THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON. UNCERTAIN.17 AUTHOR Millisent the fair daughter of Clare was betrothed, with the consent of her parents, to Raymond, son of Mounchensey; but the elder Mounchensey being since fallen in his fortunes, Clare revokes his consent, and plots a marriage for his daughter with the rich heir of Jerningham. Peter Fabel, a good magician, who had been Tutor to young Raymond Mounchensey at college, determines by the aid of his art to assist his Pupil in obtaining fair Millisent. PETER FABEL, solus. Fab. Good old.Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill, Have I so many melancholy nights Watch'd on the top of Peter House highest tower? For want of skill to lose the wench thou lovest? As never rose from any dampish fen; I'll make the brinish sea to rise at Ware, *7 It has been ascribed without much proof to Shakspeare, and to Michael Drayton: 18 Enfield. And drown the marshes unto Stratford bridge; Enter Raymond Mounchensey, young Jerningham, and young Clare. Jern. I prithee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps, Revive thy spirits; thou that before hast been More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock, As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry As mirth herself. If ought in me may thy content procure, Raym. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself It might have won the credit of mine ear, Jern. If I understand thee I am a villain : What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend? Fab. (to Jern.) You are the man, sir, must have Milli sent, The match is making in the garden now; Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men Your fathers, mean to launch their pursy bags. But in mean time to thrust Mounchensey off, Ne'er look upon me, lad, the match is done. Jern. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief With the true feeling of a zealous friend. And as for thy fair beauteous Millisent, With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber And will in love become a counterfeit. Raym. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life, And from the mouth of hell, where now I sat, I feel my spirit rebound against the stars; Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, and my free soul And were he not my pupil, I would say, He were as fine a metal'd Gentleman, Cla. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know, He does not breathe this air, Whose Whose love I cherish, and whose soul I love, Nor ever in my life did see the man, Fab. Let us alone to bustle for the set; For age and craft with wit and art hath met. I'll make my Spirits dance such nightly jigs Along the way 'twixt this and Totnam Cross, Raym. Pursue the project, scholar; what we can do The 20 This Scene has much of Shakspeare's manner in the sweetness and goodnaturedness of it. It seems written to make the Reader happy. Few of our dramatists or novellists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and noble, than the conversation and compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a "Saint in Essex"; and how sweetly his friend reminds him !-I wish it could be ascertained that Michael Drayton was the Author of this piece: it would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native Earth; who has gone over her soil (in his Polyolbion) with the fidelity of a he rald, The Prioress of Cheston's charge to fair Millisent, Jesus' daughter, Mary's child, Holy matron, woman mild, For thee a mass shall still he said, Every sister drop a bead; And those again, succeeding them, For you shall sing a Requiem. To her Father. May your soul be blithe, That so truly pay your tythe; He, that many children gave, Tis fit that he one child should have. To Millisent. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell, For I must your duty tell. First a mornings take your book, The glass wherein yourself must look; Your young thoughts so proud and jolly You must do penance, pray, and fast. Put cold ashes on your head, Have a hair-cloth for your bed, Bind your beads, and tell your needs, Your holy Aves and your Creeds; If you mean to live a Nun. rald, and the painful love of a son; who has not left a rivulet (so narrow that it may be stept over) without honorable mention; and has animated Hills and Streams with life and passion above the dreams of old mythology. GREEN'S |