A Yorkshire Tragedy.

Husf. Out on thee filth, ouer and ouerioyed,
When I me in torment. Spurns her.
Thou politicke whore, subtiller then nine Diuels,
was this thy iourny to Nuncke, to fet downe the hi-
story of me, my state and fortunes :
Shall I, that dedicated my selfe to pleafure, bee now
confinde in ſeruice to crouch and ſtand like an olde
man i'th hams, my hat off, I that could neuer abide to
vncouer my head i'th Church, bafe flut, this fruite
beares thy complaints.

Wife. Oh, heaven knowes,
That my complaints were praifes, and beſt words
Of you, and your eſtate; onely my friends
Knew of your morgagde Lands, and were poffeſt
Of euery accident before I came:
If you ſuspect it but a plot in me,
To keepe my dowry, or for mine owne good,
Or my poore childrens (though it ſutes a mother
To ſhew a naturall care in their releeſes)
Yet Ile forget my ſelfe to calme your blood,
Confume it, as your pleafure counſels you,
And all I wifh, eene Clemency affoords,
Giue me but pleafant lookes and modeſt words.

Husf. Money whore, money, or Ile
Drawes his dagger. Enter a ſeruant, haſtily.
What the diuell ? how now ? thy haſty newes.

Ser. May it please you fir.

Husf. What ? may I not looke upon my dagger ?
Speake villaine, or I will execute the point on thee,
A quicke, ſhort.

B 3

Ser.

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

Ser. Why fir, a gentleman from the Vniuerfity staies
below to speake with you.

Hus. From the Vniuerfity? so, Vniuerfity,
That long word runs through me.

Exit.

Wife. Was euer Wife so wretchedly beſet?
Had not this newes ſtept in betweene, the point
Had offered violence vnto my breſt.
That which some women call great miſery,
Would ſhow but little here: would ſcarſe be ſeene
Among my miſeries: I may compare
For wretched fortunes, with all Wives that are,
Nothing will please him, vntill all be nothing.

He calles it ſlauery to be preferd,
A place of credite, a base ſeruitude.
What ſhall become of me, and my poore children?
Two here, and one at nurſe, my pretty beggers,
I ſee how ruine with a palfre hand
Begins to ſhake the ancient ſeat to duſt:
The heauy weight of ſorrow, drawes my lids
Ouer my dankiſh eyes: I can ſcarſe ſee;
Thus greeſe will laſt, it wakes and ſleepes with me.

Enter the Husband with the Master of the Colledge.

Hus. Pleaſe you draw neere fir, y'are exceeding welcome.

Mai. That's my doubt, I feare I come not to be welcome.

Hus. Yes, how ſoever.

Mai. Tis not my fashion fir to dwell in long circumftance, but to be plaine and effectuall; therefore to the purpose.

The

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

The cause of my setting foorth, was pittious & la-
mentable; that hopefull young gentleman your bro-
ther, whose vertues we all loue deere ly, through your
default and vn natural negligence, lies in bond execu-
ted for your debt, a prisoner, all his studies amazed,
his hope strook dead, and the pride of his youth muf-
fed in these darke clouds of oppreſſion.

Huf. Hum, hum, hum.

Maift. Oh you haue kild the towardeft hope of all
our Vniverſity, wherefore without repentance and a-
mends, expect panduous and ſuddaine iudgments to
fall grieuouſly vpon you; your brother, a man who
profited in his diuine imployments, and might haue
made ten thouſand ſoules fit for heauen, now by your
careleſſe courſes caſt in prifon, which you muſt an-
fwere for, and aſſure your ſpirit it will come home at
length.

Huf. Oh God, oh.

Ma. Wife men thinke ill of you, others ſpeake ill of
you, no man loues you, nay, euen those whom hone-
ſty condemnes, condemne you: and take this from
the vertuous affection I beare your brother, neuer
looke for proſperous houre, good thought, quiet,
ſleepes, contented walkes, nor any thing that makes
man perfect, til you redeeme him: What is your an-
fwer, how will you beſtow him? vpon desperate miſe-
ry, or better hopes? I ſuffer till I beare your anſwere.

Huf. Sir, you haue much wrought with me, I feele
you in my ſoule, you are your artes mafter.
I neuer had ſence til now; your ſillables haue cleft me
Both for your words and pains I thanke you: I cannot
buz

buz

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

but acknowledge greeuous wrongs done to my brother, mighty, mighty, mighty wrongs.
Within there.

Enter a servingman.

Huf. Fill me a bowle of wine. Alas poore brother, Bruised with an execution for my fake.

Ma. A bruife indeed makes many a mortall sore,
Till the graue cure them. Enter with wine.

Hus. Sir, I begin to you, y'aue chid your welcome:
Mr. I could haue wisht it better for your fake,
I pledge you fir, to the kinde man in prifon.

Hus. Let it be so.

Now Sir, if you so pleafe to spend but a few minutes
in walking about my grounds below, my man shall
heere attend you : I doubt not but by that time to be
furnisht of a sufficient anſwere, and therein my Bro-
ther fully ſatisfied.

Mr. Good fir, in that the Angels would be pleafed,
and the worlds murmures calmd, and I ſhould ſay I
fet foorth then vpon a lucky day. Exit.

Hus. Oh thou confused man, thy pleafant fins haue
vndone thee, thy damnation has beggerd thee, that
heauen ſhould ſay we muſt not fin, and yet made wo-
men: giues our ſences way to finde pleafure, which
being found, confounds vs, why I should wee know
thofe things ſo much miſufe vs? Oh would vertue
had beene forbidden, wee ſhould then haue prooued
all vertuous, for tis our blood to loue what wee are
forbidden; had not drunkennesſe beene forbidden,
what man would haue beene foole to a beaſt, and za-
ny

ny

# A Yorkshire Tragedy.

ny to a twine, to shew tricks in the mire, what is there
in three Dice, to make a man draw thrice three thou-
fand acres into the compaffe of a little round table,
and with the gentlemans palfie in the hand shake out
his pofterity, theeues, or beggers; tis done, I haue
don't ifaith: terrible, horrible misery. ——how
well was I left, very well, very well.

My Lands shewed like a full Moone about me, but
now the Moone's in the last quarter, waining, wai-
ning, and I am mad to thinke that Moone was mine:
mine and my fathers, and my fore-fathers generati-
ons, generations, downe goes the house of vs, down,
downe it sinkes: Now is the name a beggar, begsin
me that name which hundreds of yeares has made
this thiere famous; in me and my pofterity runs out.

In my feede fiue are made miferable befides my
felfe, my ryot is now my brothers iaylor, my Wines
fighting, my three boyes penurie, and mine own con-
fusion.

## He teares his haire.

Why fit my haires vpon my curled head?
Will not this poyfon scatter them? oh my brother's
In execution among diuels that stretch him:
And make him giue; and I in want,
Not able for to liue, nor to redeeme him.
Diuines and dying men may talke of hell,
But in my heart her feuerall torments dwell,
Slauery and misery. Who in this cafe
Would not take vp money vpon his foule?
Pawne his saluation, liue at interest:

C

I

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

I, that did euer in abundance dwell,
For me to want, exceeds the throwes of hell.

*Enter his little sonne, with a top and scourge.*

Son. What aile you father; are you not well, I can-
not scourge my top as long as you stand so : you take
vp all the roome with your wide legs, puh, you can-
not make me affraid with this, I feare no vizards, nor
bugbeares.

He takes up the child by the skirts of his long coat in one
hand, and drawes his dagger with the other.

Hus. Vp fit, for heere thou haft no inheritance left.

Sonne. Oh what will you do father; I am your white
boy. strikes him.

Hus. Thou fhalt be my red boy, take that.

Son. Oh you hurt me father.

Hus. My eldest beggar, thou fhalt not liue to aske an
vfurer bread, to cry at a great mans gate, or follow,
good your Honor by a Coach, no, nor your brother:
tis charity to braine you.

Son. How shall I learne, now my head's broke ?

Hu. Bleed, bleed, rather then beg, beg, stabs him.

Be not thy names difgrace :

Spurne thou thy fortunes firft, if they be bafe :

Come view thy ſecond brother : Fates,

My childrens bloud ſhall ſpin into your faces,

You ſhall see,

How confidently we ſcorne beggery.

*Exit with his sonne.*

*Enter a maid with a childe in her armes, the*
*Mother*

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

Mother by her aflepe.

M. Sleep sweet babe,orrow makes thy mother sleep,
It boades small good when heavineſſe fals ſo deepe,
Hufh pretty boy, thy hopes might haue bene better,
Tis loſt at Dice,what ancient honour won,
Hard when the father plaies away the Sonne :
Nothing but miſery ſerues in this houſe,
Ruine and defolation; oh.

Enter Husband with the boy bleeding.

Huf. Whore,giue me that boy.

he ſtriués with her for the childe.

Maid. Oh helpe, helpe, out alas, murder, murder.

Huf. Are you goſſiping, prating ſturdy queane,
Ile breake your clamour with your necke,
Downe ſtaires; tumble,tumble, headlong,

Hethrowes her downe.

So, the ſureſt way to charme a womans tongue,
Is breake her necke, a Polititian did it.

Son. Mother, mother, I am kild mother.

His wife awakes, and catcheth up the youngest.

Wife. Ha, who's that cride? Oh me my children,
Both, both, both; bloudy, bloudy.

Huf. S.umpet, let go the boy, let go the beggar.

Wife. Oh my ſweete husband.

Huf. Filth, Harlot.

Wife. Oh what will you do deere husband?

Huf, Giue me the baſtard.

wife. Your owne ſweete boy.

Huf. There are too many beggers.

C 2

wife.

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

Wife. Good my husband.

Huf. Doft thou preuent me ſtill?

Wife. Oh God!

Stabs at the childe in her armes, & gets it from her.

Huf. Haue at his heart.

Wife. Oh my deare boy.

Huf. Brat, thou ſhalt not liue to ſhame thy houſe.

Wife. Oh heauen.

She is hurt and finks downe.

Huf. And perifh, now be gone,

Ther's whores enow, and want would make thee one.

Enter a lusty ſeruant.

Ser. Oh fir, what deeds are these?

Huf. Bafe ſlaue, my vaffaile,

Com'ft thou betweene my fury to queſtion me?

Ser. Were you the diuell, I would hold you fir.

Huf. Hold me? preſumption, Ile vndo thee for it.

Ser. Sbloud, you haue vndone vs all fir.

Huf. Tug at thy Maſter?

Ser. Tug at a monſter.

Huf. Haue I no power, ſhall my ſlaue fetter me?

Ser. Nay then the diuell wraſtles, I am throwne.

Husband ouercomes him.

Huf. Oh villaine, now Ile tug thee, now Ile teare thee, fet quicke spurs to my vaffaile, bruize him, trample him; so, I thinke thou wilt not follow me in haſte.

My horſe stands ready ſadled, away, away,
Now to my brat at nurſe, my ſucking begger;
Fates, Ile not leaue you one to trample one.

The

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

The Master meetes him.

Mr. How ift with you fir, me-thinks you looke of a
distracted colour.

Hus. Who I fir, tis but your fancy,
Please you walke in fir, and Ile so one resolve you,
I want one small part to make vp the sum,
And then my brother shall reft satisfied.

Mr. I shall be glad to see it, fir Ile attend you.

Exeunt.

Ser. Oh, I am scarfe able to heaue vp my selfe,
He has so bruizd me with his diuellish waight,
And torne my flesh with his bloud-hafty spur,
A man before of easie constitution,
Till now hels power supplied; to his foules wrong,
Oh how damnation can make weake men strong.

Enter Master and two SERUANTS.

Ser. Oh the most pittious deed fir since you came.

Mr. A deadly greeting; hath he lumed vp these
To satisfie his brother ? heere's another,
And by the bleeding infants, the dead mother.

Wife. Oh, oh.

Mr. Surgeons, Surgeons, there couers life,
One of his men all faint and bloudied.

I. Ser. Follow, our murderous Master has tooke
Horse to kill his childe at nurse, oh follow quickly.

Mr. I am the readieſt, it ſhall be my charge
To raile the Towne vpon him.

Exit Master and ſeruants.

I. Ser. Good fir follow him.

C 3

Wife.

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

Wife. Oh my children.

1.Ser. How is it with my most afflicted Miftris?
Wife. Why do I now recouer? why halfe liue?
To see my children bleed before mine eies,
A fight, able to kill a Mothers breast without an exe-
cutioner; what, art thou mangled too?

1.Ser. I thinking to preuent what his quicke mif-
chiefes had so soone acted, came and rufht vpon him,
We ftrugled, but a fowler ſtrength then his
Ore-threw me with his armes, then did he bruize me
And rent my flefh, and robd me of my haire,
Like a man mad in execution,
Made me vnfit to rife and follow him.

Wife. What is it has beguilde him of all grace?
And ſtole away humanity from his breſt,
To ſlay his children, purpofed to kill his wife,
And ſpoile his ſeruants.

Enter two ſeruants.

Ambo. Pleaſe you leaue this accurfed place,
A ſurgeon waites within.

Wife. Willing to leaue it.
Tis guilty of ſweete bloud, innocent bloud,
Murder hath tooke this chamber with full hands,
And will not out as long as the houſe stands.

Exeunt.

Enter Husband, as being throwne of his
Horse, and falles.

Huf. Oh ſtumbling Iade, the ſpauin ouertake thee,
The fifty diſeafes ſtop thee;
Oh, I am forely bruſde, plague founder thee,

Thou

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

Thou runnst at ease and pleafure, hart of chance,
To throw me now, within a flight o' th Towne,
In such plaine eeuen ground,
Sfoot, a man may dice vpon it, and throw away the
Medowes, ah filthy beaft.

*Cry within.*

Follow, follow, follow.

Huf. Ha ? I heare ſounds of men, like hew and cry,
Vp, vp, and ſtruggle to thy horſe, make on,
Dispatch that little begger, and all's done.

*Cry within.*

Heere, this way, this way.

Huf. At my backe ? oh,
What fate haue I, my limbes deny me to go,
My will is bared, beggery claimes a part,
Oh could I heare reach to the infants heart.

*Enter Master of the College, three Gentlemen, and others with Holberds.*

All. Heere, heere, yonder, yonder.

Ma. Vnnaturall, flinty, more then barbarous,
The Scythians in their marble hearted fates,
Could not haue acted more remorſeleſſe deeds
In their relentleſſe natures, then theſe of thine :

Was this the anſwer I long waited on,
The ſatisfaction for thy prifoned brother ?

Huf. He can haue no more of vs, then our skins,
And some of them want but fleaing.

1. Gent. Great finnes haue made him impudent.

Ma. Has ſhed so much blood that he cannot bluſh.

2. Gent.

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

2 Gent. Away with him, beare him to the Justices,
A gentleman of worship dwels at hand,
There shall his deeds be blazed.

Huf. Why all the better,
My glory tis to haue my action knowne,
I greeue for nothing,but I mift of one.
Mr. There's little of a father in that griefe,

Beare him away.

Exeunt.

Enter a Knight, with two or three Gentlemen.

Knight. Endangered so his Wife, murdered his
children?

1. Gent. So the cry goes.

Knight. I am sorry I ere knew him,
That euer he tooke life and naturall being
From such an honoured stocke,and faire discent,
Till this blacke minute without staine or blemish.

1. Gent. Heere come the men.

Enter the Master of the Colledge, and the rest
with the prisoner.

Knight. The Serpent of his house: Ime sorry for
this time, that I am in place of iustice.

Mr. Please you fir,

Knight. Do not repeat it twice, I know too much,
Would it had nere bene thought on.

Sir, I bleed for you.

1. Gent. Your fathers sorrowes are aliue in me;
What made you shew such monstrous cruelty?

Huf. In a word fir,

I

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

I haue consumd all, plaid away long acre,
And I thought it the charibleft deed I could do,
To cuffen beggery, and knock my house o'th head.

Kni. I do not thinke but in to morrowes iudgment
The terror will fit clofer to your soule,
When the dread thought of death remembers you,
To further which, take this fad voyce from me,
Neuer was acte plaid more vn naturally.

Huf. I thanke you fit.
Knight. Goe leade him to the layle,
Where iustice claimes all, there must pitty faile.
Huf. Come, come, away with me.

*Exit prisoner.*

Mr. Sir, you deferue the worship of your place,
Would all did so, in you the law is grace.
Knight. It is my will it should be so;
Ruinous man, the defolation of his house,
The blot vpon his predecessors honor'd name :
That man is neereft shame that's paft shame.

*Exit.*

Enter Husband with the Officers, The Master and Gentlemen, as going by his house.

Huf. I am right against my house, feate of my ancestors; I heare my wife's aliue, but much endangered; let me intreate to speake with her before the prison gripe me.

Enter his Wife, brought in a Chaire.

Gent. See heere, the comes of her selfe.

Wife. Oh my sweete husband, my deere distressed
husband, now in the hands of vnrelenting lawes; my

D

grea-

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

greatest sorrow, my extremest bleeding; now my
soule bleeds.

Hus. How now? kinde to me? did not I wound
thee, leave thee for dead?

Wife. Tut, farre greater wounds did my breast feele,
Vnkindneſſe strikes a deeper wound then ſteele,
You haue beene ſtill vnkinde to me.

Hus. Faith, and so I thinke I haue;
I did my murders roughly out of hand,
Desperate and ſuddaine, but thou haſt deuiz'd
A fine way now to kill mee, thou haſt giuen mine eies
Seauen wounds a peece; now glides the diuell from
Me, departs at euery ioynt, heaues vp my nailes.

Oh catch him new torments, that were nere inuented
Binde him one thousand more you bleſſed Angels,
In that bottomleſſe pit, let him not rife

To make men acte vn natural tragedies,
To ſpread into a Father, and in ſury,
Make him his childrens executioners,
Murder his wife, his ſeruants, and who not?
For that man's darke, where heauen is quite ſorgot.

Wife. Oh my repentant husband.

Hu. My deare soule, whom I too much haue wrong'd
For death I die, and for this haue I long'd.

Wife. Thou ſhouldst not (be aſſured) for theſe faults
Die, if the law could forgiue as ſoon as I.

Children laid out.

Hus. What fight is yonder?

Wife, Oh, our two bleeding boyes

Laid

A Yorkshire Tragedy.

Laid foorth vpon the threshold. (crack,

Hus. Heer's weight enough to make a hart-string
Oh were it lawfull that your pretty foules
Might looke from heauen into your fathers eyes,
Then should you see the penitent glaſſes melt,
And both your murders ſhoote vpon my cheekes,
But you are playing in the Angels laps,
And will not looke on me,

Who void of grace, kild you in beggery.
Oh that I might my wishes now attaine,
I should then wish you liuing were againe;
Though I did beg with you, which thing I feard,
Oh twas the enemy my eyes so bleard.

Oh would you could pray heauen me to forgiue,
That will vnto my end repentant liue.

Wif. It makes me eene forget all other forrowes,
And leaue part with this.

Officer. Come, will you goe?

Hus. Ile kiffe the bloud I spilt, and then Ile goe,
My foule is bloudied, well may my lips be so.
Farwell deere Wife, now thou and I muſt part,
I of thy wrongs, repent me with my heart.

Wife. Oh ftay, thou ſhalt not goe.

Hus. That's but in vaine, you see it muſt be so.
Farwell ye bloudy aſhes of my boyes,
My puniſhments are their eternall ioyes.

Let euery father looke well into my deeds,
And then their heirs may prosper, while mine bleeds.

Exeunt Husband with Officers,

Wife. More wretched am I now in this diſtreſſe,

D 2

Then