Old Fortunatus – Act Five, Scene One

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In spite of sorcery try once again,
Try once more in contempt of all dam’d spells.

Your majesty fights with no mortal power.
Shame and not conquest hangs upon his strife.
[To LINCOLN.] Oh, touch me not; you add but pain to pain.
The more you cut, the more they grow again.

Is there no art to conjure down this scorn?
I ne’er knew physic yet against the horn.


See, prince of Cyprus, thy fair Agripyne
Hath turn’d her beauty to deformity.

Then I defy thee, love.  Vain hopes, adieu.
You have mock’d me long.  In scorn I’ll now mock you.
I came to see how the Lord Longaville
Was turn’d into a monster, and I find
An object which both strikes me dumb and blind.
Tomorrow should have been our marriage morn,
But now, my bride is shame, thy bridegroom’s scorn.
Oh, tell me yet, is there no art, no charms,
No desperate physic for this desperate wound?

All means are tried, but no means can be found.

Then, England, farewell.  Hapless maid, thy stars,
Through spiteful influence set our hearts at wars.
I am enforc’d to leave thee and resign
My love to grief.


All grief to Agripyne!

Adieu.  I would say more had I a tongue
Able to help his master.  Mighty king,
I humbly take my leave; to Cyprus I.
My father’s son must all such shame defy.                                                 [Exit.

So doth not Orleans.  I defy all those
That love not Agripyne and him defy
That dares but love her half so well as I.
Oh, pardon me!  I have in sorrow’s gaol,
Being long tormented, long this mangled bosom
Hath bled, and never durst expose her wounds
Till now, till now, when at thy beauteous feet,
I offer love and life.  Oh, cast an eye
Of mercy on me.  This deformed face
Cannot affright my soul from loving thee.

Talk not of love, good Orleans, but of hate.

What sentence will my love pronounce on me?

Will Orleans then be mad?  Oh, gentle friend,

Oh, gentle, gentle friend, I am not mad.
He’s mad whose eyes on painted cheeks do dote.
Oh, Galloway, such read beauties book by rote.
He’s mad that pines for want of a gay flower
Which fades when grief doth blast, or sickness lower,
Which heat doth wither and white age’s frost
Nips dead.  Such fairness, when ‘tis found, ‘tis lost.
I am not mad for loving Agripyne.
My love looks on her eyes with eyes divine
I dote on the rich brightness of her mind,
That sacred beauty strikes all other blind.
Oh, make me happy then, since my desires
Are set a burning by love’s purest fires.

So thou wilt bear her far from England sight,
Enjoy thy wishes.

Lock me in some cave
Where staring wonder’s eye shall not by guilty
To my abhorr’d looks, and I will die
To thee as full of love as misery.

I am amaz’d and mad.  Some speckled soul
Lies pawn’d for this in hell, without redemption.
Some fiend deludes us all.

Oh, unjust Fates!
Why do you hide from us this mastery?

My Lord Montrose, how long have your brows worn
This fashion, these two feather-springs of horn?

An Irish kern sold me Damasco apples,
Some two hours sine, and, like a credulous fool,
He swearing to me that they had this power,
To make me strong in body, rich in mind;
I did believe his words, tasted his fruit,
And since have been attir’d in this disguise.

I fear that villain hath beguil’d me too.

Nay, before God, he has not cozen’d you.
You have it soundly.

Me he made believe
One apple of Damasco would inspire
My thoughts with wisdom, and upon my cheeks
Would cast such beauty that each lady’s eye
Which look’d on me should love me presently.

Desire to look more fair makes me look foul.
Those apples did entice my wand’ring eye
To be enamour’d of deformity.

This proves that true, which oft I have heard in schools,
Those that would seem most wise, do turn most fools.

Here’s your best hope:  none needs to hide his face,
For horned foreheads swarm in every place.

Enter CHESTER bringing ANDELOCIA like a French Doctor.

Now, Chester, what physicians hast thou found?

Many, my liege, but none that have true skill
To tame such wild diseases.  Yet here’s one,
A doctor and a Frenchman, whom report
Of Apgripyne’s grief hath drawn to court.

Cure her, and England’s treasury shall stand
As free for thee to use as rain from heaven.

Cure me, and to thy coffers I will send
More gold from Scotland than thy life can spend.

Cure Longaville, and all his wealth is thine.

He Monsieur Long-villain gra tanck you.  Gra tanck your mashesty a great teal artely by my trat.  Where be dis madam princeza dat be so much tormenta?  Oh, Jeshu, one two and tree, four an five, seez horn?  Ha, ha, ha, pardona moy prea wid all mine art, for my my trat, me can no point shoes but laugh ha, ha, ha, to mark how like tree bul-beggera dey stand.  Oh, by my trat and fat, di divela be whoreson, scurvy, paltry, ill-favour’d knave to mock de madam and gentilhomme so.  Ha, ha, ha, ha.

This doctor comes to mock your majesty.

No, by my trat, but me llova musha musha merriment.  Come, madam, pre-artely stand still and letta me feel you.  Dis horn, oh, ‘tis pretty horn, dis be facile, easy for pull de vey, but madame, did oh be grand, grand horn, difficil, and very deep, ‘tis perlous, a grand laroon.  But, madam, prea be patient, we shall take it off vell.

Thrice have we pared them off, but with fresh pain,
In compass of a thought they rise again.

It’s true, ‘tis no easy mattra to pull horn off; ‘tis easy for pull on, but hard for pull off; some horn be so good fellow, he will still in habit in de man’s pate, but ‘tis all one for tat.  I shall snap away all dis.  Madam, trust dis down into your little belly.

Father, I am in fear to taste his physic.
First let him work experiments on those.

[Aside.] I’ll sauce you for your infidelity.
In no place can I spy my wishing hat.

Thou learned Frenchman, try thy skill on me.
More ugly than I am, I cannot be.

Cure me, and Montrose wealth shall all be thine.

‘Tis all one for dat; shall do presently.  Madam, prea mark me.  Monsieur, shamp dis in your two shaps, so, now Monsieur Longvillain, dis so.  Now, dis.  Fear nothing, ‘tis eshelend medicine.  So, now cram dis into your guts and belly.  So, now snap away dis whoreson divela.  Ha, ha, is no point good?

[Puts MONTROSE’S and LONGAVILLE’S horns off.

This is most strange.  Was’t painful, Longaville?

Ease took them off, and there remains no pain.

Oh, try thy sacred physic now on me.

No, by my trat, ‘tis no possible, ‘tis no possible.  All da mattra, all de ting, all de substance, all de medicine be among his and his belly.  ‘Tis no possible till me prepare more.

Prepare it then and thou shalt have more gold
From England’s coffers than thy life can waste.

I mush buy many costly tings dat grow in Arabia, in Asia, and America; by my trat, ‘tis no possible till another time, no point.

There’s nothing in the world buy may for gold
Be bought in England.  Hold your lap, I’ll rain
A shower of angels.

Fie, fie, fie, fie, you no credit la dockature?  Ha, but vel, ‘tis all one for tat. ‘tis no mattera for gold.  Vel, vel, vel, vel, vel, me have some more; pray, say nothing.  Shall be presently prepara for your horns.
[Aside.] She has my purse, and yonder lies my hat.
Work, brains, and once more make me fortunate.
[Aloud.] Vel, vel, vel, vel, be patient, madam, presently, presently, be patient; me have two, tree, four and five medicines for de horn.  Presently, madam, stand you der, prea wid all my art, stand you all der and say noting.  So.  Nor look noting dis vey.  So, presently, presently, madam, snip dis horn off wid de rushes and anoder ting by and by, by and by, by and by; prea look none dis vey, and say noting.

[Gets his hat up.

Let no man speak, or look, upon his life.
Doctor, none here shall rob thee of thy skill.

So, taka dis hand.  Wink now prea artely wid you two nyes.  Why so.
Would I were with my brother Ampedo.                               [Exit with AGRIPYNE.

Help, father, help.  I am hurried hence perforce.

Draw weapons.  Where’s the princess.  Follow him.
Stay the French doctor, stay the doctor there.

[CORNWALL and others run out, and enter presently.

Stay him, ‘sheart who dare stay him?  ‘Tis the devil
In likeness of a Frenchman, of a doctor.
Look how a rascal kite having swept up
A chicken in his claws so flies this hell-hound
In th’air with Agripyne in his arms.

These paths we’ll beat.                           [Exeunt GALLOWAY with ORLEANS.

And this way shall be mine.

This way, my liege, I’ll ride.                   [Exeunt LINCOLN and CORNWALL.

And this way I,
No matter which way to seek misery.                                                           [Exit.

I can ride no way to outrun my shame.

Yes, Longaville, let’s gallop after too.
Doubtless this doctor was that Irish devil
That cozen’d us, the medicine which he gave us
Tasted like his Damasco villainy.
To horse, to horse, if we can catch this friend,
Our forked shame shall in his heart blood end.

Oh, how this mads me that all tongues in scorn
Which way so ere I ride cry, ‘ware the horn!                                      [Exeunt.

Proceed to the next scene


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