Corb. I do not doubt to be a father to thee. How happy were you, if you knew it now! Mos. Nor I to gull my brother of his bless

'Cover'd with hide, instead of skin: (nay help, sir)

Thomas Decker.

Die Lebensverhältnisse dieses dramatischen Dichters, der bald allein, bald in Verbindung mit Anderen für die Bühne arbeitete, sind unermittelt geblieben. Man weiss nur, dass er 1597 zuerst ein Drama lieferte und seit 1603 sich als Prosaist, vorzüglich durch scharfe und treffende Sittenschilderungen bekannt machte, welche ihm wahrscheinlich eine dreijährige Gefangenschaft zuzogen. Ben Jonson griff ihn in seinem Poetaster als Crispinus heftig an, was Decker in seinem Satyromastix erwiderte, in welchem er seinen Gegner siegreich geisselte. Er muss um 1639 gestorben sein.

Decker war sehr fruchtbar und hinterliess u. A. zwei und dreissig Dramen, die er zum Theil allein, zum Theil mit Anderen gemeinschaftlich verfasst hatte, die aber nicht alle im Druck erschienen sind. Sein Talent war nicht gering und offenbart sich besonders durch kräftige und consequente Characterzeichnung und gute Erfindung. Fortunat, von dem wir hier einige Scenen mittheilen, wird als sein gelungenstes Werk betrachtet.

Scenes

rom the Comedy of old Fortunatus. By Thomas Decker.

That Jove shall turn away young Ganimede,
And with immortal arms shall circle thee.
Are thy desires Long Life? thy vital thread

The Goddess Fortune appears to Fortunatus, and Shall be stretch'd out, thou shalt behold the offers him the choice of six things. He chuses

Riches.

Fortune. Fortunatus.
Fortune. Before thy soul at this deep lot-
tery

Draw forth her prize, ordain'd by destiny,
Know that here's no recanting a first choice.
Chuse then discreetly: for the laws of fate,
Being grav'n in steel, must stand inviolate.
Fortunat. Daughters of Jove and the un-
blemish'd Night,
Most righteous Parcae, guide my genius right:
Wisdom, Strength, Health, Beauty, Long Life,
and Riches.

change

Of monarchies, and see those children die
Whose great great grandsires now in cradles lie.
If through Gold's sacred hunger thou dost pine,
Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run
To warm their slender bodies in the sun,
Shall stand for number of those golden piles
Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet:
As those are, so shall these be infinite.

Fortunat. O whither am I rapt beyond
myself?
More violent conflicts fight in every thought
Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall
wrought.

Fortune. Stay Fortunatus; once more hear Shall I contract myself to Wisdom's love?
Then I lose Riches; and a wise man poor

me speak.

If thou kiss Wisdom's cheek and make her thine, Is like a sacred book that's never read;

She'll breathe into thy lips divinity,

And thou (like Phoebus) shall speak oracle;
Thy heav'n-inspired soul on Wisdom's wings
Shall fly up to the Parliament of Jove,
And read the Statutes of Eternity,

And see what's past and learn what is to come.
If thou lay claim to Strength, armies shall quake
To see thee frown: as Kings at mine do lie,
So shall thy feet trample on empery,

To himself he lives and to all else seems dead.
This age thinks better of a gilded fool,
Than of a threadbare saint in Wisdom's school.
I will be strong: then I refuse Long Life;
And though mine arm should conquer twenty
worlds,

There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors:
The greatest Strength expires with loss of breath,
The mightiest in one minute stoop to death.

Make Health thine object, thou shalt be strong Then take Long Life, or Health; should I do so,

proof

'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting,

Be ever merry, ever revelling.

Wish but for Beauty, and within thine eyes
Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim

I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll
Of months and years much misery may enroll:
Therefore I'll beg for Beauty; yet I will not:
The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul
Leprous as sin itself, than hell more foul.

And on thy cheeks I'll mix such white and red, The Wisdom of this world is idiotism;

Strength a weak reed; Health Sickness' enemy, Ladies; worn strange attires; seen Fantasticoes;

And it at length will have the victory.
Beauty is but a painting; and Long Life
Is a long journey in December gone,
Tedious and full of tribulation.

Therefore, dread sacred Empress, make me rich:
My choice is Store of Gold; the Rich are Wise,
He that upon his back rich garments wears

Is Wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears.
Gold is the Strength, the Sinews of the world,
The Health, the Soul, the Beauty most divine;
A mask of gold hides all deformities;

conversed with Humourists; been ravished with divine raptures of Doric, Lydian and Phrygian harmonies; I have spent the day in triumphs and the night in banquetting.

And. O rare: this was heavenly. He that would not be an Arabian Phoenix to burn in these sweet fires, let him live like an owl for the world to wonder at.

Amp. Why, brother, are not all these Vanities? Fort. Vanities! Ampedo, thy soul is made of lead, too dull, too ponderous, to mount up to the incomprehensible glory that Travel lifts men to. And. Sweeten mine ears, good father, with

some more.

Fortune gives to Fortunatus a Purse that is inexhaustible. With this he puts on costly attire, and visits all the Asian Courts, where he is caressed and

Fort. When in the warmth of mine own country's arms

made much of for his infinite wealth. At Babylon he We yawn'd like sluggards, when this small ho

is shewn by the Soldan a wondrous Hat, which in a

wish transports the wearer whithersoever he pleases,

rizon

over land and sea. Fortunatus puts it on, wishes Imprison'd up my body, then mine eyes

himself at home in Cyprus; where he arrives in a Worship'd these clouds as brightest: but my minute, as his sons Ampedo and Andelocia are

talking of him and tells his Travels.

Fortunatus. Ampedo. Andelocia.

Fort. Touch me not, boys, I am nothing but air, let none speak to me till you have marked me well. Am I as you are, or am I transformed?

And. Methinks, father, you look as you did, only your face is more withered.

Fort. Boys, be proud; your father hath the whole world in this compass. I am all felicity, up to the brims. In a minute am I come from Babylon; I have been this half hour in Famagosta.

boys,

The glist'ring beams which do abroad appear
In other heavens, fire is not half so clear.
For still in all the regions I have seen,
I scorn'd to croud among the muddy throng
Of the rank multitude, whose thicken'd breath
(Like to condensed fogs) do choke that beauty,
Which else would dwell in every Kingdom's

cheek.
No; I still boldly stept into their Courts.
For there to live 'tis rare, O 'tis divine,
There shall you see faces angelical;
There shall you see troops of chaste Goddesses,
Whose star-like eyes have power (might they
still shine)

To make night day, and day more chrystaline.
Near these you shall behold great Heroes,

And. How! in a minute, father? I see travellers must lie. Fort. I have cut through the air like a falcon. I would have it seem strange to you. But White-headed Counsellors, and Jovial Spirits, 'tis true. I would not have you believe it neither. Standing like fiery Cherubins to guard But 'tis miraculous and true. Desire to see you The monarch, who in godlike glory sits brought me to Cyprus. I'll leave you more gold, and go to visit more countries.

Amp. The frosty hand of age now nips your
blood,
And strews her snowy flowers upon your head,
And gives you warning that within few years
Death needs must marry you: those short lines,
minutes,

That dribble out your life, must needs be spent
In peace, not travel; rest in Cyprus then.
Could you survey ten worlds, yet you must die;
And bitter is the sweet that's reapt thereby.

And. Faith, father, what pleasure have you met by walking your stations?

Fort. What pleasure, boy? I have revelled with Kings, danced with Queens, dallied with

In midst of these, as if this deity
Had with a look created a new world,
The standers by being the fair workmanship.
And. Oh how my soul is rapt to a Third
Heaven!

I'll travel sure, and live with none but Kings.
Amp. But tell me, father, have you in all
Courts

Beheld such glory, so majestical,
In all perfection, no way blemished?

Fort. In some Courts shall you see Ambition
Sit, piecing Dedalus' old waxen wings;
But being slapt on, and they about to fly,
Even when their hopes are busied in the clouds,
They melt against the sun of Majesty,
And down they tumble to destruction.

By travel, boys, I have seen all these things.
Fantastic Compliment stalks up and down,
Trickt in outlandish feathers; all his words,
His looks, his oaths, are all ridiculous,
All apish, childish, and Italianate....

Orleans to his friend Galloway defends the passion
with which, (being a Prisoner in the English King's
Court) he is enamoured to frenzy of the King's daugh-

ter Agripyna.

Orleans. Galloway.

That let my true true sorrow make them glad?
I dance and sing only to anger Grief,
That in his anger he might smite life down
With his iron fist: good heart! it seemeth then,
They laugh to see grief kill me: O fond Men,
You laugh at others tears; when others smile,
You tear yourselves in pieces: vile, vile, vile.
Ha, ha, when I behold a swarm of Fools
Crowding together to be counted Wise,

I laugh because sweet Agripyne's not there.

Orl. This music makes me but more out of But weep because she is not any where;

O Agripyna.

tune.

Gall. Gentle friend, no more.

Thou sayst Love is a madness: hate it then,
Even for the name's sake.

Orl. O I love that Madness,

Even for the name's sake.

Gall. Let me tame this frenzy,

By telling thee thou art a prisoner here,
By telling thee she's daughter to a King,
By telling thee the King of Cyprus' son
Shines like a sun between her looks and thine,
Whilst thou seem'st but a star to Agripyne.
He loves her.

Orl. If he do, why so do I.

Gall. Love is ambitious and loves Majesty. Orl. Dear friend, thou art deceiv'd: Love's voice doth sing

And weep because (whether she be or not)
My love was ever and is still forgot: forgot, for-
got, forgot.
Gall. Draw back this stream: why should my
Orleans mourn?
Orl. Look yonder, Galloway, dost thou see
that sun?

Nay, good friend, stare upon it, mark it well:
Ere he be two hours elder, all that glory
Is banish'd heaven, and then, for grief, this sky
(That's now so jocund) will mourn all in black.
And shall not Orleans mourn? alack, alack:
O what a savage tyranny it were

To enforce Care laugh, and Woe not shed a tear!
Dead is my Love; I am buried in her scorn:
That is my sunset; and shall I not mourn!
Yes by my troth I will.

Gall. Dear friend forbear;
Beauty (like Sorrow) dwelleth every where.

As sweetly in a beggar as a king.
Gall. Dear friend thou art deceiv'd: O bid Rase out this strong idea of her face:

thy soul Lift up her intellectual eyes to heaven, And in this ample book of wonders read,

Of what celestial mold, what sacred essence,
Her self is form'd: the search whereof will drive
Sounds musical among the jarring spirits,

And in sweet tune set that which none inherits.
Orl. I'll gaze on heaven if Agripyne be there.
If not: fa, la, la, sol, la, etc.

Gall. O call this madness in: see, from the

windows

Of every eye Derision thrusts out cheeks
Wrinkled with idiot laughter; every finger
Is like a dart shot from the hand of Scorn,
By which thy name is hurt, thy honour torn.
Orl. Laugh they at me, sweet Galloway?
Gall. Even at thee.

As fair as her's shineth in any place.

Orl. Thou art a Traitor to that White and

Red,
Which sitting on her cheeks (being Cupid's throne)
Is my heart's Soveraine: O when she is dead,
This wonder (beauty) shall be found in none.
Now Agripyne's not mine, I vow to be
In love with nothing but deformity.
O fair Deformity, I muse all eyes

Are not enamour'd of thee: thou didst never
Murder men's hearts, or let them pine like wax
Melting against the sun of thy destiny;
Thou art a faithful nurse to Chastity;
Thy beauty is not like to Agripyne's,
For cares, and age, and sickness her's deface,
But thine's eternal: O Deformity,
Thy fairness is not like to Agripyne's

Orl. Ha, ha, I laugh at them: are they not For (dead) her beauty will no beauty have,

mad,

But thy face looks most lovely in the grave.