A Collection Of Old English Plays, Vol. IV. | Page 3

to harbour in; They all are bent with vertuous gainefull
trade, To get their needmentes for this mortall life, And will not soile
their well-addicted harts With rape, extortion, murther, or the death Of
friend or foe, to gaine an Empery. I cannot glut my blood-delighted eye
With mangled bodies which do gaspe and grone, Readie to passe to
faire Elizium, Nor bath my greedie handes in reeking blood Of fathers
by their children murthered: When all men else do weepe, lament and
waile, The sad exploites of fearefull tragedies, It glads me so, that it
delightes my heart, To ad new tormentes to their bleeding smartes.
Enter Avarice.
But here comes Avarice, as if he sought, Some busie worke for his
pernicious thought: Whether so fast, all-griping _Avarice_?
Ava. Why, what carst thou? I seeke for one I misse.
Ho. I may supplie the man you wish to have.
Ava. Thou seemes to be a bold audatious knave; I doe not like intruding
companie, That seeke to undermine my secrecie.
Ho. Mistrust me not; I am thy faithfull friend.
Ava. Many say so, that prove false in the end.
Ho. But turne about and thou wilt know my face.
Ava. It may be so, and know thy want of grace. What! _Homicide_?
thou art the man I seeke: I reconcile me thus upon thy cheeke. [_Kisse,
imbrace_. Hadst thou nam'd blood and damn'd iniquitie, I had forborne
to bight so bitterlie.
Hom. Knowst thou a hart wide open to receive, A plot of horred
desolation? Tell me of this, thou art my cheefest good, And I will
quaffe thy health in bowles of blood.
Ava. I know two men, that seem two innocents, Whose lookes, surveied

with iuditiall eyes, Would seeme to beare the markes of honestie; But
snakes finde harbour mongst the fairest flowers, Then never credit
outward semblaunces.
_Enter[4] Trueth_.
I know their harts relentlesse, mercilesse, And will performe through
hope of benefit: More dreadfull things then can be thought upon.
Hom. If gaine will draw, I prethy then allure Their hungrie harts with
hope of recompence, But tye dispaire unto those mooving hopes,
Unleast a deed of murther farther it, Then blood on blood, shall
overtake them all, And we will make a bloodie feastivall.
Cove. The plots are laide, the keyes of golden coine, Hath op'd the
secret closets of their harts. Inter [_sic_], insult, make captive at thy
will, Themselves, and friends, with deedes of damned ill: Yonder is
Truth, she commeth to bewaile, The times and parties that we worke
upon.
Hom. Why, let her weepe, lament and morne for me, We are right bred
of damn'd iniquitie, And will go make a two-folde Tragedie. [Exeunt.
Truth. Goe you disturbers of a quiet soule, Sad, greedy, gaping, hungrie
Canibals, That ioy to practise others miseries. Gentles, prepare your
teare-bedecked eyes, To see two shewes of lamentation, Besprinckled
every where with guiltlesse blood, Of harmlesse youth, and pretie
innocents. Our Stage doth weare habilliments of woe, Truth rues to tell
the truth of these laments: The one was done in famous London late,
Within that streete whose side the River Thames Doth strive to wash
from all impuritie: But yet that silver stream can never wash, The sad
remembrance of that cursed deede, Perform'd by cruell Merry on iust
Beech, And his true boye poore Thomas Winchester. The most here
present, know this to be true: Would Truth were false, so this were but
a tale! The other further off, but yet too neere, To those that felt and did
the crueltie: Neere Padua this wicked deed was done, By a false Uncle,
on his brothers sonne, Left to his carefull education By dying Parents,
with as strict a charge As ever yet death-breathing brother gave. Looke

for no mirth, unlesse you take delight, In mangled bodies, and in
gaping wounds, Bloodily made by mercy-wanting hands. Truth will not
faine, but yet doth grieve to showe, This deed of ruthe and miserable
woe.
[Exit.

[ACT THE FIRST.]
[SCENE I.]
Enter Merry.
I live in meane and discontented state, But wherefore should I think of
discontent? I am belov'd, I have a pretty house, A loving sister, and a
carefull man, That doe not thinke their dayes worke well at end, Except
it bring me in some benefit: And well frequented is my little house
With many guestes and honest passengers,
Enter Beech and a friend.
Which may in time advance my humble state To greater wealth and
reputation. And here comes friends to drinke some beare or ale; [Sit in
his Shop. They are my neighbours, they shall have the best.
Ne. Come neighbour Beech, lets have our mornings draught And wele
go drinke it at yong Merries house: They say he hath the best