BASTARD

Your faithful subject, I a gentleman, Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son As I suppose, to Robert Falconbridge, A Soldier by the Honor-giuing-hand Of Cordelion, Knighted in the field. Most certain of one mother, mighty King. That is well known, and as I think one father: But for the certain knowledge of that truth, I put you over to heaven, and to my mother; Of that I doubt, as all men's children may. Because he hath a half- Like my With half that face would he have all my and A half-faced groa five hundred pound a year. I Madame? No, I have no reason for it. That is my brother's plea, and none of mine, The which if he can prove, a pops me out, At least from fair five hundred pound a year: Heaven guard my mother's honour, and my Land. I know not why, except to get the land: But once he slanderd me with bastardy: But where I be as true begotten or no, That still I lay upon my mother's head, But that I am as well begotten my Liege (Fair fallen the bones that took the pains for me) Compare our faces, and be Judge your self If old Sir Robert did beget us both, And were our father, and this son Like him: Oh old sir Robert Father, on my knee I give heaven thanks I was not Like to thee. Well sir, by this you cannot get my land, Your tale must be how he employed my mother Of no more force to dispossess me sir, Then was his will to get me, as I think. And hang a Calves-skin on those recreant limbs And hang a Calves-skin on those recreant limbs. Madam, and if my brother had my shape And I had his, sir Roberts his Like him, And if my legs were two such riding rods, My arms, such eel skins stuffed, my face so thin, That in mine ear I du st not stick a rose. Lest men should say, look where three farthings goes, And to his shape were heir to all this land, Would I might never stir from off this place, I would give it every foot to have this face: It would not be sir nob in any case. Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance; Your face hath God five hundred pound a y ere, Yet fell your face for five pence and it's deer: Madam, I'll follow you unto the death. Our Country manners give our betters way. Philip y Liege, so is my name begun, Philip, good old Sir Roberts wives eldest son. Brother by the mother's side, give me your hand, My father gave me honour, yours gave land: Now blessed be the hour by night or day When I was God, Sir Robert was away. Madam by chance, but not by truth, what though; Something about a little from the right, In at the window, or else over the hatch: Who dares not stir by day, must walk by night, And have is have, how ever men do catch: Near or far off well won is still well shot, And I am I, how ere I was begotten. Brother adieu, good fortune come to thee, For thou wast God in that way of honesty. A foot of Honour better then I was, But many a many foot of Land the worse. Well, now can I make any Joan a Lady, Good den Sir Richard, God a mercy fellow, And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter ; For new made honour does forget men's names: It's two respective, and too sociable For your conversion, now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worships mess, And when my knightly stomach is sufficed, Why then I suck my teeth, and catechise My picked man of Countries: my deer sir, Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin, I shall beseech you; that is question now, And then comes answer Like and Absey book: Oh sir, says answer, at your best command, At your employment, at your service sir: No sir, says question, I sweet sir at yours, And so ere answer knows what question would, Saving in Dialogue of Compliment, And talking of the Alps and Appenines, The Perennean and the river Poe, It draws towards fupper in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society, And fits the mounting spirit Like my self; For he is but a bastard to the time That does not smoke of observation, And so am I whither I smack or no: And not alone in habit and device, Exterior form, outward accoutrement; But from the inward motion to deliver Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the ages tooth, Which though I will not practice to deceive, Yet to avoid deceit I mean to learn; For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising: But who comes in such haste in riding robes? What woman post is this? hath she no husband That will take pains to blow a horn before her? Oh me, it's my mother: how now good Lady, What brings you here to Court so hastily? My brother Robert, old Sir Roberts son: Colbrand the Giant, that same mighty man, Is it Sir Roberts son that you seek so? James Gournie, wilt thou give us leave a while? Philip, sparrow, James, There's toys abroad, anon I'll tell thee more. Madam, I was not old Sir Roberts son, Sir Robert might have eat his partly in me Upon good Friday, and never broke his fast: Sir Robert could do well, marry to confess Could get me sir Robert could not do it; We know his handiwork, therefore good mother To whom am I beholding for these limbs? Sir Robert never help to make this leg. As faithfully as I deny the devil. Now by this light were I oh get again, Madam I would not wish a better father: Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, And so does yours: your fault, was not your folly, Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, Subjected tribute to commanding love, Against whose fury and unmatched force, The awless Lion could not wage the fight, Nor keep his Princely heart from Richard's hand He that perforce robs Lions of their hearts, May easily win a woman's: aye my mother, With all my heart I thank thee for my father: Who lives and dares but say, thou didst not well When I was God, I'll send his soul to hell. Come Lady I will show thee to my kin, And they shall say, when Richard me begotten, If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin; Who says it was, he lies, I say it not. Hear the Crier. One that will play the devil sir with you, And a may catch your hide and you alone: You are the Hare of whom the Proverb goes Whose valour plucks dead Lyons by the beard; I'll smoke your skin-coat and I catch you right, Sirrah look too't, i'faith I will, i'faith. It lies as sightly on the back of him As great Alcides shoes upon and Ass: But Ass, I'll take that burden from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack. Bastards and else. Some Bastards too. Saint George that swinge the Dragon, And ere since sit's on's horseback at mine Hostess door Teach us some fence. Sirrah, were I at home At your den sirrah, with your Lionnesse, I would set and Oxhead to your Lyons hide: And make a monster of you. Oh tremble: for you hear the Lion roar. Speed then to take advantage of the field. Would Majesty: how high thy glory towers, When the rich blood of kings is set on fire: O now does death line his dead chaps with steel, The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his phangs, And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men In undetermined differences of kings. Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus: Cry havoc kings, back to the stained field You equal Potents, fiery kindled spirits, Then let confusion of one partly confirm The others peace: till then, blows, blood, and death. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you kings, And stand securely on their battelments, As in a Theater, whence they gape and point At your industrious Scenes and acts of death. Your Royal presences be ruled by me, Do Like the Mutines of Jerusalem, Be friends awhile, and both conjointly bend Your sharpest Deeds of malice on this Town. By East and West let France and England mount. Their battering Canon charged to the mouths, Till their soule-fearing clamours have braul'd down The flinty ribs of this contemptuous City, I'de play incessantly upon these Jades, Even till unfenced desolation Leave them as naked as the vulgar air: That done, dissever your united strengths, And partly your mingled colours once again, Turn face to face, and bloody point to point: Then in a moment Fortune shall cull forth Out of one side her happy Minion, To whom in favour she shall give the day, And kiss him with a glorious victory: How Like you this wild counsel mighty States, Smacks it not something of the policy. And if thou hast the mettle of a king, Being wronged as we are by this peevish Town: Turn thou the mouth of thy Artillery, As we will ours, against these saucy walls, And when that we have dashed them to the ground, Why then defy each other, and pellmell, Make work upon our selves, for heaven or hell. Oh prudent discipline! From North to South: Austria and France shoot in each others mouth. I'll stir them to it: Come, away, away. Heeres a stay, That shakes the rotten carcase of old death Out of his rags. Here's a large mouth indeed, That spits forth death, and mountains, rocks, and seas, Talks as familiarly of roaring Lyons, As maids of thirteen do of puppi-dogges. What Cannoneere begotten this Lusty blood, He speaks plain Cannon fire, and smoke, and bounce, He gives the bastinado with his tongue: Our ears are cudgeled, not a word of his But buffets better then a fist of France: Zounds, I was never so bethumpt with words, Since I first called my brother's father Dad. Drawn in the flattering table of her eye, Hanged in the frowning wrinkle of her brow, And quartered in her heart, he does espy Himself loves traitor, this is pity now; That hanged, and drawn, and quartered there should be In such a love, so vile a Lout as he. Mad world, mad kings, mad composition: John to stop Arthurs Title in the whole, Hath willingly departed with a partly, And France, whose armour Conscience buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field, As Gods own soldier, rounded in the ear, With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, That Broker, that still breaks the pate of faith, That daily breake-vow, he that wins of all, Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, Who having no external thing to lose, But the word Maid, cheats the poor Maid of that. That smooth-faced Gentleman, tickling commodity. Commodity, the bias of the world, The world, who of it self is peised well. Made to run even, upon even ground: Till this advantage, this vile drawing bias, This sway of motion, this commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent. And this same bias, this Commodity, This Bawd, this Broker, this all-changing-word, Claped on the outward eye of fickle France, Hath drawn him from his own determined aid, From a resolved and honourable war, To a most base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this Commodity? But for because he hath not wooed me yet: Not that I have the power to clutch my hand, When his fair Angels would salute my palm, But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar, rails on the rich. Well, while I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich: And being rich, my virtue then shall be, To say there is no vice, but beggary: Since Kings break faith upon commodity, Gain be my Lord, for I will worship thee. And hang a Calves-skin on his recreant limbs. Your breeches best may carry them. Hang nothing but a Calves skin most sweet lout. Wil't not be? Will not a Calves-skin stop that mouth of thine? Old Time the clock setter, y to bald sexton Time: Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue. Now by my life, this day grows wondrous hight, Some ayery Devil hovers in the sky, And pour's down mischief. Austria's head lie there, While Philip breathes. My Lord I rescued her, Her Highness is in safety, fear you not: But on my Liege, for very little pains Will bring this labour to and happy end. Bell, Book, & Candle, shall not driven me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on I leave your highness: Grandame, I will pray (If ever I remember to be holy) For your fair safety: so I kiss your hand. But if you be afeard to hear the worst, Then let the worst unheard, fallen on your head. How I have sped among the Clergy men, The sums I have collected shall express: But as I travailed hither through the land, I find the people strangely fantasied, Possessed with rumours, full of idle dreams, Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear. And here's a Prophet that I brought with me From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found With many hundreds treading on his heals: To whom he sung in rude harsh sounding rhymes, That ere the next Ascension day at noon, Your Highness should deliver up your Crown. The French (my Lord) men's mouths are full of it: Beside I met Lord Bigot, and Lord Salisbury With eyes as read as new enkindled fire, And others more, going to seek the graven Of Arthur, whom they say is killed to night, on your suggestion. I will seek them out. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. Once more to day well met, distempered Lords, The King by me requests your presence straight. What ere you think, good words I think were best. But there is little reason in your grief. Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now. It's to we, to hurt his master, no men else. It is a damned, and a bloody work, The graceless Actium of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand. Your sword is bright sir, put it up again. Keep the peace, I say. Thou were't better gaul the devil Salsbury. If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime, Or I'll so maul you, and your tosting-Iron, That you shall think the devil is come from hell. Would? I'll tell thee what. Thou'rt damned as black, nay nothing is so black, Thou art more deep damned then Prince Lucifer: There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. If thou didst but consent To this most cruel Act: do but despair, And if thou wantest a Cord, the smallest thread That ever Spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee: A rush will be a beam To hang thee on. Or wouldst thou drown thy self, Put but a little water in a spoon, And it shall be as all the Ocean, Enough to stifle such a villain up. I do suspect thee very grievously. Go, bear him in thine arms: am amazed me thinks, and lose my way Among the thorns, and dangers of this world How easy dost thou take all England up, From forth this morcell of dead Royalty? The life, the right, and truth of all this Realm Is fled to heaven: and England now is left To tug and scamble, and to partly by the teeth The vn-owed interest of proud swelling State: Now for the bare-pickt bone of Majesty, Does dogged war bristle his angry crest, And snarls in the gentle eyes of peace: Now Powers from home, and discontents at home Meet in one line: and vast confusion waits As does a Raven on a sicke-falne beast, The imminent decay of wrested pomp. Now happy he, whose cloak and centre can Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child, And follow me with speed: I'll to the King: A thousand businesses are brief in hand, And heaven it self does frown upon the Land. All Kenned hath yielded: nothing there holds out But Dover Castle: London hath received Like a kind Host, the Dolphin and his powers. Your Nobles will not hear you, but are gone To offer service to your enemy: And wild amazement hurries up and down The little number of your doubtful friends. So on my soul he did, for ought he knew: But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad? Be great in act, as you have been in thought: Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye: Be stirring as the time, be fire with fire, Threaten the threatener, and outface the brow Of bragging horror: So shall inferior eyes That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example, and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. Away, and glister Like the God of war When he intends to become the field: Show boldness and aspiring confidence: What, shall they seek the Lion in his den, And fright him there? and make him tremble there? O let it not be said: forage, and run To meet displeasure farther from the doors, And grapple with him ere he come so nigh. O inglorious league: Shall we upon the footing of our land, Send fayre-play-orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce To Arms Invasive? Shall a beardless boy, A cockred-silken wanton brave our fields, And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, Mocking the air with colours idly spread, And find no check? Let us my Liege to Arms: Perchance the Cardinal cannot make your peace; Or if he do, let it at least be said They saw we had a purpose of defence. Away then with good courage: yet I know Our Party may well meet a prouder foe. According to the fair-play of the world, Let me have audience: I am sent to speak: My holy Lord of Milan, from the King I come to learn how you have dealt for him: And, as you answer, I do know the scope And warrant limited unto my tongue. By all the blood that ever fury breathed, The youth says well. Now hear our English King, For thus his Royalty does speak in me: He is prepared, and reason to he should, This apish and unmannerly approach, This harnessed Mask, and unadvised Revel, This unheard sauciness and boyish Troops, The King does smile at, and is well prepared To whip this dwarfish war, this Pigmy Arms From out the circle of his Territories. That hand which had the strength, even at your door, To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch, To dive Like Buckets in concealed Wells, To crouch in litter of your stable planks, To lie Like pawns, locked up in chests and trunks, To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake, Even at the crying of your Nations crow, Thinking this voice and armed Englishman. Shall that victorious hand be feebled here, That in your Chambers gave you chastisement? No: know the gallant Monarch is in Arms, And Like and Eagle, over his airy towers, To sowsse annoyance that comes near his Nest; And you degenerate, you ingrate Revolts, you bloody Nero's, ripping up the womb Of your deer Mother-England: blush for shame: For your own Ladies, and pale-visaged Maids, Like Amazons, come tripping after drums: Their thimbles into armed Gauntlets change, Their Needl's to Lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination. No, I will speak. Indeed your drums being beaten, will cry out; And so shall you, being beaten: Do but start And echo with the clamor of thy drum, And even at hand, a drum is ready braced, That shall reverberate all, as loud as thine. Found but a , and another shall (As loud as thine) rattle the Welkins ear, And mock the deep mouthed Thunder: for at hand (Not trusting to this halting Legate here, Whom he hath used rather for sport, then need) Is warlike John : and in his forehead sits A bare-rib'd death, whose office is this day To feast upon whole thousands of the French. And thou shalt find it (Dolphin) do not doubt A Friend. What art thou? Whither dost thou go? Hubert, I think. Who thou wilt: and if thou please Thou mayest befriend me so much, as to think I come one way of the Plantagenets. Come, come: sans compliment, What news abroad? Brcefe then: and what's the news? Show me the very wound of this ill news, I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it. How did he take it? Who did taste to him? Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power: I'll tell thee Hubert, half my power this night Passing these Flats, are taken by the Tide, These Lincolne-Washes have devoured them, My self, well mounted, hardly have escaped. Away before: Conduct me to the king, I doubt he will be dead, or ere I come. O, I am scalded with my violent motion And spleen of speed, to see your Majesty. The Dolphin is preparing hitherward, Where heaven he knows how we shall answer him. For in a night the best partly of my pour, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the Washes all unwarily, Devoured by the unexpected flood. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind, To do the office for thee, of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth hath be thy servant still. Now, now you Stars, that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers? Show now your mended faiths, And instantly return with me again. To push destruction, and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting Land: Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought, The Dolphin rages at our very heals. He will the rather do it, when he sees Our selves well sinewed to our defence. Let it be so, and you my noble Prince, With other Princes that may best be spared, Shall wait upon your Father's Funeral. Thither shall it then, And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state, and glory of the Land, To whom with all submission on my knee, I do bequeathe my faithful services And true subjection everlastingly. O let us pay the time: but needful woe, Since it hath been before hand with our griefs. This England never did, nor never shall Lie at the proud foot of a Conqueror, But when it first did help to wound it self. Now, these her Princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in Arms, And we shall shock them: Nought shall make us rue, If England to it self, do rest but true. Knight, knight good mother, Basilisco-like: What, I am dubbed, I have it on my shoulder: But mother, I am not Sir Roberts son, I have disclaimed Sir Robert and my land, Legitimation, name, and all is gone; Then good my mother, let me know my father, Some proper man I hope, who was it mother? They found him dead, and cast into the streets, And empty Casket, where the Jewel of life By some damned hand was robbed, and taken away. Who didst thou leave to tend his Majesty? Here's a good world: knew you of this fair work? Beyond the infinite and boundless reach of mercy, (If thou didst this deed of death) art y u damned Hubert.