FRANCIS BEAUMONT

Born 1584
Died 1616

JOHN FLETCHER

Born 1579
Died 1625

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

THE MAD LOVER
THE LOYAL SUBJECT
RULE A WIFE, AND HAVE A WIFE
THE LAWS OF CANDY
THE FALSE ONE
THE LITTLE FRENCH LAWYER

THE TEXT EDITED BY

A. R. WALLER, M.A.

Cambridge:
at the University Press
1906

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS WAREHOUSE,
C. F. CLAY, Manager.
London: FETTER LANE, E.C.
Glasgow: 50, WELLINGTON STREET.

Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS.
New York: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd.

[All Rights reserved.]

THE
MAD LOVER,
A
TRAGI-COMEDY.

Actus primus. Scena prima.

Flourish. Enter Astorax King of Paphos, his Sister Calis, Train, and Cleanthe, Lucippe Gentlewomen, at one door; at the other Eumenes a Souldier.

Eume. Health to my Soveraign.

King. Eumenes, welcome:
Welcome to Paphos, Souldier, to our love,
And that fair health ye wish us, through the Camp
May it disperse it self, and make all happy;
How does the General, the valiant Memnon,
And how his Wars, Eumenes?

Eume. The Gods have giv'n you (Royal Sir) a Souldier,
Better ne're sought a danger, more approv'd
In way of War, more master of his fortunes,
Expert in leading 'em; in doing valiant,
In following all his deeds to Victories,
And holding fortune certain there.

King. O Souldier,
Thou speak'st a man indeed; a Generals General,
A soul conceiv'd a Souldier.

Eumen. Ten set Battels
Against the strong usurper Diocles
(Whom long experience had begot a Leader,
Ambition rais'd too mighty) hath your Memnon
Won, and won gloriously, distrest and shook him
Even from the head of all his hopes to nothing:
In three, he beat the Thunder-bolt his Brother,
Forc'd him to wall himself up: there not safe,
Shook him with warlike Engins like an Earthquake,
Till like a Snail he left his shell and crawl'd
By night and hideous darkness to destruction:
Disarm'd for ever rising more: Twelve Castles,
Some thought impregnable; Towns twice as many;
Countries that like the wind knew no command
But savage wildness, hath this General
With loss of blood and youth, through Storms and Tempests
Call'd to your fair obedience.

King. O my Souldier
That thou wert now within my arms; what drums { Drums
within.
Are those that beat Eumenes?

Eumen. His, my Soveraign;
Himself i'th' head of conquest drawing home,
An old man now to offer up his glories,
And endless conquest at your shrine.

King. Goe all,
And entertain him with all Ceremonie,
We'l keep him now a Courtier.

Eumen. Sir, a strange one,
Pray God his language bear it; by my life, Sir
He knows no complement, nor curious casting
Of words into fit places e're he speak 'em,
He can say fight well fellow, and I'le thank thee:
He that must eat, must fight; bring up the rear there,
Or charge that wing of horse home. [Flourish.

King. Goe too, goe too.

Enter Memnon, and a train of Courtiers, and Souldiers, two Captains, Chilax.

Valiant and wise are twins Sir: welcom, welcom,
Welcom my fortunate and famous General,
High in thy Princes favour, as in fame,
Welcom to Peace, and Paphos.

Mem. Thank your Grace,
And would to God my dull tongue had that sweetness
To thank you as I should; but pardon me,
My sword and I speak roughly Sir: your battels
I dare well say, I have fought well; for I bring ye
That lazie end you wish for Peace, so fully,
That no more name of war is: who now thinks
Sooner or safer these might have been ended,
Begin 'em if he dare again; I'le thank him.
Souldier and Souldiers Mate these twenty five years,
At length your General, (as one whose merit
Durst look upon no less,) I have waded through
Dangers would damp these soft souls, but to hear of.
The maidenheads of thousand lives hang here Sir,
Since which time Prince, I know no Court but Marshal,
No oylie language, but the shock of Arms,
No dalliance but with death; No lofty measures
But weary and sad marches, cold and hunger,
Larums at midnight Valours self would shake at,
Yet I ne're shrunk: Balls of consuming Wildfire,
That lickt men up like lightning, have I laught at,
And tost 'em back again like childrens trifles.
Upon the edges of my Enemies swords
I have marcht like whirle-winds, fury at this hand waiting,
Death at my right; Fortune my forlorn hope,
When I have grapled with destruction,
And tug'd with pale fac'd Ruine, Night and Mischief,
Frighted to see a new day break in bloud;
And every where I conquer'd; and for you Sir,
Mothers have wanted wombs to make me famous,
And blown ambition, dangers; Those that griev'd ye,
I have taken order for i'th' earth: those fools
That shall hereafter—

King. No more wars my Souldier: { K.