TOTTENHAM COURT. A COMEDY [PUBLISHED 1638: PRODUCED 1633]. BY THOMAS NABBS [FLOURISHED 1638]

Lovers Pursued.

WORTHGOOD, BELLAMIE, as travelling together before daylight.

Worth. Come, my Delight; let not such painted griefs Press down thy soul: the darkness but presents

Shadows of fear: which should secure us best

From danger of pursuit.

Bell. Would it were day!

My apprehension is so full of horror;

I think each sound, the air's light motion
Makes in these thickets, is my Uncle's voice,
Threat'ning our ruins.

Worth. Let his rage persist

To enterprise a vengeance, we'll prevent it.
Wrapt in the arms of Night, that favours Lovers,
We hitherto have 'scaped his eager search;
And are arrived near London. Sure I hear

The Bridge's cataracts, and such-like murmurs

As night and sleep yield from a populous number.

Bell. But when will it be day? the light hath comfort; Our first of useful senses being lost,

The rest are less delighted.

Worth. Th' early Cock

Hath sung his summons to the day's approach:
"Twill instantly appear. Why startled, Bellamie?
Bell. Did no amazing sounds arrive thy ear?

Pray, listen.

Worth. Come, come; 'tis thy fear suggests Illusive fancies. Under Love's protection

We may presume of safety.

(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.

Bell. Aye me, 'tis sure my Uncle; dear Love Worthgood?
Worth. Astonishment hath seiz'd my faculties.

My Love, my Bellamie, ha!

Bell. Dost thou forsake me, Worthgood?

Worth. Where's my Love?

(Exit, as losing him.)

Dart from thy silver crescent one fair beam
Through this black air, thou Governess of Night,
To shew me whither she is led by fear.

Thou envious Darkness, to assist us here,

And then prove fatal!

(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.

Worth. Silence your noise, ye clamorous ministers

Of this injustice. Bellamie is lost;

She's lost to me. Not her fierce Uncle's rage,
Who whets your eager aptness to pursue me
With threats or promises; nor his painted terrors
Of laws' severity; could ever work

Upon the temper of my resolute soul
To soften it to fear, till she was lost.
Not all the illusive horrors, which the night
Presents unto th' imagination,

Taffright a guilty conscience, could possess me,
While I possess'd my Love. The dismal shrieks
Of fatal owls, and groans of dying mandrakes,
Whilst her soft palm warm'd mine, were music to me.-
Their light appears.-No safety does consist

In passion or complaints. Night, let thine arms
Again assist me; and, if no kind minister
Of better fate guide me to Bellamie,

Be thou eternal.

(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.

[Act i., Sc. 1.1]

BELLAMIE, alone, in Marybone Park.

Bell. The day begins to break; and trembling Light,
As if affrighted with this night's disaster,
Steals thro' the farthest air, and by degrees

Salutes my weary longings.2-O, my Worthgood,
Thy presence would have checkt these passions;
And shot delight thro' all the mists of sadness,
To guide my fear safe thro' the paths of danger: 3
Now [new] fears assault me.-'Tis a woman's voice.
She sings; and in her music's cheerfulness

Seems to express the freedom of a heart,

Not chain'd to any passions.*

Of Love or Disdain.

She sleeps in the night, tho' she toils in the day,
And merrily passeth her time away.

Bell. Oh, might I change my misery

For such a shape of quiet!1

[Act i., Sc. 3.]

THE [LIFE OF THE DUCHESS OF SUFFOLK. AN HISTORICAL PLAY [PUBLISHED 1631]. BY T. HEYWOOD [REALLY BY THOMAS DREWE]

A Tragic Pursuit.

The Duchess, with her little child, preparing to escape by night from the relentless persecution of the Romanists.

Duch. (to the Nurse) Give me my child, and mantle ;-now
Heaven's pleasure :

Farewell;-come life or death, I'll hug my treasure.

Nay, chide not, pretty babe;2 our enemies come :
Thy crying will pronounce thy mother's doom.
Be thou but still;

This gate may shade us from their envious will.3

(A noise of Pursuers. She re-enters.)

Duch. Oh fear, what art thou? lend me wings to fly; Direct me in this plunge of misery.

Nature has taught the Child obedience;

Thou hast been humble to thy mother's wish.
O let me kiss these duteous lips of thine,
That would not kill thy mother with a cry.
Now forward, whither heav'n directs; for I
Can guide no better than thine infancy.
Here are two Pilgrims bound for Lyon Quay,*
And neither knows one footstep of the way.

(Exit.)

(Noise again heard.)

Duch. Return you? then 'tis time to shift me hence.5

(Exit, and presently re-enters.) Duch. Thus far, but heav'n knows where, we have escaped The eager pursuit of our enemies,

Having for guidance my attentive fear.

1[For another extract from Nabbes, see p. 501.]

2[Two and a half lines omitted.]

4

From which place she hopes to embark for Flanders.

[A line.] [Nine lines.]

Still I look back, still start my tired feet,
Which never till now measured London street:
My Honours scorn'd that custom; they would ride;
Now forced to walk, more weary pain to bide.
Thou shalt not do so, child; I'll carry thee
In Sorrow's arms to welcome misery.

Custom must steel thy youth with pinching want,
That thy great birth in age may bear with scant.
Sleep peaceably, sweet duck, and make no noise;
Methinks each step is death's arresting voice.
We shall meet nurse anon; a dug will come,
To please my quiet infant: when, nurse, when?

[Act ii.1]

The Duchess, persecuted from place to place, with Berty, her Husband, takes comfort from her Baby's smiles.

Duch. Yet we have scaped the danger of our foes;

And I, that whilom was exceeding weak

Through my hard travail in this infant's birth,

Am now grown strong upon necessity,

How forwards are we towards Windham Castle?

Berty. Just half our way: but we have lost our friends,

Thro' the hot pursuit of our enemies.

Duch. We are not utterly devoid of friends;

Behold, the young Lord Willoughby smiles on us :

And 'tis great help to have a Lord our friend.

[Act iv.]

THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES 2
OBERON. FLORA, a Bee.

Ober. A female Bee! thy character?
Flo. Flora, Oberon's Gardener,
Huswife both of herbs and flowers,

To strew thy shrine, and trim thy bowers,
With violets, roses, eglantine,

Daffadown, and blue columbine,
Hath forth the bosom of the Spring
Pluckt this nosegay, which I bring

1[Ed. of 1631.]

2[Divided into "Characters or Colloquies ".]

From Eleusis (mine own shrine)
To thee, a Monarch all divine;
And, as true impost of my grove,
Present it to great Oberon's love.

Ober. Honey dews refresh thy meads.
Cowslips spring with golden heads;
July-flowers and carnations wear
Leaves double-streakt, with maiden-hair;
May thy lilies taller grow,

Thy violets fuller sweetness owe;
And last of all, may Phoebus love

To kiss thee and frequent thy grove
As thou in service true shalt be
Unto our crown and royalty.

[Ch. xi.']

Oberon holds a Court, in which he sentences the Wasp, the Drone, and the Humble-bee, for divers offences against the Commonwealth of Bees.

OBERON. PROREX, his Viceroy, and other Bees.

Pro. And whither must these flies be sent ?
Ober. To Everlasting Banishment.

Underneath two hanging rocks

(Where babbling Echo sits and mocks
Poor travellers) there lies a grove,
With whom the Sun's so out of love,
He never smiles on't: pale Despair
Calls it his Monarchal Chair.
Fruit half-ripe hang rivell'd and shrunk
On broken arms, torn from the trunk :
The moorish pools stand empty, left
By water, stol'n by cunning theft
To hollow banks, driven out by snakes,
Adders, and newts, that man these lakes:
The mossy leaves, half-swelter'd, serv'd
As beds for vermin hunger-sterv'd:
The woods are yew-trees, bent and broke
By whirlwinds; here and there an oak,
Half-cleft with thunder. To this grove
We banish them.

Culprits. Some mercy, Jove!

Ober. You should have cried so in your youth,
When Chronos and his daughter Truth

Sojourn'd among you; when you spent