THE SUN'S DARLING. A MORAL MASQUE. BY JOHN FORD AND THOMAS DECKER. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, LORD WRIOTHESLEY, OF TITCHFIELD, etc. MY LORD,-Herodotus reports, that the Egyptians, by wrapping their dead in glass, present them lively to all posterity; but your lordship will do more, by the vivifying beams of your acceptation revive the parents of this orphan poem, and make them live to eternity. While the stage flourished, the POEM lived by the breath of general applauses, and the virtual fervour of the court; but since hath languished for want of heat, and now, near shrunk up with cold, creeps, with a shivering fear, to extend itself at the flames of your benignity. My lord, though it seems rough and forlorn, it is the issue of worthy parents, and we doubt not but you will find it accomplished with their virtue. Be pleased, then, my lord, to give it entertainment; the more destitute and needy it is, the greater reward may be challenged by your charity; and so, being sheltered under your wings, and comforted by the sunshine of your favour, it will become proof against the injustice of time, and, like one of Demetrius's statues, appear fresher and fresher to all ages. My lord, were we not confident of the excellence of the piece, we should not dare to assume an impudence to prefer it to a person of your honour, and known judgment; whose hearts are ready sacrifices to your name and honour, being, my lord, your lordship's most humble and most obligedly submissive servants, THEOPHILUS BIRD. READER, It is not here intended to present thee with the perfect analogy between the world and man, which was made for man; nor their co-existence, the world determining with man: this, I presume, hath been by others treated on: but, drawing the curtain of this moral, you shall find him in his progression as followeth : SCENE I.-A Temple with an Altar.-RAY BRIGHT discovered asleep. Enter the PRIEST of the Sun. Priest. Pleasures of every sense have been your Whenas you have commanded them. [servants, Ray. To threaten ruin, Corrupt the purity of knowledge; wrest Priest. LET your tunes, you sweet voiced spheres, Desires of better life to those of this, O'ertake him : Thou draw'st thy great descent from my grand The Sun, whose priest I am. Ray. For small advantage. [patron, He who is high-born never mounts yon battlements And break my neck, to be talk'd of and wonder'd at. [Ray.] Fine ass-trappings ! A pedlar's heir turn'd gallant, follows fashion, Into a jack-an-apes of passing bravery. 'Tis a stout happiness to wear good clothes, Yet live and die a fool!-mew! Priest. You have had choice Of beauties to enrich your marriage-bed. Ray. Monkies and paraquitoes are as pretty To play withal, though not indeed so gentle. Honesty's indeed a fine jewel, but the Indies Where't grows is hard to be discover'd: 'troth, sir, I care for no long travels with lost labour. Priest. Your fantasy Misleads your judgment vainly. Sir, in brief, Ray. Very likely ! when, pray? Contain your float of spleen in seemly bounds; Your eyes shall be your witness. Ray. He may come. And what think you of this, you old doating, moth-eaten, bearded rascal! as I am Folly by the mother's side, and a true-bred gentleman, I will sing thee to death, if thou vex me. Cannot a man of fashion, for his pleasure, put on, now and then, his working-day robes of humility, but he must presently be subject to a beadle's rod of correction? Go, mend thyself, cannibal! 'tis not without need; I am sure the times were never more beggarly and proud waiting women flaunt it in cast-suits, and their ladies fall for 'em; knaves over-brave wise men, while wise men stand with cap and knee to fools. Pitiful Time! pitiful Time! Time. Out, foul, prodigious and abortive birth! Behold, the sand-glass of thy days is broke. Fol. Bring me another; I'll shatter that too. Time. No, thou'st mis-spent thy hours, lavish['d,] fool-like, The circuit of thy life, in ceaseless riots; Fol. In any court, father bald-pate, where my grannam the Moon shows her horns, except the Consistory Court; and there she need not appear, cuckolds carry such sharp stilettos in their foreheads. I'll live here and laugh at the bravery of ignorance, maugre thy scurvy and abominable beard. Time. Priest of the Sun, 'tis near about the Thy patron will descend; scourge hence this trifle: Fol. Farewell 1538! I might have said 5000, but the other's long enough o'conscience, to be honest-condition'd-pox on him! it's a notable railing whipper, of a plain Time-whipper. Priest. You heard the charge he left. Fol. Ay, ay, he may give a charge; he has been a petty court-holder ever since he was a minute old; he took you for a foreman of a jury. Ray. Pray, sir, what are you? Fol. No matter what; what are you? Thy reason breeds thy appetite, and grant it; Ray. Not as you are, I thank my better fates; Be subject to his will. I am grandchild to the Sun. Fol. And I am cousin-german, some two or three hundred removes off, to the Moon, and my name is Folly. Ray. Folly, sir! of what quality? Fol. Quality! any quality in fashion; drinking, whoring, singing, dancing, dicing, swearing, roaring, foisting, lying, cogging, canting, et cætera. Will you have any more? Ray. You have a merry heart, if you can guide it. Fol. Yes, 'faith; so, so: I laugh not at those whom I fear; I fear not those whom I love; and I love not any whom I laugh not at: pretty strange humour, is't not? Ray. To any one, that knows you not, it is. Fol. Away, away! I have no such meaning, indeed, la! [Music of Recorders. Priest. Hark! the fair hour is come; draw to the altar, Priest. Light's lord! we go. [Exeunt PRIEST and RAYBRIGHT. Fol. And I will follow, that am not in love with such fopperies. [Exit. Sun. We must descend, and leave awhile our sphere, To greet the world.-Ha? there does now appear ACT II. SCENE I.-The Garden of SPRING. Enter SPRING, RAYBRIGHT, YOUTH, HEALTH, and DELIGHT. Spring. Welcome! The mother of the year, the Spring, That mother, on whose back Age ne'er can sit, Physician to the sick, strength to the sound, That Spring, on thy fair cheeks, in kisses lays And on his smooth cheek such sweet roses set, Are slaves and wretches, Health! that canst nor be sold Nor bought, I charge thee make his heart a tower Guarded, for there lies the Spring's paramour. Health. One of my hands is writing still in Heaven, For that's Health's library; t' other on the Earth, Ray. Mortality sure falls from me. The five nice senses dance; thou, that dost spin Del. Hover, you wing'd musicians, in the air! Clouds, leave your dancing! no winds stir but fair! Health. Leave blustering March |