Moving and floating, and the confused noise
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners:
That their unsteadfast footing did proceed
From rocking of the vessel. This conceived,
Each one begins to apprehend the danger,
And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one,
Up to the main-top, and discover. He
Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards;

And wills them, if they 'll save their ship and lives,
To cast their lading overboard. At this

All fall to work, and hoist into the street,

As to the sea, what next came to their hand,
Stools, tables, tressels, trenches, bedsteads, cups,
Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles;
They take him for the boatswain: one lies struggling
Upon the floor, as if he swam for life:

A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat,

Sits in the bellow on 't, labours, and rows;

His oar the stick with which the fiddler played:
A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to 'scape

(As did Arion) on the dolphin's back,

Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude,
Watching without, and gaping for the spoil
Cast from the windows, went by th' ears about it;

The constable is called t'atone the broil;

Which done, and hearing such a noise within

Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds them

In this confusion: they adore his staff,

And think it Neptune's trident; and that he
Comes with his Tritons (so they called his watch)
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves:
And at this point we left them.

JAMES SHIRLEY, 1596-1666.

The Prodigal Lady.

(From the Lady of Pleasure.)

ARETINA and the STEWARD.

Stew. Be patient, madam, you may have your pleasure. Aret. "T is that I came to town for; I would not

Endure again the country conversation

To be the lady of six shires! The men,
So near the primitive making, they retain
A sense of nothing but the earth; their brains
And barren heads standing as much in want
Of ploughing as their ground: to hear a fellow
Make himself merry and his horse with whistling
Sellinger's round; t' observe with what solemnity
They keep their wakes, and throw for pewter candlesticks;
How they become the morris, with whose bells

They ring all into Whitsun ales, and swear

Through twenty scarfs and napkins, till the hobbyhorse

Tire, and the maid-Marian, dissolved to a jelly,

Be kept for spoon meat.

Stew.

These, with your pardon, are no argument

To make the country life appear so hateful;
At least to your particular, who enjoyed

A blessing in that calm, would you be pleased
To think so, and the pleasure of a kingdom:
While your own will commanded what should move
Delights, your husband's love and power joined
To give your life more harmony. You lived there
Secure and innocent, beloved of all;

Praised for your hospitality, and prayed for:
You might be enviéd, but malice knew

Not where you dwelt.—I would not prophesy,
But leave to your own apprehension

What may succeed your change.

Aret.

You do imagine,

No doubt, you have talked wisely, and confuted
London past all defence. Your master should
Do well to send you back into the country,
With title of superintendent bailie.

Enter SIR THOMAS BORNWELL.

Born. How now, what's the matter? Angry, sweetheart?

Aret.

I am angry with myself,

To be so miserably restrained in things

Wherein it doth concern your love and honour
To see me satisfied.

Dost thou accuse me? Have I not obeyed
All thy desires against mine own opinion?
Quitted the country, and removed the hope
Of our return by sale of that fair lordship
We lived in; changed a calm and retired life

For this wild town, composed of noise and charge?
Aret. What charge more than is necessary

For a lady of my birth and education?

Born. I am not ignorant how much nobility

Flows in your blood; your kinsmen, great and powerful
I' th' state, but with this lose not your memory
Of being my wife. I shall be studious,

Madam, to give the dignity of your birth

All the best ornaments which become my fortune,

But would not flatter it to ruin both,

And be the fable of the town, to teach

Other men loss of wit by mine, employed

To serve your vast expenses.

Aret.

Brought in the balance so, sir?

Born.

Am I then

Though you weigh

Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest,
And must take liberty to think you have
Obeyed no modest counsel to affect,
Nay, study, ways of pride and costly ceremony.
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures
Of this Italian master and that Dutchman's;
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery,
Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate
Antique and novel; vanities of tires;

Fourscore pound suppers for my lord, your kinsman ;
Banquets for t' other lady, aunt and cousins;

And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants,

To stifle us at home and show abroad.

More motley than the French or the Venetian,

About your coach, whose rude postilion

Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers

And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls,
And common cries pursue your ladyship

For hindering o' the market.

Aret.

Have you done, sir?

Born. I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe

And prodigal embroideries, under which

Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare

Not show their own complexions. Your jewels,

Able to burn out the spectator's eyes,

And show like bonfires on you by the tapers.
Something might here be spared, with safety of
Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth
Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers.
I could urge something more.

Born, But are not come to that repentance yet Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit; You look not through the subtlety of cards

And mysteries of dice, nor can you save

Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls;
Nor do I wish you should. My poorest servant
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire,
Purchased beneath my honour. You may play,
Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex

Yourself and my estate by 't.

Aret.

Good-proceed.

Born. Another game you have, which consumes more
Your fame than purse; your revels in the night,
Your meetings called the ball, to which appear,

As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants
And ladies, thither bound by a subpœna
Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure;
'Tis but the family of love translated
Into more costly sin. There was a play on 't,
And had the poet not been bribed to a modest
Expression of your antic gambols in 't,