CAMPASPE

By JOHN LYLY

c. 1580-1

Played beefore the Queenes Majesty on new

yeares day at night, by her Majestys Children,

and the Children of Paules.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Alexander, King of Macedon.

Page to Alexander.

Melippus, Chamberlain to Alexander.

Hephestion, his General.

Alexander’s Warriors:

Clytus, an officer.

Parmenio, an officer.

Milectus, a soldier.

Phrygius, a soldier.

Philosophers:

Plato.

Granichus, Servant to Plato.

Aristotle.

Diogenes.

Manes, Servant to Diogenes.

Chrysippus.

Crates.

Cleanthes.

Anaxarchus.

Apelles, a Painter.

Psyllus, Servant to Apelles.

Crysus, a beggar

Solinus, a citizen of Athens.

Sylvius, a citizen of Athens.

Perim, Son to Sylvius.

Milo, Son to Sylvius.

Trico, Son to Sylvius.

Lais, a Courtesan.

Campaspe, a Theban Captive.

Timoclea, a Theban Captive.

Citizens of Athens, other captive women, etc.

Scene: Athens.

THE PROLOGUE AT THE BLACKE FRYERS.

THEY that fear the stinging of wasps make fans of

peacocks’ tails, whose spots are like eyes. And Lepidus,

which could not sleep for the chattering of birds, set up

a beast, whose head was like a dragon: and we which

stand in awe of report, are compelled to set before our

owl Pallas shield, thinking by her virtue to cover the

other’s deformity.

It was a sign of famine to Egypt, when Nilus flowed

less than twelve cubits, or more than eighteen: and it

may threaten despair unto us, if we be less courteous

than you look for, or more cumbersome.

But as Theseus being promised to be brought to an

eagle’s nest, and travailing all the day, found but a wren

in a hedge, yet said, “this is a bird”: so we hope, if the

shower of our swelling mountain seem to bring forth

some elephant, perform but a mouse, you will gently

say, “this is a beast”.

Basil softly touched, yieldeth a sweet scent, but

chafed in the hand, a rank savour: we fear even so that

our labours slyly glanced on, will breed some content,

but examined to the proof, small commendation.

The haste in performing shall be our excuse. There

went two nights to the begetting of Hercules. Feathers

appear not on the phoenix under seven months, and the

mulberry is twelve in budding: but our travails are like

the hare's, who at one time bringeth forth, nourisheth,

and engendreth again; or like the brood of trochilus,

whose eggs in the same moment that they are laid,

become birds. But howsoever we finish our work, we

crave pardon, if we offend in matter, and patience if

we transgress in manners.

We have mixed mirth with counsel, and discipline

with delight, thinking it not amiss in the same garden

to sow pot-herbs, that we set flowers.

But we hope, as harts that cast their horns, snakes

their skins, eagles their bills, become more fresh for any

other labour: so our charge being shaken off, we shall

be fit for greater matters.

But lest like the Myndans, we make our gates

greater than our town, and that our play runs out at the

preface, we here conclude: wishing that although there

be in your precise judgments an universal mislike, yet

we may enjoy by your wonted courtesies a general

silence.

THE PROLOGUE AT THE COURT.

WE are ashamed that our bird, which fluttered by

twilight seeming a swan, should be proved a bat set

against the sun. But as Jupiter placed Silenus’ ass

among the stars, and Alcebiades covered his pictures

being owls and apes, with a curtain embroidered with

lions and eagles, so are we enforced upon a rough

discourse to draw on a smooth excuse; resembling

lapidaries, who think to hide the crack in a stone by

setting it deep in gold.

The gods supped once with poor Baucis, the Persian

kings sometimes shaved sticks: our hope is your

Highness will at this time lend an ear to an idle pastime.

Appion raising Homer from hell, demanded only

who was his father, and we calling Alexander from his

grave, seek only who was his love.

Whatsoever we present, we wish it may be thought

the dancing of Agrippa his shadows, who in the moment

they were seen, were of any shape one would conceive:

or lynxes, who having a quick sight to discern, have a

short memory to forget. With us it is like to fare, as

with these torches, which giving light to others,

consume themselves: and we shewing delight to others,

shame ourselves.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Outside the walls of Athens.

Enter Clytus and Parmenio.

Clyt. Parmenio, I cannot tell whether I should more

commend in Alexander’s victories, courage, or

courtesy, in the one being a resolution without fear, in

the other a liberality above custom: Thebes is razed, the

people not racked, towers thrown down, bodies not

thrust aside, a conquest without conflict, and a cruel

war in a mild peace.

Parm. Clytus, it becommeth the son of Philip to be

none other than Alexander is: therefore seeing in the

father a full perfection, who could have doubted in the

son an excellency? For as the moon can borrow nothing

else of the sun but light, so of a sire, in whom nothing

but virtue was, what could the child receive but

singular? It is for turqies to stain each other, not for

diamonds; in the one to be made a difference in

goodness, in the other no comparison.

Clyt. You mistake me Parmenio, if whilest I commend

Alexander, you imagine I call Philip into question;

unless happily you conjecture (which none of

judgment will conceive) that because I like the fruit,

therefore I heave at the tree; or coveting to kiss the

child, I therefore go about to poison the teat.

Parm. Ay, but Clytus, I perceive you are borne in the

east, and never laugh but at the sun rising; which

argueth though a duty where you ought, yet no great

devotion where you might.

Clyt. We will make no controversy of that which there

ought to be no question; only this shall be the opinion

of us both, that none was worthy to be the father of

Alexander but Philip, nor any meet to be the son of

Philip but Alexander.

Parm. Soft, Clytus, behold the spoils and prisoners! a

pleasant sight to us, because profit is joined with

honour; not much painful to them, because their

captivity is eased by mercy.

Enter Timoclea, Campaspe, with other captives,

and spoils, guarded.

Timo. Fortune, thou didst never yet deceive virtue,

because virtue never yet did trust fortune. Sword and

fire will never get spoil, where wisdom and fortitude

bears sway. O Thebes, thy walls were raised by the

sweetness of the harp, but razed by the shrillness of the

trumpet. Alexander had never come so near the walls,

had Epaminondas walked about the walls: and yet might

the Thebans have been merry in their streets, if he had

been to watch their towers. But destiny is seldom

foreseen, never prevented. We are here now captives,

whose necks are yoked by force, but whose hearts

cannot yield by death. Come Campaspe and the rest, let

us not be ashamed to cast our eyes on him, on whom we

feared not to cast our darts.

Parm. Madame, you need not doubt, it is Alexander,

that is the conqueror.

Timo. Alexander hath overcome, not conquered.

Parm. To bring all under his subjection is to conquer.

Timo. He cannot subdue that which is divine.

Parm. Thebes was not.

Timo. Virtue is.

Clyt. Alexander as he tendreth virtue, so he will you; he

drinketh not blood, but thirsteth after honour; he is

greedy of victory, but never satisfied with mercy. In

fight terrible, as becommeth a captain; in conquest

mild, as beseemeth a king. In all things then which

nothing can be greater, he is Alexander.

Camp. Then if it be such a thing to be Alexander, I

hope it shall be no miserable thing to be a virgin. For if

he save our honours, it is more than to restore our

goods. And rather do I wish he preserve our fame than

our lives; which if he do, we will confess there can be

no greater thing than to be Alexander.

Enter Alexander, Hephestion, and Attendants.

Alex. Clytus, are these prisoners? of whence these

spoils?

Clyt. Like your Majesty, they are prisoners, and of

Thebes.

Alex. Of what calling or reputation?

Clyt. I know not, but they seem to be ladies of honour.

Alex. I will know: madam, of whence you are I know;

but who, I cannot tell.

Timo. Alexander, I am the sister of Theagines, who

fought a battle with thy father before the city of

Chyronie, where he died, I say which none can

gainsay, valiantly.

Alex. Lady, there seem in your words sparks of your

brother’s deeds, but worser fortune in your life than his

death: but fear not, for you shall live without violence,

enemies, or necessity: but what are you fair lady,

another sister to Theagines?

Camp. No sister to Theagines, but an humble hand-

maid to Alexander, born of a mean parentage, but to

extreme fortune.

Alex. Well ladies, for so your virtues shew you,

whatsoever your births be, you shall be honorably

entreated. Athens shall be your Thebes, and you shall

not be as abjects of war, but as subjects to Alexander.

Parmenio, conduct these honourable ladies into the city:

charge the soldiers not so much as in words to offer

them any offence, and let all wants be supplied, so far

forth as shall be necessary for such persons and my

prisoners.

[Exeunt Parmenio et captivi.]

Hephestion, it resteth now that we have as great care to

govern in peace, as conquer in war: that whilest arms

cease, arts may flourish, and joining letters with lances,

we endeavour to be as good philosophers as soldiers,

knowing it no less praise to be wise, than

commendable to be valiant.

Heph. Your Majesty therein sheweth that you have as

great desire to rule as to subdue: and needs must that

commonwealth be fortunate, whose captain is a

philosopher, and whose philosopher is a captain.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I, SCENE II.

A street.

Enter Manes, Granichus, Psyllus.

Manes. I serve instead of a master, a mouse, whose

house is a tub, whose dinner is a crust, and whose bed is

a board.

Psy. Then art thou in a state of life which philosophers

commend. A crumb for thy supper, an hand for thy cup,

and thy clothes for thy sheets. For natura paucis

contenta.

Gran. Manes, it is pity so proper a man should be cast

away upon a philosopher: but that Diogenes that dog

should have Manes that dogbolt, it grieveth nature and

spiteth art: the one having found thee so dissolute,

absolute I would say, in body, the other so single,

singular in mind.

Manes. Are you merry? it is a sign by the trip of your

tongue, and the toys of your head, that you have done

that today, which I have not done these three days.

Psy. What is that?

Manes. Dined.

Gran. I think Diogenes keeps but cold cheer.

Manes. I would it were so, but he keepeth neither hot

nor cold.

Gran. What then, lukewarm? That made Manes run

from his master the last day.

Psy. Manes had reason: for his name foretold as much.

Manes. My name? how so, sir boy?

Psy. You know that it is called Mons, à movendo,

because it stands still.

Manes. Good.

Psy. And thou art named Manes, à manendo, because

thou runnest away.

Manes. Passing reasons! I did not run away, but retire.

Psy. To a prison, because thou wouldst have leisure to

contemplate.

Manes. I will prove that my body was immortal:

because it was in prison.

Gran. As how?

Manes. Did your masters never teach you that the soul

is immortal?

Gran. Yes.

Manes. And the body is the prison of the soul.

Gran. True.

Manes. Why then, thus to make my body immortal, I

put it to prison.

Gran. Oh bad!

Psy. Excellent ill!

Manes. You may see how dull a fasting wit is: therefore,

Psyllus, let us go to supper with Granichus: Plato is the

best fellow of all philosophers. Give me him that reads

in the morning in the school, and at noon in the kitchen.

Psy. And me.

Gran. Ah sirs, my master is a king in his parlour for the

body, and a god in his study for the soul. Among all his

men he commendeth one that is an excellent musician,

then stand I by, and clap another on the shoulder, and

say, “this is a passing good cook.”

Manes. It is well done Granichus; for give me pleasure

that goes in at the mouth, not the ear; I had rather fill

my guts than my brains.

Psy. I serve Apelles, who feedeth me as Diogenes doth

Manes; for at dinner the one preacheth abstinence, the

other commendeth counterfeiting: when I would eat

meat, he paints a spit, and when I thirst, saith he, “is not

this a fair pot?” and points to a table which contains the

banquet of the gods, where are many dishes to feed the

eye, but not to fill the gut.

Gran. What doest thou then?

Psy. This doeth he then, bring in many examples that

some have lived by savours, and proveth that much

easier it is to fat by colours: and tells of birds that have

been fatted by painted grapes in winter: and how many

have so fed their eyes with their mistress’ picture, that

they never desired to take food, being glutted with the

delight in their favours. Then doth he shew me

counterfeits, such as have surfeited with their filthy and

loathsome vomits, and with the riotous bacchanalles of

the god Bacchus, and his disorderly crew, which are

painted all to the life in his shop. To conclude, I fare

hardly, though I go richly, which maketh me when I

should begin to shadow a lady’s face, to draw a lamb’s

head, and sometimes to set to the body of a maid a

shoulder of mutton: for semper animus meus est in

patinis.

Manes. Thou art a god to me: for could I see but a

cook’s shop painted, I would make mine eyes fat as

butter. For I have nought but sentences to fill my maw,

as plures occidit crapula quàm gladius: musa

ieiunantibus amica: “repletion killeth delicately”: and

an old saw of abstinence by Socrates: “the belly is the

head’s grave”. Thus with sayings, not with meat, he

maketh a gallimaufry.

Gran. But how doest thou then live?

Manes. With fine jests, sweet air, and the dog’s alms.

Gran. Well, for this time I will stanch thy gut, and

among pots and platters thou shalt see what it is to

serve Plato.

Psy. For joy of it Granichus let's sing.

Manes. My voice is as clear in the evening as in the

morning.

Gran. Another commodity of emptiness.

Song.

Gran. O for a bowl of fat canary,

Rich Palermo, sparkling sherry,

Some nectar else, from Juno's dairy,

O these draughts would make us merry.

Psy. O for a wench, (I deal in faces,

And in other daintier things,)

Tickled am I with her embraces,

Fine dancing in such fairy rings.

Manes. O for a plump fat leg of mutton,

Veal, lamb, capon, pig, and cony,

None is happy but a glutton,

None an ass, but who wants money.

Chor. Wines (indeed,) and girls are good,

But brave victuals feast the blood,

For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer,

Jove would leap down to surfeit here.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I, SCENE III.

Interior of the Palace, with transfer to the

Market-place at line 174.

Enter Melippus.

Melip. I had never such ado to warn scholars to come

before a king. First, I came to Chrysippus, a tall lean old

mad man, willing him presently to appear before

Alexander; he stood staring on my face, neither moving

his eyes nor his body; I urging him to give some

answer, he took up a book, sat down and said nothing:

Melissa his maid told me it was his manner, and that

oftentimes she was fain to thrust meat into his mouth:

for that he would rather starve than cease study. Well,

thought I, seeing bookish men are so blockish, and

great clerks such simple courtiers, I will neither be

partaker of their commons nor their commendations.

From thence I came to Plato and to Aristotle, and to

diverse other, none refusing to come, saving an old

obscure fellow, who sitting in a tub turned towards the

sun, read Greek to a young boy; him when I willed to

appear before Alexander, he answered, if Alexander

would fain see me, let him come to me; if learn of me,

let him come to me; whatsoever it be, let him come to

me: why, said I, he is a king; he answered, why I am a

philosopher; why, but he is Alexander; ay, but I am

Diogenes. I was half angry to see one so crooked in his

shape, to be so crabbed in his sayings. So going my

way, I said, thou shalt repent it, if thou comest not to

Alexander: nay, smiling answered he, Alexander may

repent it, if he come not to Diogenes: virtue must be

sought, not offered: and so turning himself to his cell,

he grunted I know not what, like a pig under a tub. But

I must be gone, the philosophers are coming.

[Exit.]

Enter Plato, Aristotle, Cleanthes, Anaxarchus,

Crates, and Chrysippus.

Plato. It is a difficult controversy, Aristotle, and rather

to be wondered at than believed, how natural causes

should work supernatural effects.

Aris. I do not so much stand upon the apparition is seen

in the moon, neither the demonium of Socrates, as that

I cannot by natural reason give any reason of the ebbing

and flowing of the sea, which makes me in the depth of

my studies to cry out, 0 ens entium, miserere mei.

Plato. Cleanthes and you attribute so much to nature

by searching for things which are not to be found, that

whilest you study a cause of your own, you omit the

occasion itself. There is no man so savage in whom

resteth not this divine particle, that there is an

omnipotent, eternal, and divine mover, which may be

called God.

Clean. I am of this mind, that that first mover, which

you term God, is the instrument of all the movings

which we attribute to nature. The earth which is mass,

swimmeth on the sea, seasons divided in themselves,

fruits growing in themselves, the majesty of the sky, the

whole firmament of the world, and whatsoever else

appeareth miraculous, what man almost of mean

capacity but can prove it natural?

Anax. These causes shall be debated at our

philosophers’ feast, in which controversy I will take

part with Aristotle, that there is Natura naturans, and

yet not God.

Crates. And I with Plato, that there is Deus optimus

maximus, and not nature.

Aris. Here commeth Alexander.

Enter Alexander, Hephestion, Parmenio and Clytus.

Alex. I see, Hephestion, that these philosophers are

here attending for us.

Heph. They are not philosophers, if they know not their

duties.

Alex. But I much marvel Diogenes should be so

dogged.

Heph. I do not think but his excuse will be better than

Melippus’ message.

Alex. I will go see him Hephestion, because I long to

see him that would command Alexander to come, to

whom all the world is like to come. Aristotle and the

rest, sithence my coming from Thebes to Athens, from

a place of conquest to a palace of quiet, I have resolved

with myself in my court to have as many philosophers,

as I had in my camp soldiers. My court shall be a school

wherein I will have used as great doctrine in peace, as

I did in war discipline.

Aris. We are all here ready to be commanded, and glad

we are that we are commanded: for that nothing better

becometh kings than literature, which maketh them

come as near to the gods in wisdom, as they do in

dignity.

Alex. It is so Aristotle, but yet there is among you, yea

and of your bringing up, that sought to destroy

Alexander: Calistenes, Aristotle, whose treasons against

his prince shall not be borne out with the reasons of his

philosophy.

Aris. If ever mischief entered into the heart of

Calistenes, let Calistenes suffer for it; but that Aristotle

ever imagined any such thing of Calistenes, Aristotle

doth deny.

Alex. Well Aristotle, kindred may blind thee, and

affection me; but in kings’ causes I will not stand to

scholars’ arguments. This meeting shall be for a

commandment, that you all frequent my court, instruct

the young with rules, confirm the old with reasons: let

your lives be answerable to your learnings, lest my

proceedings be contrary to my promises.

Heph. You said you would ask every one of them a

question, which yester-night none of us could answer.

Alex. I will. Plato, of all beasts, which is the subtlest?

Plato. That which man hitherto never knew.

Alex. Aristotle, how should a man be thought a god?

Aris. In doing a thing unpossible for a man.

Alex. Chrysippus, which was first, the day or the night?

Chrys. The day, by a day.

Alex. Indeed! strange questions must have strange

answers. Cleanthes, what say you, is life or death the

stronger?

Clea. Life, that suffereth so many troubles.

Alex. Crates, how long should a man live?

Crat. Till he think it better to die than to live.

Alex. Anaxarchus, whether doth the sea or the earth

bring forth most creatures?

Anax. The earth, for the sea is but a part of the earth.

Alex. Hephestion, me thinks they have answered all

well, and in such questions I mean often to try them.

Heph. It is better to have in your court a wise man, than

in your ground a golden mine. Therefore would I leave

war, to study wisdom, were I Alexander.

Alex. So would I, were I Hephestion. But come, let us

go and give release, as I promised to our Theban thralls.

[Exeunt Alexander, Hephestion, Parmenio and Clytus.]

Plato. Thou art fortunate Aristotle, that Alexander is

thy scholar.

Aris. And all you happy that he is your sovereign.

Chrys. I could like the man well, if he could be

contented to be but a man.

Aris. He seeketh to draw near to the gods in

knowledge, not to be a god.

[Diogenes’ tub is thrust on.]

Plato. Let us question a little with Diogenes, why he

went not with us to Alexander. Diogenes, thou didst

forget thy duty, that thou wentst not with us to the king.

Diog. [From his tub] And you your profession, that

you went to the king.

Plato. Thou takest as great pride to be peevish, as

others do glory to be virtuous.

Diog. And thou as great honour being a philosopher to

be thought court-like, as others shame that be courtiers,

to be accounted philosophers.

Aris. These austere manners set aside, it is well known

that thou didst counterfeit money.

Diog. And thou thy manners, in that thou didst not

counterfeit money.

Aris. Thou hast reason to contemn the court, being

both in body and mind too crooked for a courtier.

Diog. As good be crooked, and endeavor to make

myself straight from the court, as be straight, and learn

to be crooked at the court.

Crat. Thou thinkest it a grace to be opposite against

Alexander.

Diog. And thou to be jump with Alexander.

Anax. Let us go: for in contemning him, we shall better

please him, than in wondering at him.

Aris. Plato, what dost thou think of Diogenes?

Plato. To be Socrates, furious. Let us go.

[Exeunt philosophers.]

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A street.

Enter on one side Diogenes, with a lantern;

on the other Psyllus, Manes, Granichus.

Psy. Behold, Manes, where thy master is; seeking

either for bones for his dinner, or pins for his sleeves.

I will go salute him.

Manes. Do so; but mum, not a word that you saw Manes.

Gran. Then stay thou behind, and I will go with Psyllus.

Psy. All hail Diogenes to your proper person.

Diog. All hate to thy peevish conditions.

Gran. O dog!

Psy. What doest thou seek for here?

Diog. For a man and a beast.

Gran. That is easy without thy light to be found, be not

all these men?

Diog. Called men.

Gran. What beast is it thou lookest for?

Diog. The beast my man, Manes.

Psy. He is a beast indeed that will serve thee.

Diog. So is he that begat thee.

Gran. What wouldest thou do, if thou shouldest find

Manes?

Diog. Give him leave to do as he hath done before.

Gran. What's that?

Diog. To run away.

Psy. Why, hast thou no need of Manes?

Diog. It were a shame for Diogenes to have need of

Manes, and for Manes to have no need of Diogenes.

Gran. But put the case he were gone, wouldst thou

entertain any of us two?

Diog. Upon condition.

Psy. What?

Diog. That you should tell me wherefore any of you

both were good.

Gran. Why, I am a scholar, and well seen in

philosophy.

Psy. And I a prentice, and well seen in painting.

Diog. Well then Granichus, be thou a painter to amend

thine ill face; and thou Psyllus a philosopher to correct

thine evil manners. But who is that, Manes?

Manes. I care not who I were, so I were not Manes.

Gran. You are taken tardy.

Psy. Let us slip aside Granichus, to see the salutation

between Manes and his master.

Diog. Manes, thou knowest the last day I threw away

my dish, to drink in my hand, because it was

superfluous; now I am determined to put away my man,

and serve myself: Quia non egeo tui vel te.

Manes. Master, you know a while ago I ran away, so do

I mean to do again, quia scio tibi non esse argentum.

Diog. I know I have no money, neither will have ever a

man: for I was resolved long sithence to put away both

my slaves, money and Manes.

Manes. So was I determined to shake off both my

dogs, hunger and Diogenes.

Psy. O sweet consent between a crowd and a Jew’s

harp.

Gran. Come, let us reconcile them.

Psy. It shall not need: for this is their use, now do they

dine one upon another.

[Exit Diogenes.]

Gran. How now Manes, art thou gone from thy

master?

Manes. No, I did but now bind myself to him.

Psy. Why you were at mortal jars.

Manes. In faith no, we brake a bitter jest one upon

another.

Gran. Why thou art as dogged as he.

Psy. My father knew them both little whelps.

Manes. Well, I will hie me after my master.

Gran. Why, is it supper time with Diogenes?

Manes. Ay, with him at all time when he hath meat.

Psy. Why then, every man to his home, and let us steal

out again anon.

Gran. Where shall we meet?

Psy. Why, at Alæ vendibili suspense hedera non est

opus.

Manes. O Psyllus, habeo te loco parentis, thou

blessest me.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II, SCENE II.

Interior of the Palace,

with transfer to the Market-place at line 167.

Enter Alexander, Hephestion, and Page.

Alex. Stand aside sir boy, till you be called. Hephestion,

how do you like the sweet face of Campaspe?

Heph. I cannot but commend the stout courage of

Timoclea.

Alex. Without doubt Campaspe had some great man to

her father.

Heph. You know Timoclea had Theagines to her

brother.

Alex. Timoclea still in thy mouth! art thou not in love?

Heph. Not I.

Alex. Not with Timoclea you mean; wherein you

resemble the lapwing, who cryeth most where her nest

is not. And so you lead me from espying your love

with Campaspe, you cry Timoclea.

Heph. Could I as well subdue kingdoms, as I can my

thoughts; or were I as far from ambition, as I am from

love; all the world would account me as valiant in arms,

as I know myself moderate in affection.

Alex. Is love a vice?

Heph. It is no virtue.

Alex. Well, now shalt thou see what small difference I

make between Alexander and Hephestion. And sith

thou hast been always partaker of my triumphs, thou

shalt be partaker of my torments. I love, Hephestion, I

love! I love Campaspe, a thing far unfit for a

Macedonian, for a king, for Alexander. Why hangest

thou down thy head Hephestion? blushing to hear that

which I am not ashamed to tell.

Heph. Might my words crave pardon, and my counsel

credit, I would both discharge the duty of a subject, for

so I am, and the office of a friend, for so I will.

Alex. Speak Hephestion; for whatsoever is spoken,

Hephestion speaketh to Alexander.

Heph. I cannot tell, Alexander, whether the report be

more shameful to be heard, or the cause sorrowful to be

believed? What! is the son of Philip, king of Macedon,

become the subject of Campaspe, the captive of

Thebes? Is that mind, whose greatness the world could

not contain, drawn within the compass of an idle

alluring eye? Will you handle the spindle with Hercules,

when you should shake the spear with Achilles? Is the

warlike sound of drum and trump turned to the soft

noise of lyre and lute? the neighing of barbed steeds,

whose loudness filled the air with terror, and whose

breaths dimmed the sun with smoke, converted to

delicate tunes and amorous glances? O Alexander, that

soft and yielding mind should not be in him, whose

hard and unconquered heart hath made so many yield.

But you love,—ah grief! but whom? Campaspe? ah

shame! a maid forsooth unknown, unnoble, and who

can tell whether immodest? whose eyes are framed by

art to enamour, and whose heart was made by nature to

enchant. Ay, but she is beautiful; yea, but not therefore

chaste: ay, but she is comely in all parts of the body: but

she may be crooked in some part of the mind: ay, but

she is wise, yea, but she is a woman! Beauty is like the

blackberry, which seemeth red, when it is not ripe,

resembling precious stones that are polished with honey,

which the smoother they look, the sooner they break. It

is thought wonderful among the seamen, that mugill, of

all fishes the swiftest, is found in the belly of the bret,

of all the slowest: And shall it not seem monstrous to

wisemen, that the heart of the greatest conquerour of

the world, should be found in the hands of the weakest

creature of nature? of a woman? of a captive? Hermyns

have fair skins, but foul livers; sepulchers fresh colours,

but rotten bones; women fair faces, but false hearts.

Remember, Alexander, thou hast a camp to govern, not

a chamber; fall not from the armour of Mars to the arms

of Venus; from the fiery assaults of war, to the

maidenly skirmishes of love; from displaying the eagle

in thine ensign, to set down the sparrow. I sigh,

Alexander, that where fortune could not conquer, folly

should overcome. But behold all the perfection that

may be in Campaspe; a hair curling by nature, not art;

sweet alluring eyes; a fair face made in despite of

Venus, and a stately port in disdain of Juno; a wit apt to

conceive, and quick to answer; a skin as soft as silk,

and as smooth as jet; a long white hand, a fine little

foot; to conclude, all parts answerable to the best part −

what of this? Though she have heavenly gifts, virtue

and beauty, is she not of earthly metal, flesh and

blood? You, Alexander, that would be a god, shew

yourself in this worse than a man, so soon to be both

overseen and overtaken in a woman, whose false tears

know their true times, whose smooth words wound

deeper than sharp swords. There is no surfeit so

dangerous as that of honey, nor any poison so deadly as

that of love; in the one physic cannot prevail, nor in the

other counsel.

Alex. My case were light, Hephestion, and not worthy to

be called love, if reason were a remedy, or sentences

could salve, that sense cannot conceive. Little do you

know, and therefore slightly do you regard, the dead

embers in a private person, or live coals in a great

prince, whose passions and thoughts do as far exceed

others in extremity, as their callings do in majesty. An

eclipse in the sun is more than the falling of a star; none

can conceive the torments of a king, unless he be a

king, whose desires are not inferior to their dignities.

And then judge, Hephestion, if the agonies of love be

dangerous in a subject, whether they be not more than

deadly unto Alexander, whose deep and not to be

conceived sighs, cleave the heart in shivers; whose

wounded thoughts can neither be expressed nor

endured. Cease then, Hephestion, with arguments to

seek to refel that, which with their deity the gods cannot

resist; and let this suffice to answer thee, that it is a king

that loveth, and Alexander, whose affections are not to

be measured by reason, being immortal, nor I fear me

to be borne, being intolerable.

Heph. I must needs yield, when neither reason nor

counsel can be heard.

Alex. Yield, Hephestion, for Alexander doth love, and

therefore must obtain.

Heph. Suppose she loves not you; affection commeth

not by appointment or birth; and then as good hated as

enforced.

Alex. I am a king, and will command.

Heph. You may, to yield to lust by force; but to consent

to love by fear, you cannot.

Alex. Why, what is that which Alexander may not

conquer as he list?

Heph. Why, that which you say the gods cannot resist,

love.

Alex. I am a conquerour, she a captive; I as fortunate, as

she fair: my greatness may answer her wants, and the

gifts of my mind, the modesty of hers: is it not likely

then that she should love? Is it not reasonable?

Heph. You say that in love there is no reason, and

therefore there can be no likelihood.

Alex. No more, Hephestion: in this case I will use mine

own counsel, and in all other thine advice; thou mayst

be a good soldier, but never good lover. Call my page.

[Page advances.]

Sirrah, go presently to Apelles, and will him to come to

me without either delay or excuse.

Page. I go.

[The tub is thrust on.]

Alex. In the mean season to recreate my spirits, being

so near, we will go see Diogenes. And see where his

tub is. Diogenes!

Diog. Who calleth?

Alex. Alexander: how happened it that you would not

come out of your tub to my palace?

Diog. Because it was as far from my tub to your palace,

as from your palace to my tub.

Alex. Why then doest thou owe no reverence to kings?

Diog. No.

Alex. Why so?

Diog. Because they be no gods.

Alex. They be gods of the earth.

Diog. Yea, gods of earth.

Alex. Plato is not of thy mind.

Diog. I am glad of it.

Alex. Why?

Diog. Because I would have none of Diogenes’ mind,

but Diogenes.

Alex. If Alexander have any thing that may pleasure

Diogenes, let me know, and take it.

Diog. Then take not from me that you cannot give me,

the light of the world.

Alex. What doest thou want?

Diog. Nothing that you have.

Alex. I have the world at command.

Diog. And I in contempt.

Alex. Thou shalt live no longer than I will.

Diog. But I shall die whether you will or no.

Alex. How should one learn to be content?

Diog. Unlearn to covet.

Alex. Hephestion, were I not Alexander, I would wish

to be Diogenes.

Heph. He is dogged, but discreet; I cannot tell how

sharp, with a kind of sweetness; full of wit, yet too too

wayward.

Alex. Diogenes, when I come this way again, I will both

see thee, and confer with thee.

Diog. Do.

Re-enter Page with Apelles.

Alex. But here commeth Apelles: how now Apelles, is

Venus’ face yet finished?

Apel. Not yet: beauty is not so soon shadowed, whose

perfection commeth not within the compass either of

cunning or of colour.

Alex. Well, let it rest unperfect, and come you with

me, where I will shew you that finished by nature, that

you have been trifling about by art.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A room in Apelles’ house.

Enter Apelles, Campaspe and Psyllus.

Apel. Lady, I doubt whether there be any colour so

fresh, that may shadow a countenance so fair.

Camp. Sir, I had thought you had been commanded to

paint with your hand, not to gloss with your tongue; but

as I have heard, it is the hardest thing in painting to set

down a hard favour, which maketh you to despair of my

face; and then shall you have as great thanks to spare

your labour, as to discredit your art.

Apel. Mistress, you neither differ from yourself nor

your sex: for knowing your own perfection, you seem

to dispraise that which men most commend, drawing

them by that mean into an admiration, where feeding

themselves they fall into an ecstasy; your modesty

being the cause of the one, and of the other, your

affections.

Camp. I am too young to understand your speech,

though old enough to withstand your device: you have

been so long used to colours, you can do nothing but

colour.

Apel. Indeed the colours I see, I fear will alter the

colour I have: but come madam, will you draw near, for

Alexander will be here anon. Psyllus, stay you here at

the window, if any enquire for me, answer, Non lubet

esse domi.

[Exeunt into studio.]

ACT III, SCENE II.

The same.

Enter Psyllus.

Psy. It is always my master’s fashion, when any fair

gentlewoman is to be drawn within, to make me to stay

without. But if he should paint Jupiter like a bull, like a

swan, like an eagle, then must Psyllus with one hand

grind colours, and with the other hold the candle. But

let him alone, the better he shadows her face, the more

will he burn his own heart. And now if any man could

meet with Manes, who, I dare say, looks as lean as if

Diogenes dropped out of his nose—

Enter Manes.

Manes. And here comes Manes, who hath as much

meat in his maw, as thou hast honesty in thy head.

Psy. Then I hope thou art very hungry.

Manes. They that know thee, know that.

Psy. But dost thou not remember that we have certain

licour to confer withal.

Manes. Ay, but I have business; I must go cry a thing.

Psy. Why, what hast thou lost?

Manes. That which I never had, my dinner.

Psy. Foul lubber, wilt thou cry for thy dinner?

Manes. I mean, I must cry; not as one would say cry,

but cry, that is make a noise.

Psy. Why fool, that is all one; for if thou cry, thou

must needs make a noise.

Manes. Boy, thou art deceived. Cry hath diverse

significations, and may be alluded to many things;

knave but one, and can be applied but to thee.

Psy. Profound Manes!

Manes. We Cynics are mad fellows, didst thou not find

I did quip thee?

Psy. No verily! why, what's a quip?

Manes. We great girders call it a short saying of a

sharp wit, with a bitter sense in a sweet word.

Psy. How canst thou thus divine, divide, define,

dispute, and all on the sudden?

Manes. Wit will have his swing; I am bewitched,

inspired, inflamed, infected.

Psy. Well, then will not I tempt thy gibing spirit.

Manes. Do not Psyllus, for thy dull head will be but a

grindstone for my quick wit, which if thou whet with

overthwarts, perjisti, actum est de te. I have drawn

blood at one's brains with a bitter bob.

Psy. Let me cross myself: for I die, if I cross thee.

Manes. Let me do my business, I myself am afraid, lest

my wit should wax warm, and then must it needs

consume some hard head with fine and pretty jests. I

am sometimes in such a vain, that for want of some dull

pate to work on, I begin to gird myself.

Psy. The gods shield me from such a fine fellow, whose

words melt wits like wax.

Manes. Well then, let us to the matter. In faith, my

master meaneth tomorrow to fly.

Psy. It is a jest.

Manes. Is it a jest to fly? shouldest thou fly so, soon

thou shouldest repent it in earnest.

Psy. Well, I will be the cryer.

Manes and Psyllus one after another. O ys! O ys!

O ys! All manner of men, women, or children, that will

come tomorrow into the market place, between the

hours of nine and ten, shall see Diogenes the Cynic fly.

Psy. I do not think he will fly.

Manes. Tush, say fly.

Psy. Fly.

Manes. Now let us go: for I will not see him again till

midnight, I have a back way into his tub.

Psy. Which way callest thou the back way, when every

way is open?

Manes. I mean to come in at his back.

Psy. Well, let us go away, that we may return speedily.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III, SCENE III.

The same.

The curtains of the central structure are withdrawn,

discovering the studio within.

Enter Apelles, Campaspe.

Apel. I shall never draw your eyes well, because they

blind mine.

Camp. Why then, paint me without eyes, for I am blind.

Apel. Were you ever shadowed before of any?

Camp. No. And would you could so now shadow me,

that I might not be perceived of any.

Apel. It were pity, but that so absolute a face should

furnish Venus’ temple amongst these pictures.

Camp. What are these pictures?

Apel. This is Leda, whom Jove deceived in likeness of a

swan.

Camp. A fair woman, but a foul deceit.

Apel. This is Alcmena, unto whom Jupiter came in

shape of Amphitrion her husband, and begat Hercules.

Camp. A famous son, but an infamous fact.

Apel. He might do it, because he was a god.

Camp. Nay, therefore it was evil done, because he was

a god.

Apel. This is Danae, into whose prison Jupiter drizzled

a golden shower, and obtained his desire.

Camp. What gold can make one yield to desire?

Apel. This is Europa, whom Jupiter ravished; this

Antiopa.

Camp. Were all the gods like this Jupiter?

Apel. There were many gods in this like Jupiter.

Camp. I think in those days love was well ratified

among men on earth, when lust was so full authorized

by the gods in Heaven.

Apel. Nay, you may imagine there were women passing

amiable, when there were Gods exceeding amorous.

Camp. Were women never so fair, men would be false.

Apel. Were women never so false, men would be fond.

Camp. What counterfeit is this, Apelles?

Apel. This is Venus, the goddess of love.

Camp. What, be there also loving goddesses?

Apel. This is she that hath power to command the very

affections of the heart.

Camp. How is she hired: by prayer, by sacrifice, or

bribes?

Apel. By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes.

Camp. What prayer?

Apel. Vows irrevocable.

Camp. What sacrifice?

Apel. Hearts ever sighing, never dissembling.

Camp. What bribes?

Apel. Roses and kisses: but were you never in love?

Camp. No, nor love in me.

Apel. Then have you injuried many!

Camp. How so?

Apel. Because you have been loved of many.

Camp. Flattered perchance of some.

Apel. It is not possible that a face so fair, and a wit so

sharp, both without comparison, should not be apt to

love.

Camp. If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I

pray dip your pencil in colours; and fall to that you

must do, not that you would do.

[The curtains close.]

ACT III, SCENE IV.

The Palace.

Enter Clytus and Parmenio.

Clyt. Parmenio, I cannot tell how it commeth to pass,

that in Alexander nowadays there groweth an unpatient

kind of life: in the morning he is melancholy, at noon

solemn; at all times either more sour or severe, than he

was accustomed.

Parm. In kings’ causes I rather love to doubt than

conjecture, and think it better to be ignorant than

inquisitive: they have long ears and stretched arms, in

whose heads suspicion is a proof, and to be accused is

to be condemned.

Clyt. Yet between us there can be no danger to find out

the cause: for that there is no malice to withstand it. It

may be an unquenchable thirst of conquering maketh

him unquiet: it is not unlikely his long ease hath altered

his humour: that he should be in love, it is not

impossible.

Parm. In love, Clytus? no, no, it is as far from his

thought, as treason in ours: he, whose ever waking eye,

whose never tired heart, whose body patient of labour,

whose mind unsatiable of victory hath always been

noted, cannot so soon be melted into the weak conceits

of love. Aristotle told him there were many worlds, and

that he hath not conquered one that gapeth for all,

galleth Alexander. But here he commeth.

Enter Alexander and Hephestion.

Alex. Parmenio and Clytus, I would have you both

ready to go into Persia about an embassage no less

profitable to me, than to yourselves honourable.

Clyt. We are ready at all commands; wishing nothing

else, but continually to be commanded.

Alex. Well, then withdraw yourselves, till I have further

considered of this matter.

[Exeunt Clytus and Parmenio.]

Now we will see how Apelles goeth forward: I doubt

me that nature hath overcome art, and her countenance

his cunning.

Heph. You love, and therefore think anything.

Alex. But not so far in love with Campaspe as with

Bucephalus, if occasion serve either of conflict or of

conquest.

Heph. Occasion cannot want, if will do not. Behold all

Persia swelling in the pride of their own power; the

Scythians careless what courage or fortune can do; the

Egyptians dreaming in the soothsayings of their augurs,

and gaping over the smoke of their beasts’ entrails. All

these, Alexander, are to be subdued, if that world be not

slipped out of your head, which you have sworn to

conquer with that hand.

[During the following speech the tub is thrust on, from

which appears Diogenes, to whom enters Crysus.]

Alex. I confess the labour's fit for Alexander, and yet

recreation necessary among so many assaults, bloody

wounds, intolerable troubles: give me leave a little, if

not to sit, yet to breath. And doubt not but Alexander

can, when he will, throw affections as far from him as

he can cowardice. But behold Diogenes talking with

one at his tub.

Crys. One penny, Diogenes, I am a Cynic.

Diog. He made thee a begger, that first gave thee

anything.

Crys. Why, if thou wilt give nothing, nobody will give

thee.

Diog. I want nothing, till the springs dry, and the earth

perish.

Crys. I gather for the gods.

Diog. And I care not for those gods which want money.

Crys. Thou art not a right Cynic that will give nothing.

Diog. Thou art not, that will beg anything.

Crys. Alexander, King Alexander, give a poor Cynic a

groat.

Alex. It is not for a king to give a groat.

Crys. Then give me a talent.

Alex. It is not for a begger to ask a talent. Away!

Apelles?

[The curtains open, discovering the studio

with Apelles and Campaspe.]

Apel. Here.

Alex. Now, gentlewoman, doth not your beauty put the

painter to his trump?

Camp. Yes my lord, seeing so disordered a

countenance, he feareth he shall shadow a deformed

counterfeit.

Alex. Would he could colour the life with the feature.

And me thinketh, Apelles, were you as cunning as report

saith you are, you may paint flowers as well with sweet

smells as fresh colours, observing in your mixture such

things as should draw near to their savours.

Apel. Your majesty must know, it is no less hard to

paint savours, than virtues; colours can neither speak

nor think.

Alex. Where do you first begin, when you draw any

picture?

Apel. The proposition of the face in just compass, as I

can.

Alex. I would begin with the eye, as a light to all the

rest.

Apel. If you will paint, as you are a king, your majesty

may begin where you please; but as you would be a

painter, you must begin with the face.

Alex. Aurelius would in one hour colour four faces.

Apel. I marvel in half an hour he did not four.

Alex. Why, is it so easy?

Apel. No, but he doth it so homely.

Alex. When will you finish Campaspe?

Apel. Never finish: for always in absolute beauty there

is somewhat above art.

Alex. Why should not I by labour be as cunning as

Apelles?

Apel. God shield you should have cause to be so

cunning as Apelles!

Alex. Me thinketh four colours are sufficient to shadow

any countenance, and so it was in the time of Phydias.

Apel. Then had men fewer fancies, and women not so

many favours. For now, if the hair of her eye-brows be

black, yet must the hair of her head be yellow: the attire

of her head must be different from the habit of her

body, else would the picture seem like the blazon of

ancient armory, not like the sweet delight of new found

amiableness. For as in garden knots diversity of

odours make a more sweet savour, or as in music divers

strings cause a more delicate consent, so in painting, the

more colours, the better counterfeit, observing black for

a ground, and the rest for grace.

Alex. Lend me thy pencil Apelles, I will paint, and thou

shalt judge.

Apel. Here.

Alex. The coal breaks.

Apel. You lean too hard.

Alex. Now it blacks not.

Apel. You lean too soft.

Alex. This is awry.

Apel. Your eye goeth not with your hand.

Alex. Now it is worse.

Apel. Your hand goeth not with your mind.

Alex. Nay, if all be too hard or soft, so many rules and

regards, that one's hand, one's eye, one's mind must all

draw together, I had rather be setting of a battle than

blotting of a board. But how have I done here?

Apel. Like a king.

Alex. I think so: but nothing more unlike a painter. Well

Apelles, Campaspe is finished as I wish, dismiss her,

and bring presently her counterfeit after me.

Apel. I will.

[Alexander and Hephestion come from the studio.]

Alex. Now Hephestion, doth not this matter cotton as I

would? Campaspe looketh pleasantly, liberty will

increase her beauty, and my love shall advance her

honour.

Heph. I will not contrary your majesty, for time must

wear out that love hath wrought, and reason wean what

appetite nursed.

[Campaspe comes from the studio.]

Alex. How stately she passeth by, yet how soberly! a

sweet consent in her countenance with a chaste disdain,

desire mingled with coyness, and I cannot tell how to

term it, a curst yielding modesty!

Heph. Let her pass.

Alex. So she shall for the fairest on the earth.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III, SCENE V.

The same.

Enter Psyllus and Manes.

Psy. I shall be hanged for tarrying so long.

Manes. I pray God my master be not flown before I

come.

Psy. Away Manes! my master doth come.

[Exit Manes.

Apelles comes from the studio.]

Apel. Where have you been all this while?

Psy. Nowhere but here.

Apel. Who was here since my coming?

Psy. Nobody.

Apel. Ungracious wag, I perceive you have been a-

loitering; was Alexander nobody?

Psy. He was a king, I meant no mean body.

Apel. I will cudgel your body for it, and then will I say

it was nobody, because it was no honest body. Away

in!

[Exit Psyllus.]

Unfortunate Apelles, and therefore unfortunate because

Apelles! Hast thou by drawing her beauty brought to

pass that thou canst scarce draw thine own breath? And

by so much the more hast thou increased thy care, by

how much the more thou hast shewed thy cunning:

was it not sufficient to behold the fire and warm thee,

but with Satyrus thou must kiss the fire and burn thee?

O Campaspe, Campaspe, art must yield to nature,

reason to appetite, wisdom to affection. Could Pigmalion

entreat by prayer to have his ivory turned into flesh?

and cannot Apelles obtain by plaints to have the picture

of his love changed to life? Is painting so far inferior

to carving? or dost thou Venus more delight to be

hewed with chisels, than shadowed with colours? what

Pigmalion, or what Pyrgoteles, or what Lysippus is he,

that ever made thy face so fair, or spread thy fame so

far as I? unless Venus, in this thou enviest mine art, that

in colouring my sweet Campaspe, I have left no place

by cunning to make thee so amiable. But alas! she is the

paramour to a prince. Alexander the monarch of the

earth hath both her body and affection. For what is it

that kings cannot obtain by prayers, threats and

promises? Will not she think it better to sit under a

cloth of estate like a queen, than in a poor shop like a

huswife? and esteem it sweeter to be the concubine of

the lord of the world, than spouse to a painter in

Athens? Yes, yes, Apelles, thou mayest swim against

the stream with the crab, and feed against the wind with

the deer, and peck against the steel with the cockatrice:

stars are to be looked at, not reached at: princes to be

yielded unto, not contended with: Campaspe to be

honoured, not obtained, to be painted, not possessed of

thee. O fair face! O unhappy hand! and why didst thou

draw it so fair a face? O beautiful countenance, the

express image of Venus, but somewhat fresher: the only

pattern of that eternity, which Jupiter dreaming of

asleep, could not conceive again waking. Blush Venus,

for I am ashamed to end thee. Now must I paint things

unpossible for mine art, but agreeable with my

affections: deep and hollow sighs, sad and melancholy

thoughts, wounds and slaughters of conceits, a life

posting to death, a death galloping from life, a wavering

constancy, an unsettled resolution, and what not,

Apelles? And what but Apelles? But as they that are

shaken with a fever are to be warmed with clothes, not

groans, and as he that melteth in a consumption is to be

recured by colices, not conceits: so the feeding canker

of my care, the never dying worm of my heart, is to be

killed by counsel, not cries, by applying of remedies,

not by replying of reasons. And sith in cases desperate

there must be used medicines that are extreme, I will

hazard that little life that is left, to restore the greater

part that is lost, and this shall be my first practise: for

wit must work, where authority is not. As soon as

Alexander hath viewed this portraiture, I will by devise

give it a blemish, that by that means she may come

again to my shop; and then as good it were to utter my

love, and die with denial, as conceal it, and live in

despair.

Song by Apelles.

Cupid and my Campaspe played

At cards for kisses, Cupid paid;

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,

His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;

Loses them too; then, down he throws

The corral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),

With these, the crystal of his brow,

And then the dimple of his chin:

All these did my Campaspe win.

At last, he set her both his eyes;

She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O love! has she done this to thee?

What shall (Alas!) become of me?

Exit.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The Market-place, with Diogenes’ tub.

Enter Solinus, Psyllus, and Granichus.

Sol. This is the place, the day, the time, that Diogenes

hath appointed to fly.

Psy. I will not lose the flight of so fair a foul as

Diogenes is, though my master cudgel my no-body, as

he threatened.

Gran. What Psyllus, will the beast wag his wings today?

Psy. We shall hear: for here commeth Manes: Manes

will it be?

Enter Manes.

Manes. Be! he were best be as cunning as a bee, or

else shortly he will not be at all.

Gran. How is he furnished to fly, hath he feathers?

Manes. Thou art an ass! capons, geese, and owls have

feathers. He hath found Dedalus’ old waxen wings, and

hath been piecing them this month, he is so broad in

the shoulders. O you shall see him cut the air even

like a tortoise.

Sol. Me thinks so wise a man should not be so mad, his

body must needs be too heavy.

Manes. Why, he hath eaten nothing this sevennight but

cork and feathers.

Psy. [Aside] Touch him, Manes.

Manes. He is so light, that he can scarce keep him from

flying at midnight.

Populus intrat.

Manes. See, they begin to flock, and behold my master

bustles himself to fly.

[Diogenes comes out of his tub.]

Diog. You wicked and bewitched Athenians, whose

bodies make the earth to groan, and whose breaths

infect the air with stench. Come ye to see Diogenes

flie? Diogenes commeth to see you sink: ye call me

dog: so I am, for I long to gnaw the bones in your skins.

Ye term me a hater of men: no, I am a hater of your

manners. Your lives dissolute, not fearing death, will

prove your deaths desperate, not hoping for life: what

do you else in Athens but sleep in the day, and surfeit in

the night: back gods in the morning with pride, in the

evening belly gods with gluttony! You flatter kings,

and call them gods, speak truth of yourselves, and

confess you are devils! From the bee you have taken

not the honey, but the wax, to make your religion,

framing it to the time, not to the truth. Your filthy lust

you colour under a courtly colour of love, injuries

abroad under the title of policies at home, and secret

malice creepeth under the name of public justice. You

have caused Alexander to dry up springs and plant

vines, to sow rocket and weed endiff, to shear sheep,

and shrine foxes. All conscience is seeled at Athens.

Swearing commeth of a hot mettle: lying of a quick wit:

flattery of a flowing tongue: undecent talk of a merry

disposition. All things are lawful at Athens. Either you

think there are no gods, or I must think ye are no men.

You build as though you should live forever, and

surfeit as though you should die tomorrow. None

teacheth true philosophy but Aristotle, because he was

the king’s schoolmaster! O times! O men! O corruption

in manners! Remember that green grass must turn to

dry hay. When you sleep, you are not sure to wake; and

when you rise, not certain to lie down. Look you never

so high, your heads must lie level with your feet. Thus

have I flown over your disordered lives, and if you will

not amend your manners, I will study to fly further

from you, that I may be nearer to honesty.

Sol. Thou ravest, Diogenes, for thy life is different from

thy words. Did not I see thee come out of a brothel

house? was it not a shame?

Diog. It was no shame to go out, but a shame to go in.

Gran. It were a good deed, Manes, to beat thy master.

Manes. You were as good eat my master.

One of the people. Hast thou made us all fools, and wilt

thou not fly?

Diog. I tell thee, unless thou be honest, I will fly.

People. Dog! dog! take a bone!

Diog. Thy father need fear no dogs, but dogs thy father.

People. We will tell Alexander, that thou reprovest him

behind his back.

Diog. And I will tell him, that you flatter him before his

face.

People. We will cause all the boys in the street to hiss

at thee.

Diog. Indeed I think the Athenians have their children

ready for any vice, because they be Athenians.

Manes. Why master, mean you not to fly?

Diog. No, Manes, not without wings.

Manes. Everybody will account you a liar.

Diog. No, I warrant you; for I will always say the

Athenians are mischievous.

Psy. I care not, it was sport enough for me to see these

old huddles hit home.

Gran. Nor I.

Psy. Come, let us go! and hereafter when I mean to rail

upon any body openly, it shall be given out, I will fly.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV, SCENE II.

A room in Apelles’ house, as before.

Enter Campaspe.

Campaspe sola. Campaspe, it is hard to judge whether

thy choice be more unwise, or thy chance unfortunate.

Dost thou prefer − but stay, utter not that in words,

which maketh thine ears to glow with thoughts. Tush!

better thy tongue wag, than thy heart break! Hath a

painter crept further into thy mind than a prince?

Apelles, than Alexander? Fond wench! the baseness of

thy mind bewrays the meanness of thy birth. But alas!

affection is a fire, which kindleth as well in the bramble

as in the oak; and catcheth hold where it first lighteth,

not where it may best burn. Larks that mount aloft in

the air, build their nests below in the earth; and women

that cast their eyes upon kings, may place their hearts

upon vassals. A needle will become thy fingers better

than a lute, and a distaff is fitter for thy hand than a

scepter. Ants live safely, till they have gotten wings,

and juniper is not blown up till it hath gotten an high

top. The mean estate is without care as long as it

continueth without pride. But here commeth Apelles, in

whom I would there were the like affection.

Enter Apelles.

Apel. Gentlewoman, the misfortune I had with your

picture, will put you to some pains to sit again to be

painted.

Camp. It is small pains for me to sit still, but infinite for

you to draw still.

Apel. No madam! to paint Venus was a pleasure, but to

shadow the sweet face of Campaspe it is a heaven!

Camp. If your tongue were made of the same flesh that

your heart is, your words would be as your thoughts

are: but such a common thing it is amongst you to

commend, that oftentimes for fashion sake you call

them beautiful, whom you know black.

Apel. What might men do to be believed?

Camp. Whet their tongue on their hearts.

Apel. So they do, and speak as they think.

Camp. I would they did!

Apel. I would they did not!

Camp. Why, would you have them dissemble?

Apel. Not in love, but their love. But will you give me

leave to ask you a question without offence?

Camp. So that you will answer me another without

excuse.

Apel. Whom do you love best in the world?

Camp. He that made me last in the world.

Apel. That was a god.

Camp. I had thought it had been a man: But whom do

you honour most, Apelles?

Apel. The thing that is likest you, Campaspe.

Camp. My picture?

Apel. I dare not venture upon your person. But come,

let us go in: for Alexander will think it long till we

return.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV, SCENE III.

A room in the Palace

Enter Clytus and Parmenio.

Clyt. We hear nothing of our embassage, a colour

belike to blear our eyes, or tickle our ears, or inflame

our hearts. But what doth Alexander in the mean

season, but use for tantara, sol, fa, la, for his hard

couch, down beds, for his handful of water, his standing

cup of wine?

Parm. Clytus, I mislike this new delicacy and pleasing

peace: for what else do we see now than a kind of

softness in every mans mind; bees to make their hives

in soldiers’ helmets; our steeds furnished with

footcloths of gold, instead of saddles of steel: more

time to be required to scour the rust of our weapons,

than there was wont to be in subduing the countries of

our enemies. Sithence Alexander fell from his hard

armour to his soft robes, behold the face of his court:

youths that were wont to carry devises of victory in

their shields, engrave now posies of love in their rings:

they that were accustomed on trotting horses to charge

the enemy with a lance, now in easy coaches ride up

and down to court ladies; instead of sword and target to

hazard their lives, use pen and paper to paint their

loves. Yea, such a fear and faintness is grown in court,

that they wish rather to hear the blowing of a horn to

hunt, than the sound of a trumpet to fight. O Philip,

wert thou alive to see this alteration, thy men turned to

women, thy soldiers to lovers, gloves worn in velvet

caps, instead of plumes in graven helmets, thou

wouldest either die among them for sorrow, or

confound them for anger.

Clyt. Cease, Parmenio, lest in speaking what becommeth

thee not, thou feel what liketh thee not: truth is never

without a scratched face, whose tongue although it

cannot be cut out, yet must it be tied up.

Parm. It grieveth me not a little for Hephestion, who

thirsteth for honour, not ease; but such is his fortune and

nearness in friendship to Alexander, that he must lay a

pillow under his head, when he would put a target in his

hand. But let us draw in, to see how well it becomes

them to tread the measures in a dance, that were wont

to set the order for a march.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV, SCENE IV.

Apelles’ studio.

Apelles and Campaspe are discovered.

Apel. I have now, Campaspe, almost made an end.

Camp. You told me, Apelles, you would never end.

Apel. Never end my love: for it shall be eternal.

Camp. That is, neither to have beginning nor ending.

Apel. You are disposed to mistake, I hope you do not

mistrust.

Camp. What will you say if Alexander perceive your

love?

Apel. I will say it is no treason to love.

Camp. But how if he will not suffer thee to see my

person?

Apel. Then will I gaze continually on thy picture.

Camp. That will not feed thy heart.

Apel. Yet shall it fill mine eye: besides the sweet

thoughts, the sure hopes, thy protested faith, will cause

me to embrace thy shadow continually in mine arms, of

the which by strong imagination I will make a

substance.

Camp. Well, I must be gone: but this assure yourself,

that I had rather be in thy shop grinding colours, than in

Alexander's court, following higher fortunes.

[Exit Apelles.]

Campaspe [alone]. Foolish wench, what hast thou

done? that, alas! which cannot be undone, and therefore

I fear me undone. But content is such a life, I care not

for abundance. O Apelles, thy love commeth from the

heart, but Alexander's from the mouth. The love of

kings is like the blowing of winds, which whistle

sometimes gently among the leaves, and straight ways

turn the trees up by the roots; or fire which warmeth

afar off, and burneth near hand; or the sea, which

maketh men hoise their sails in a flattering calm, and to

cut their masts in a rough storm. They place affection

by times, by policy, by appointment; if they frown, who

dares call them unconstant? if bewray secrets, who will

term them untrue? if fall to other loves, who trembles

not, if he call them unfaithful? In kings there can be no

love, but to queens: for as near must they meet in

majesty, as they do in affection. It is requisite to stand

aloof from kings’ love, Jove, and lightning.

[Exit.]

ACT IV, SCENE V.

The same.

Enter Apelles from the studio.

Apel. Now Apelles, gather thy wits together: Campaspe

is no less wise then fair, thyself must be no less

cunning then faithful. It is no small matter to be rival

with Alexander.

Enter Page.

Page. Apelles, you must come away quickly with the

picture; the king thinketh that now you have painted it,

you play with it.

Apel. If I would play with pictures, I have enough at

home.

Page. None perhaps you like so well.

Apel. It may be I have painted none so well.

Page. I have known many fairer faces.

Apel. And I many better boys.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Market-place, with Diogenes’ tub.

Enter Sylvius, Perim, Milo, Trico,

and Manes to Diogenes,

Syl. I have brought my sons, Diogenes, to be taught of

thee.

Diog. What can thy sons do?

Syl. You shall see their qualities: Dance, sirrah!

[Then Perim danceth.]

How like you this: doth he well?

Diog. The better, the worser.

Syl. The music very good.

Diog. The musicians very bad; who only study to have

their strings in tune, never framing their manners to

order.

Syl. Now shall you see the other. Tumble, sirrah!

[Milo tumbleth.]

How like you this? why do you laugh?

Diog. To see a wag that was born to break his neck by

destiny, to practise it by art.

Milo. This dog will bite me, I will not be with him.

Diog. Fear not, boy, dogs eat no thistles.

Perim. I marvel what dog thou art, if thou be a dog.

Diog. When I am hungry, a mastiff; and when my belly

is full, a spaniel.

Syl. Dost thou believe that there are any gods, that thou

art so dogged?

Diog. I must needs believe there are gods: for I think

thee an enemy to them.

Syl. Why so?

Diog. Because thou hast taught one of thy sons to rule

his legs, and not to follow learning; the other to bend

his body every way, and his mind no way.

Perim. Thou doest nothing but snarl, and bark like a

dog.

Diog. It is the next way to drive away a thief.

Syl. Now shall you hear the third, who sings like a

nightingale.

Diog. I care not: for I have a nightingale to sing herself.

Syl. Sing, sirrah!

[Trico singeth.]

Song.

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?

O t'is the ravished nightingale.

Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu, she cries,

And still her woes at midnight rise.

Brave prick song! who is't now we hear?

None but the lark so shrill and clear;

How at Heaven’s gates she claps her wings,

The morn not waking till she sings.

Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat

Poor robin red-breast tunes his note;

Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing

Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring;

Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring.

Syl. Lo, Diogenes! I am sure thou canst not do so

much.

Diog. But there is never a thrush but can.

Syl. What hast thou taught Manes thy man?

Diog. To be as unlike as may be thy sons.

Manes. He hath taught me to fast, lie hard, and run

away.

Syl. How sayest thou Perim, wilt thou be with him?

Perim. Ay, so he will teach me first to run away.

Diog. Thou needest not be taught, thy legs are so

nimble.

Syl. How sayest thou Milo, wilt thou be with him?

Diog. Nay, hold your peace, he shall not.

Syl. Why?

Diog. There is not room enough for him and me to

tumble both in one tub.

Syl. Well, Diogenes, I perceive my sons brook not thy

manners.

Diog. I thought no less, when they knew my virtues.

Syl. Farewell Diogenes, thou neededst not have scraped

roots, if thou wouldest have followed Alexander.

Diog. Nor thou have followed Alexander, if thou hadst

scraped roots.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V, SCENE II.

The same.

Enter Apelles.

Apel. [alone] I fear me, Apelles, that thine eyes have

blabbed that, which thy tongue durst not. What little

regard hadst thou! whilst Alexander viewed the

counterfeit of Campaspe, thou stoodest gazing on her

countenance. If he espy or but suspect, thou must needs

twice perish, with his hate, and thine own love. Thy

pale looks when he blushed, thy sad countenance

when he smiled, thy sighs when he questioned, may

breed in him a jealousy, perchance a frenzy. O love! I

never before knew what thou wert, and now hast thou

made me that I know not what myself am? only this I

know, that I must endure intolerable passions, for

unknown pleasures. Dispute not the cause, wretch, but

yield to it: for better it is to melt with desire, than

wrestle with love. Cast thyself on thy careful bed, be

content to live unknown, and die unfound. O

Campaspe, I have painted thee in my heart: painted?

nay, contrary to mine art, imprinted; and that in such

deep characters, that nothing can rase it out, unless it

rub my heart out.

[Exit.]

ACT V, SCENE III.

The same.

Enter Milectus, Phrygius, Lais,

to Diogenes in his tub.

Mil. It shall go hard, but this peace shall bring us some

pleasure.

Phry. Down with arms, and up with legs, this is a world

for the nonce.

Lais. Sweet youths, if you knew what it were to save

your sweet blood, you would not so foolishly go about

to spend it. What delight can there be in gashing, to

make foul scars in fair faces, and crooked maims in

straight legs? as though men being born goodly by

nature, would of purpose become deformed by folly;

and all forsooth for a new found term, called valiant, a

word which breedeth more quarrels than the sense can

commendation.

Mil. It is true, Lais, a featherbed hath no fellow,

good drink makes good blood, and shall pelting words

spill it?

Phry. I mean to enjoy the world, and to draw out my

life at the wiredrawer's, not to curtall it off at the

cutler's.

Lais. You may talk of war, speak big, conquer worlds

with great words: but stay at home, where instead of

alarums you shall have dances, for hot battles with

fierce men, gentle skirmishes with fair women. These

pewter coats can never sit so well as satin doublets.

Believe me, you cannot conceive the pleasure of peace,

unless you despise the rudeness of war.

Mil. It is so. But see Diogenes prying over his tub:

Diogenes, what sayest thou to such a morsel?

Diog. I say, I would spit it out of my mouth, because it

should not poison my stomach.

Phry. Thou speakest as thou art, it is no meat for dogs.

Diog. I am a dog, and philosophy rates me from

carrion.

Lais. Uncivil wretch, whose manners are answerable to

thy calling, the time was thou wouldest have had my

company, had it not been, as thou saidst, too dear.

Diog. I remember there was a thing that I repented me

of, and now thou hast told it; indeed it was too dear of

nothing, and thou dear to nobody.

Lais. Down, villain! or I will have thy head broken.

Mil. Will you couch?

Phry. Avant, cur! Come, sweet Lais, let us go to some

place, and possess peace. But first let us sing, there is

more pleasure in tuning of a voice, than in a volley of

shot.

[Song.]

Mil. Now let us make haste, lest Alexander find us here.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V, SCENE IV.

The same.

Enter Alexander, Hephestion, and Page.

Alex. Me thinketh, Hephestion, you are more

melancholy than you were accustomed; but I perceive it

is all for Alexander. You can neither brook this peace,

nor my pleasure; be of good cheer, though I wink, I

sleep not.

Heph. Melancholy I am not, nor well content: for I

know not how, there is such a rust crept into my bones

with this long ease, that I fear I shall not scour it out

with infinite labours.

Alex. Yes, yes, if all the travails of conquering the

world will set either thy body or mine in tune, we will

undertake them. But what think you of Apelles? Did ye

ever see any so perplexed? He neither answered directly

to any question, nor looked steadfastly upon anything.

I hold my life the painter is in love.

Heph. It may be: for commonly we see it incident in

artificers to be enamoured of their own works, as

Archidamus of his wooden dove, Pygmalion of his

ivory image, Arachne of his wooden swan; especially

painters, who playing with their own conceits, now

coveting to draw a glancing eye, then a-rolling, now a-

winking, still mending it, never ending it, till they be

caught with it; and then poor souls they kiss the

colours with their lips, with which before they were loth

to taint their fingers.

Alex. I will find it out. Page, go speedily for Apelles,

will him to come hither, and when you see us earnestly

in talk, suddenly cry out, “Apelles’ shop is on fire!”

Page. It shall be done.

Alex. Forget not your lesson.

[Exit Page.]

Heph. I marvel what your device shall be.

Alex. The event shall prove.

Heph. I pity the poor painter, if he be in love.

Alex. Pity him not, I pray thee; that severe gravity set

aside, what do you think of love?

Heph. As the Macedonians do of their herb beet,

which looking yellow in the ground, and black in the

hand, think it better seen than touched.

Alex. But what do you imagine it to be?

Heph. A word by superstition thought a god, by use

turned to an humour, by self-will made a flattering

madness.

Alex. You are too hard hearted to think so of love. Let

us go to Diogenes. Diogenes, thou may'st think it

somewhat that Alexander commeth to thee again so

soon.

Diog. If you come to learn, you could not come soon

enough; if to laugh, you be come too soon.

Heph. It would better become thee to be more

courteous, and frame thyself to please.

Diog. And you better to be less, if you durst displease.

Alex. What dost thou think of the time we have here?

Diog. That we have little, and lose much.

Alex. If one be sick, what wouldst thou have him do?

Diog. Be sure that he make not his physician his heir.

Alex. If thou mightest have thy will, how much ground

would content thee?

Diog. As much as you in the end must be contented

withal.

Alex. What, a world?

Diog. No, the length of my body.

Alex. Hephestion, shall I be a little pleasant with him?

Heph. You may: but he will be very perverse with you.

Alex. It skilleth not, I cannot be angry with him.

Diogenes, I pray thee, what dost thou think of love?

Diog. A little worser than I can of hate.

Alex. And why?

Diog. Because it is better to hate the things which make

to love, than to love the things which give occasion of

hate.

Alex. Why, be not women the best creatures in the

world ?

Diog. Next men and bees.

Alex. What dost thou dislike chiefly in a woman?

Diog. One thing.

Alex. What?

Diog. That she is a woman.

Alex. In mine opinion thou wert never born of a woman,

that thou thinkest so hardly of women; but now

commeth Apelles, who I am sure is as far from thy

thoughts, as thou art from his cunning. Diogenes, I will

have thy cabin removed nearer to my court, because I

will be a philosopher.

Diog. And when you have done so, I pray you remove

your court further from my cabin, because I will not be

a courtier.

Enter Apelles.

Alex. But here commeth Apelles. Apelles, what piece of

work have you now in hand?

Apel. None in hand, if it like your majesty: but I am

devising a platform in my head.

Alex. I think your hand put it in your head. Is it nothing

about Venus?

Apel. No, but something above Venus.

Page. Apelles, Apelles, look about you, your shop is on

fire!

Apel. Aye me! if the picture of Campaspe be burnt, I

am undone!

Alex. Stay Apelles, no haste; it is your heart is on fire,

not your shop; and if Campaspe hang there, I would she

were burnt. But have you the picture of Campaspe?

Belike you love her well, that you care not though all be

lost, so she be safe.

Apel. Not love her: but your majesty knows that

painters in their last works are said to excel themselves,

and in this I have so much pleased myself, that the

shadow as much delighteth me being an artificer, as

the substance doth others that are amorous.

Alex. You lay your colours grossly; though I could not

paint in your shop, I can spy into your excuse. Be not

ashamed Apelles, it is a gentleman's sport to be in love.

[To Attendants.] Call hither Campaspe. Methinks I

might have been made privy to your affection; though

my counsel had not been necessary, yet my countenance

might have been thought requisite. But Apelles,

forsooth, loveth under hand, yea and under Alexander’s

nose, and − but I say no more.

Apel. Apelles loveth not so: but he liveth to do as

Alexander will.

Enter Campaspe.

Alex. Campaspe, here is news. Apelles is in love with

you.

Camp. It pleaseth your majesty to say so.

Alex. [Aside to Hephestion] Hephestion, I will try her

too. − Campaspe, for the good qualities I know in

Apelles, and the virtue I see in you, I am determined you

shall enjoy one another. How say you Campaspe, would

you say “Ay”?

Camp. Your handmaid must obey, if you command.

Alex. [Aside to Hephestion] Think you not Hephestion,

that she would fain be commanded?

Heph. I am no thought-catcher, but I guess unhappily.

Alex. [To Campaspe] I will not enforce marriage,

where I cannot compel love.

Camp. But your majesty may move a question, where

you be willing to have a match.

Alex. Believe me, Hephestion, these parties are agreed,

they would have me both priest and witness. Apelles,

take Campaspe; why move ye not? Campaspe, take

Apelles; will it not be? If you be ashamed one of the

other, by my consent you shall never come together.

But dissemble not, Campaspe, do you love Apelles?

Camp. Pardon my lord, I love Apelles!

Alex. Apelles, it were a shame for you, being loved so

openly of so fair a virgin, to say the contrary. Do you

love Campaspe?

Apel. Only Campaspe!

Alex. Two loving worms, Hephestion! I perceive

Alexander cannot subdue the affections of men, though

he conquer their countries. Love falleth like a dew as

well upon the low grass, as upon the high cedar. Sparks

have their heat, ants their gall, flies their spleen. Well,

enjoy one another, I give her thee frankly, Apelles.

Thou shalt see that Alexander maketh but a toy of love,

and leadeth affection in fetters; using fancy as a fool to

make him sport, or a minstrel to make him merry. It is

not the amorous glance of an eye can settle an idle

thought in the heart; no, no, it is children’s game, a life

for seamsters and scholars; the one pricking in clouts

have nothing else to think on, the other picking fancies

out of books, have little else to marvel at. Go, Apelles,

take with you your Campaspe, Alexander is cloyed with

looking on that which thou wond'rest at.

Apel. Thanks to your majesty on bended knee, you have

honoured Apelles.

Camp. Thanks with bowed heart, you have blessed

Campaspe.

[Exit Apelles and Campaspe.]

Alex. Page, go warn Clytus and Parmenio and the other

lords to be in a readiness, let the trumpet sound, strike

up the drum, and I will presently into Persia. How now,

Hephestion, is Alexander able to resist love as he list?

Heph. The conquering of Thebes was not so honourable

as the subduing of these thoughts.

Alex. It were a shame Alexander should desire to

command the world, if he could not command himself.

But come, let us go, I will try whether I can better bear

my hand with my heart, than I could with mine eye.

And good Hephestion, when all the world is won, and

every country is thine and mine, either find me out

another to subdue, or on my word I will fall in love.

[Exeunt.]

THE EPILOGUE AT THE BLACKE FRYERS.

WHERE the rainbow toucheth the tree, no caterpillars

will hang on the leaves: where the glow-worm creepeth

in the night, no adder will go in the day. We hope in the

ears where our travails be lodged, no carping shall

harbour in those tongues. Our exercises must be as your

judgment is, resembling water, which is always of the

same colour into what it runneth.

In the Trojan horse lay couched soldiers, with

children; and in heaps of many words we fear diverse

unfit, among some allowable. But as Demosthenes with

often breathing up the hill amended his stammering; so

we hope with sundry labours against the hair, to correct

our studies. If the tree be blasted that blossoms, the fault

is in the wind, and not in the root; and if our pastimes

be misliked, that have been allowed, you must impute

it to the malice of others, and not our endeavour. And

so we rest in good case, if you rest well content.

THE EPILOGUE AT THE COURT.

WE cannot tell whether we are fallen among Diomedes’

birds or his horses; the one received some men with

sweet notes, the other bit all men with sharp teeth. But

as Homer's gods conveyed them into clouds, whom they

would have kept from curses, and as Venus, lest Adonis

should be pricked with the stings of adders, covered his

face with the wings of swans; so we hope, being

shielded with your Highness’ countenance, we shall,

though we hear the neighing, yet not feel the kicking of

those jades, and receive, though no praise (which we

cannot deserve) yet a pardon, which in all humility we

desire. As yet we cannot tell what we should term our

labours, iron or bullion; only it belongeth to your

Majesty to make them fit either for the forge, or the

mint; current by the stamp, or counterfeit by the anvil.

For as nothing is to be called white, unless it had been

named white by the first creator, so can there be nothing

thought good in the opinion of others, unless it be

christened good by the judgment of yourself. For

ourselves again, we are like these torches of wax, of

which being in your Highness’ hands, you may make

doves or vultures, roses or nettles, laurel for a garland,

or elder for a disgrace.

FINIS