Think you that maids look not for fair words? I thank you, Mistress Arden, I will in; And if fair Susan and I can make a gree, You shall command me to the uttermost, As far as either goods or life may stretch.
They be so good that I must laugh for joy, Before I can begin to tell my tale. This morning, Master Greene, Dick Greene I mean, From whom my husband had the Abbey land, Came hither, railing, for to know the truth Whether my husband had the lands by grant.
I told him all, whereat he stormed amain And swore he would cry quittance with the churl, And, if he did deny his interest, Stab him, whatsoever did befall himself.
Forewarned, forearmed; who threats his enemy, Lends him a sword to guard himself withal. You know this Greene; is he not religious? A man, I guess, of great devotion? Then, sweet Alice, let it pass: I have a drift Will quiet all, whatever is amiss. How now, Clarke? Did I not plead the matter hard for you? The painter lays his colours to the life, His pencil draws no shadows in his love. Susan is mine. You make her blush. What, sister, is it Clarke must be the man?
It resteth in your grant; some words are past, And haply we be grown unto a match, If you be willing that it shall be so. I do remember once in secret talk You told me how you could compound by art A crucifix impoisoned, That whoso look upon it should wax blind And with the scent be stifled, that ere long He should die poisoned that did view it well.
I would have you make me such a crucifix. Leave that to us. Why, Clarke, is it possible That you should paint and draw it out yourself, The colours being baleful and impoisoned, And no ways prejudice yourself withal? Well questioned, Alice; Clarke, how answer you that?
I fasten on my spectacles so close As nothing can any way offend my sight; Then, as I put a leaf within my nose, So put I rhubarb to avoid the smell, And softly as another work I paint. Pass ; so Bullen for past , A, B, C. Perhaps worth should be omitted. Leave ; Tyrrell reads love. His in state , i. Tyrrell begins Act II.
See you them that comes yonder, Master Greene? The one I know not, but he seems a knave Chiefly for bearing the other company; For such a slave, so vile a rogue as he, Lives not again upon the earth. Black Will is his name. The fitter is he for my purpose, marry! How now, fellow Bradshaw? Whither away so early?
O Will, times are changed: no fellows now, Though we were once together in the field; Yet thy friend to do thee any good I can. Why, Bradshaw, was not thou and I fellow-soldiers at Boulogne, where I was a corporal, and thou but a base mercenary groom? No fellows now! Ay, Will, those days are past with me.
Ay, but they be not past with me, for I keep that same honourable mind still. Good neighbour Bradshaw, you are too proud to be my fellow; but were it not that I see more company coming down the hill, I would be fellows with you once more, and share crowns with you too. But let that pass, and tell me whither you go. To London, Will, about a piece of service, Wherein haply thou mayest pleasure me.
Now I am going to London upon hope To find the fellow. Now, Will, I know Thou art acquainted with such companions. A lean-faced writhen knave, Hawk-nosed and very hollow-eyed, 50 With mighty furrows in his stormy brows; Long hair down his shoulders curled; His chin was bare, but on his upper lip A mutchado, which he wound about his ear. Why, it was with the money that the plate was sold for. Sirrah Bradshaw, what wilt thou give him that can tell thee who sold thy plate?
Before you go, let me intreat you To carry this letter to Mistress Arden of Feversham And humbly recommend me to herself. That will I, Master Greene, and so farewell. Ay, thy mother, thy sister, thy brother, or all thy kin. Well, this it is: Arden of Feversham Hath highly wronged me about the Abbey land, That no revenge but death will serve the turn. Will you two kill him? He is now at London, in Aldersgate Street. Here is ten pound, and when he is dead, Ye shall have twenty more. My fingers itches to be at the peasant.
Ah, that I might be set a work thus through the year, and that murder would grow to an occupation, that a man might follow without danger of law:—zounds, I warrant I should be warden of the company!
Jew of Malta , IV. I have gotten such a letter as will touch the painter: And thus it is:. Here enters Arden and Franklin and hears Michael read this letter.
Ah, Mistress Susan, abolish that paltry painter, cut him off by the shins with a frowning look of your crabbed countenance, and think upon Michael, who, drunk with the dregs of your favour, will cleave as fast to your love as a plaster of pitch to a galled horse-back.
Thus hoping you will let my passions penetrate, or rather impetrate mercy of your meek hands, I end. Why, you paltry knave, Stand you here loitering, knowing my affairs, What haste my business craves to send to Kent? Faith, friend Michael, this is very ill, Knowing your master hath no more but you, And do ye slack his business for your own? Where is the letter, sirrah? Wilt thou be married to so base a trull?
How can I miss him, when I think on the forty angels I must have more? Zounds, draw, Shakebag, I am almost killed. What troublesome fray or mutiny is this? Shakebag, my broken head grieves me not so much as by this means Arden hath escaped.
What, dare you not do it? Yes, sir, we dare do it; but, were my consent to give again, we would not do it under ten pound more. I value every drop of my blood at a French crown. I have had ten pound to steal a dog, and we have no more here to kill a man; but that a bargain is a bargain, and so forth, you should do it yourself. I pray thee, how came thy head broke? Why, thou seest it is broke, dost thou not?
I pray thee, Will, make clean thy bloody brow, [36] And let us bethink us on some other place Where Arden may be met with handsomely. Remember how devoutly thou hast sworn To kill the villain; think upon thine oath. Tush, I have broken five hundred oaths! Seest thou this gore that cleaveth to my face? I cannot paint my valour out with words: But, give me place and opportunity, Such mercy as the starven lioness, When she is dry sucked of her eager young, [37] Shows to the prey that next encounters her, On Arden so much pity would I take.
So should it fare with men of firm resolve. See, yonder comes his man: and wot you what? My master hath new supped, And I am going to prepare his chamber. Where supped Master Arden? How now, Master Shakebag? Go to, sirrah, there is a chance in it; this sauciness in you will make you be knocked. Stay, Michael, you may not escape us so. Michael, I know you love your master well. Why, so I do; but wherefore urge you that? Because I think you love your mistress better. Come to the purpose, Michael; we hear You have a pretty love in Feversham.
You deal too mildly with the peasant. Now, sir, a poorer coward than yourself Was never fostered in the coast of Kent: How comes it then that such a knave as you Dare swear a matter of such consequence? Then be not nice, but here devise with us How and what way we may conclude his death. So shall thy mistress be thy favourer, And thou disburdened of the oath thou made. Now it were good we parted company; What I have promised, I will perform.
I will accomplish all I have revealed. Ah, harmless Arden, how hast thou misdone, That thus thy gentle life is levelled at? The many good turns that thou hast done to me. I that should take the weapon in my hand And buckler thee from ill-intending foes, Do lead thee with a wicked fraudful smile, As unsuspected, to the slaughter-house. So have I sworn to Mosbie and my mistress, So have I promised to the slaughtermen; And should I not deal currently with them, Their lawless rage would take revenge on me.
Tush, I will spurn at mercy for this once: Let pity lodge where feeble women lie, I am resolved, and Arden needs must die. The Counter was a London prison. If neither of these two do haply fall, Yet let your comfort be that others bear Your woes, twice doubled all, with patience. My house is irksome; there I cannot rest. Then stay with me in London; go not home. Then that base Mosbie doth usurp my room And makes his triumph of my being thence.
Forget your griefs a while; here comes your man. See, see, how runs away the weary time! Come, Master Franklin, shall we go to bed? So woe-begone, so inly charged with woe, Was never any lived and bare it so. My master would desire you come to bed. Is he himself already in his bed? He is, and fain would have the light away. My death to him is but a merriment, And he will murder me to make him sport.
He comes, he comes! Master Franklin, help! Call on the neighbours, or we are but dead! What dismal outcry calls me from my rest? What hath occasioned such a fearful cry? Speak, Michael: hath any injured thee? Nothing, sir; but as I fell asleep, Upon the threshold leaning to the stairs, I had a fearful dream that troubled me, And in my slumber thought I was beset With murderer thieves that came to rifle me.
My trembling joints witness my inward fear: I crave your pardons for disturbing you. I cannot tell; I think I locked the doors. Get you to bed, and if you love my favour, Let me have no more such pranks as these. Come, Master Franklin, let us go to bed.
Ay, by my faith; the air is very cold. Michael, farewell; I pray thee dream no more. Black night hath hid the pleasures of the day, And sheeting darkness overhangs the earth, And with the black fold of her cloudy robe [46] Obscures us from the eyesight of the world, In which sweet silence such as we triumph.
The lazy minutes linger on their time, As loth to give due audit to the hour, Till in the watch our purpose be complete And Arden sent to everlasting night. Greene, get you gone, and linger here about, 10 And at some hour hence come to us again, Where we will give you instance of his death.
I tell thee, Shakebag, would this thing were done: I am so heavy that I can scarce go; This drowsiness in me bodes little good. How now, Will? Why, Shakebag, thou mistakes me much, And wrongs me too in telling me of fear. I tell thee, Shakebag, thou abusest me. Why, thy speech bewrayed an inly kind of fear, [47] And savoured of a weak relenting spirit. Go forward now in that we have begun, And afterwards attempt me when thou darest.
And if I do not, heaven cut me off! The villain Michael hath deceived us. Knock with thy sword, perhaps the slave will hear.
It will not be; the white-livered peasant Is gone to bed, and laughs us both to scorn. He were a villain, an he would not swear. First go make the bed, And afterwards go hearken for the flood. Come, Master Franklin, you shall go with me. It may be so, God frame it to the best: But oftentimes my dreams presage too true.
Say, Master Franklin, shall it not be so? Speak, milksop slave, and never after speak. Being in bed, he did bethink himself, And coming down he found the doors unshut: He locked the gates, and brought away the keys, For which offence my master rated me. But now I am going to see what flood it is, For with the tide my master will away; Where you may front him well on Rainham Down, A place well-fitting such a stratagem. Your excuse hath somewhat mollified my choler. As true as I report it to be true.
Then, Michael, this shall be your penance, To feast us all at the Salutation, Where we will plat our purpose thoroughly. And, Michael, you shall bear no news of this tide, Because they two may be in Rainham Down Before your master.
But since I climbed the top-bough of the tree And sought to build my nest among the clouds, Each gentle stirry gale doth shake my bed, And makes me dread my downfall to the earth.
But whither doth contemplation carry me? Then, Arden, perish thou by that decree; For Greene doth ear the land and weed thee up To make my harvest nothing but pure corn. But what for that? I may not trust you, Alice: You have supplanted Arden for my sake, 40 And will extirpen me to plant another. But here she comes, and I must flatter her. Make me partaker of thy pensiveness: Fire divided burns with lesser force. But I will dam that fire in my breast Till by the force thereof my part consume.
Ah, Mosbie! It is not love that loves to anger love. It is not love that loves to murder love. How mean you that? Thou knowest how dearly Arden loved me. I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither; Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds. Forget, I pray thee, what hath passed betwixt us, For how I blush and tremble at the thoughts!
Ha, Mosbie! I was bewitched: woe worth the hapless hour And all the causes that enchanted me! Nay, if you ban, let me breathe curses forth, 80 And if you stand so nicely at your fame, Let me repent the credit I have lost. I left the marriage of an honest maid, Whose dowry would have weighed down all thy wealth, Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee: 90 This certain good I lost for changing bad, And wrapt my credit in thy company.
I was bewitched,—that is no theme of thine, And thou unhallowed has enchanted me. But I will break thy spells and exorcisms, And put another sight upon these eyes That showed my heart a raven for a dove. Thou art not fair, I viewed thee not till now; Thou art not kind, till now I knew thee not; And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt, Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit. Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds; I am too good to be thy favourite. If thou cry war, there is no peace for me; I will do penance for offending thee, And burn this prayer-book, where I here use The holy word that had converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves, And all the leaves, and in this golden cover Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell; And thereon will I chiefly meditate, And hold no other sect but such devotion. Wilt thou not look? Wilt thou not hear? Why speaks thou not? Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is, And heard as quickly as the fearful hare, And spoke as smoothly as an orator, When I have bid thee hear or see or speak, [57] And art thou sensible in none of these?
O no, I am a base artificer: My wings are feathered for a lowly flight. Make love to you? Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king, And I too blind to judge him otherwise. Ah, how you women can insinuate, And clear a trespass with your sweet-set tongue! Then with thy lips seal up this new-made match. Soft, Alice, here comes somebody. We thank our neighbour Bradshaw. Well, were his date completed and expired. Ah, would it were! Then comes my happy hour: Till then my bliss is mixed with bitter gall.
Come, let us in to shun suspicion. Ay, to the gates of death to follow thee. Bullen puts a comma at use. Come, Will, see thy tools be in a readiness! Is not thy powder dank, or will thy flint strike fire? Then ask me if my nose be on my face, Or whether my tongue be frozen in my mouth. You were best swear me on the interrogatories [59] How many pistols I have took in hand, Or whether I love the smell of gunpowder, Or dare abide the noise the dag will make, Or will not wink at flashing of the fire.
Zounds, I hate them as I hate a toad That carry a muscado in their tongue, 20 And scarce a hurting weapon in their hand. O Greene, intolerable! It is not for mine honour to bear this. Why, Shakebag, I did serve the king at Boulogne, And thou canst brag of nothing that thou hast done. Why, so can Jack of Feversham, That sounded for a fillip on the nose, When he that gave it him holloed in his ear, And he supposed a cannon-bullet hit him. Well, take your fittest standings, and once more Lime well your twigs to catch this wary bird.
Ah, might I see him stretching forth his limbs, As I have seen them beat their wings ere now! Why, that thou shalt see, if he come this way. Yes, that he doth, Shakebag, I warrant thee: But brawl not when I am gone in any case. Ay, God he knows, and so doth Will and Shakebag, That thou shalt never go further than that down; And therefore have I pricked the horse on purpose, Because I would not view the massacre.
Come, Master Franklin, onwards with your tale. Come, Master Franklin, let us go on softly: The annoyance of the dust or else some meat You ate at dinner cannot brook with you. Do you remember where my tale did leave? Ay, where the gentleman did check his wife. She being reprehended for the fact, Witness produced that took her with the deed, Her glove brought in which there she left behind, And many other assured arguments, Her husband asked her whether it were not so.
Her answer then? I wonder how she looked, Having forsworn it with such vehement oaths, 80 And at the instant so approved upon her. First did she cast her eyes down to the earth, Watching the drops that fell amain from thence; Then softly draws she forth her handkercher, And modestly she wipes her tear-stained face; Them hemmed she out, to clear her voice should seem, And with a majesty addressed herself To encounter all their accusations.
Come, we are almost now at Rainham Down: Your pretty tale beguiles the weary way; I would you were in state to tell it out. Stand close, Will, I hear them coming. Stand to it, Shakebag, and be resolute. Is it so near night as it seems, Or will this black-faced evening have a shower?
Ay, my good lord, and highly bound to you. You and your friend come home and sup with me. I beseech your honour pardon me; I have made a promise to a gentleman, My honest friend, to meet him at my house; The occasion is great, or else would I wait on you.
Will you come to-morrow and dine with me, And bring your honest friend along with you? I have divers matters to talk with you about. One of you stay my horse at the top of the hill. Black Will? Thou wilt be hanged in Kent, when all is done. Not hanged, God save your honour; I am your bedesman, bound to pray for you. Zounds, I could kill myself for very anger! His lordship chops me in, Even when my dag was levelled at his heart.
I would his crown were molten down his throat. Arden, thou hast wondrous holy luck. Did ever man escape as thou hast done? What, is he down? Ay, in health towards Feversham, to shame us all. The devil he is! When we were ready to shoot, Comes my Lord Cheiny to prevent his death. The Lord of Heaven hath preserved him. Preserved a fig! The Lord Cheiny hath preserved him, And bids him to a feast to his house at Shorlow. Therefore come, Greene, and let us to Feversham.
Why, then let us go, and tell her all the matter, And plat the news to cut him off to-morrow. Shorlow should be Shurland in Sheppey. I thought you did pretend some special hunt, That made you thus cut short the time of rest. It was no chase that made me rise so early, But, as I told thee yesternight, to go To the Isle of Sheppy, there to dine with my Lord Cheiny; 10 For so his honour late commanded me.
Ay, such kind husbands seldom want excuses; Home is a wild cat to a wandering wit. But my deserts or your desires decay, Or both; yet if true love may seem desert, I merit still to have thy company.
Why, I pray you, sir, let her go along with us; 20 I am sure his honour will welcome her And us the more for bringing her along. Nay, see how mistaking you are!
I pray thee, go. Then let me leave thee satisfied in this, That time nor place nor persons alter me, 30 But that I hold thee dearer than my life. That will be seen by your quick return. And that shall be ere night, and if I live. Farewell, sweet Alice, we mind to sup with thee. Come, Michael, are our horses ready? Why, I pray you, let us go before, Whilst he stays behind to seek his purse. But who is this? How now, Michael? Susan Mosbie?
Ay, how doth she and all the rest? Yes, faith, and of a lordaine, too, as big as yourself. O, Michael, the spleen prickles you. Go to, you carry an eye over Mistress Susan. Why more from a painter than from a serving creature like yourself? Because you painters make but a painting table of a pretty wench, and spoil her beauty with blotting. Such another word will cost you a cuff or a knock. What, with a dagger made of a pencil? Stayed you behind your master to this end?
Have you no other time to brable in But now when serious matters are in hand? Ay, here it is; the very touch is death. Then this, I hope, if all the rest do fail, Will catch Master Arden, [70] And make him wise in death that lived a fool. Why should he thrust his sickle in our corn, Or what hath he to do with thee, my love, Or govern me that am to rule myself? Forsooth, for credit sake, I must leave thee! Nay, he must leave to live that we may love, May live, may love; for what is life but love?
Why, what is love without true constancy? Like to a pillar built of many stones, Yet neither with good mortar well compact Nor with cement to fasten it in the joints, But that it shakes with every blast of wind, And, being touched, straight falls unto the earth, And buries all his haughty pride in dust. No, let our love be rocks of adamant, Which time nor place nor tempest can asunder.
Mosbie, leave protestations now, And let us bethink us what we have to do. Ecclesiastes , vii. The Kentish Coast opposite the Isle of Sheppy. Here, here, go before to the boat, and I will follow you. We have great haste; I pray thee, come away. Speaks thou this of thine own experience? Perhaps, ay; perhaps, no: For my wife is as other women are, that is to say, governed by the moon.
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Arden of Faversham Unknown. Transform this Plot Summary into a Study Guide. Arden of Faversham is a work of Elizabethan drama by an unknown author. Originally performed in and published the next year, it has been attributed at different times in its history to William Shakespeare, Thomas Kyd, and Christopher Marlowe.
Computerized stylometrics suggests that it was most likely written by Shakespeare and an unknown collaborator, who was not Kyd or Marlowe. Thomas Arden is a wealthy landowner who lives near Faversham Abbey.
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