE MASQUE OF THE GENTLEMEN OF
                    GRAYS-INNE AND THE INNER-TEMPLE

                          FOUR PLAYS OR MORAL
                        REPRESENTATIONS IN ONE


                          THE TEXT EDITED BY

                           A.R. WALLER, M.A.

                            [Illustration]

                              Cambridge:

                        at the University Press

                                 1912

                      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_




PREFACE


In 1905, the Syndics of the University Press asked me to complete, upon
the lines laid down in the preface to volume I, the editing of the
reprint of the Second Folio of the works of Beaumont and Fletcher which
had been begun by Arnold Glover. The present volume sees the end of the
task. In 1906, it was announced that a volume or, possibly, two volumes
of notes would follow the text. These, together with a critical text of
the scattered poems, must be left to other hands. I hoped, at one time,
to undertake this additional burden myself, but that seems now to have
become impossible.

                          A. R. WALLER

  _21 May 1912_




CONTENTS


                                                                     PAGE

    Thierry and Theodoret                                               1

    The Woman-Hater                                                    71

    Nice Valour, or The Passionate Mad-man                            143

    Mr. Francis Beaumonts Letter to Ben.
    Johnson                                                           199

    The Honest Man's Fortune                                          202

    The Masque of the Gentlemen of Grays-Inne
    and the Inner-Temple                                              281

    Four Plays or Moral Representations in
    One                                                               287

    Appendix                                                          365




THE TRAGEDY

OF

Thierry and Theodoret.




_Actus Primus. Scæna Prima._


                _Enter Theodoret, Brunhalt, Bawd[b]er._

                    BRUNHALT.

    Taxe me with these hot tainters?

    _Theodoret._ You are too sudain;
    I doe but gently tell you what becomes you
    And what may bend your honor! how these courses
    Of loose and lazie pleasures; not suspected
    But done and known, your mind that grants no limit
    And all your Actions follows, which loose people
    That see but through a mist of circumstance
    Dare term ambitious; all your wayes hide sores
    Opening in the end to nothing but ulcers.
    Your instruments like these may call the world
    And with a fearfull clamor, to examine
    Why, and to what we govern. From example
    If not for vertues sake ye may be honest:
    There have been great ones, good ones, and 'tis necessary
    Because you are your self, and by your self
    A self-peece from the touch of power and Justice,
    You should command your self, you may imagine
    Which cozens all the world, but chiefly women
    The name of greatness glorifies your actions
    And strong power like a pent-house, promise[s]
    To shade you from opinion; Take heed mother,
    And let us all take heed these most abuse us
    The sins we doe, people behold through opticks,
    Which shews them ten times more than common vices,
    And often multiplys them: Then what justice
    Dare we inflict upon the weak offenders
    When we are theeves our selves?

    _Brun._ This is, _Martell_,
    Studied and pen'd unto you, whose base person
    I charge you by the love you owe a mother
    And as you hope for blessings from her prayers,
    Neither to give belief to, nor allowance,
    Next I tell you Sir, you from whom obedience
    Is so far fled, that you dare taxe a mother;
    Nay further, brand her honor with your slanders,
    And break into the treasures of her credit,
    Your easiness is abused, your faith fraited
    With lyes, malitious lyes, your merchant mischief,
    He that never knew more trade then Tales, and tumbling
    Suspitious into honest hearts; What you or he,
    Or all the world dare lay upon my worth,
    This for your poor opinions: I am shee,
    And so will bear my self, whose truth and whiteness
    Shall ever stand as far from these detections
    As you from dutie, get you better servants
    People of honest actions without ends,
    And whip these knaves away, they eat your favours,
    And turn 'em unto poysons: my known credit
    Whom all the Courts o' this side _Nile_ have envied,
    And happy she could site me, brought in question
    Now in my hours of age and reverence,
    When rather superstition should be rendred
    And by a Rush that one days warmth
    Hath shot up to this swelling; Give me justice,
    Which is his life.

    _Theod._ This is an impudence, and he must tell you, that till now
    mother brought ye a sons obedience, and now breaks it Above the
    sufferance of a Son.

    _Bawd._ Bless us!

    For I doe now begin to feel my self
    Turning into a halter, and the ladder
    Turning from me, one pulling at my legs too.

    _Theod._ These truths are no mans tales, but all mens troubles,
    They are, though your strange greatness would out-stare u'm:
    Witness the daily Libels, almost Ballads
    In every place, almost in every Province,
    Are made upon your lust, Tavern discourses,
    Crowds cram'd with whispers; Nay, the holy Temples,
    Are not without your curses: Now you would blush,
    But your black tainted blood dare not appear
    For fear I should fright that too.

    _Brun._ O ye gods!

    _Theod._ Do not abuse their names: They see your actions
    And your conceal'd sins, though you work like Moles,
    Lies level to their justice.

    _Brun._ Art thou a Son?

    _Theod._ The more my shame is of so bad a mother,
    And more your wretchedness you let me be so;
    But woma[n], for a mothers name hath left me
    Since you have left your honor; Mend these ruins,
    And build again that broken fame, and fairly;
    Your most intemperate fires have burnt, and quickly
    Within these ten days take a Monasterie,
    A most strickt house; a house where none may whisper,
    Where no more light is known but what may make ye
    Believe there is a day where no hope dwells,
    Nor comfort but in tears.

    _Brun._ O miserie!

    _Theod._ And there to cold repentance, and starv'd penance
    Tye your succeeding days; Or curse me heaven
    If all your guilded knaves, brokers, and bedders,
    Even he you built from nothing, strong _Protal[dy]e_,
    Be not made ambling Geldings; All your maids,
    If that name doe not shame 'em, fed with spunges
    To suck away their ranckness; And your self
    Onely to empty Pictures and dead Arras
    Offer your old desires.

    _Brun._ I will not curse you,
    Nor lay a prophesie upon your pride,
    Though heaven might grant me both: unthankfull, no,
    I nourish'd ye, 'twas I, poor I groan'd for you,
    'Twas I felt what you suffer'd, I lamented
    When sickness or sad hours held back your swe[e]tness;
    'Twas I pay'd for your sleeps, I watchd your wakings:
    My daily cares and fears, that rid, plaid, walk'd,
    Discours'd, discover'd, fed and fashion'd you
    To what you are, and I am thus rewarded.

    _Theod._ But that I know these tears I could dote on 'em,
    And kneell to catch 'em as they fall, then knit 'em
    Into an Armlet, ever to be honor'd;
    But woman they are dangerous drops, deceitfull,
    Full of the weeper, anger and ill nature.

    _Brun._ In my last hours despis'd.

    _Theod._ That Text should tell
    How ugly it becomes you to err thus;
    Your flames are spent, nothing but smoke maintains ye;
    And those your favour and your bounty suffers
    Lye not with you, they do but lay lust on you
    And then imbrace you as they caught a palsie;
    Your power they may love, and like spanish Jennetts
    Commit with such a gust.

    _Bawd._ I would take whipping,
    And pay a fine now.                                 [_Exit Bawdber._

    _Theod._ But were ye once disgraced,
    Or fallen in wealth, like leaves they would flie from you,
    And become browse for every beast; You will'd me
    To stock my self with better friends, and servants,
    With what face dare you see me, or any mankind,
    That keep a race of such unheard of relicks,
    Bawds, Leachers, Letches, female fornications,
    And children in their rudiments to vices,
    Old men to shew examples: and lest Art
    Should loose her self in act, to call back custome,
    Leave these, and live like _Niobe_. I told you how
    And when your eyes have dropt away remembrance
    Of what you were. I'm your Son! performe it.

    _Brun._ Am I a woman, and no more power in me,
    To tye this Tyger up, a soul to no end,
    Have I got shame and lost my will? _Brunhalt_
    From this accursed hour, forget thou bor'st him,
    Or any part of thy blood gave him living,
    Let him be to thee an Antipathy,
    A thing thy nature sweats at, and turns backward:
    Throw all the mischiefs on him that thy self,
    Or woman worse than thou art, have invented,
    And kill him drunk, or doubtfull.

               _Enter Bawd[b]er_, _Protaldie_, _Lecure_.

    _Bawd._ Such a sweat,
    I never was in yet, clipt of my minstrels,
    My toyes to prick up wenches withall; Uphold me,
    It runs like snow-balls through me.

    _Brun._ Now my varlets,
    My slaves, my running thoughts, my executions.

    _Baw._ Lord how she looks!

    _Brun._ Hell take ye all.

    _Baw._ We shall be gelt.

    _Brun._ Your Mistress,
    Your old and honor'd Mistress, you tyr'd curtals
    Suffers for your base sins; I must be cloyster'd,
    Mew'd up to make me