Epicoene or The silent Woman. A Comedy
Jonson, Ben
Epicoene or The silent Woman. A Comedy
Ben Jonson
Epicoene or The Silent Woman
A Comædie
Ut sis in similis Cali, Byrrhig latronum,
Non ego sim Capri, neg Sulci. Cur metuas me?
To the Truly Noble, by all Titles
Sir Francis Stuart:
Sir,
My hope is not so nourished by example, as it will conclude this dumb piece should please you, by cause it hath pleased others before: but by trust, that when you have read it, you will find it worthy to have displeased none. This makes that I now number you not only in the names of favour, but the names of justice, to what I write; and do, presently, call you to the exercise of that noblest and manliest virtue: as coveting rather to be freed in my fame by the authority of a judge than the credit of an undertaker. Read therefore, I pray you, and censure. There is not a line, or syllable in it changed from the simplicity of the first copy. And when you shall consider, through the certain hatred of some, how much a man's innocency may be endangered by an uncertain accusation, you will, I doubt not, so begin to hate the iniquity of such natures, as I shall love the contumely done me, whose end was so honourable, as to be wiped off by your sentence.
Your unprofitable, but true lover,
Ben. Jonson
The Persons of the Play
Morose, a gentleman that loves no noise
Dauphine Eugenie, a knight, his nephew
Clerimont, a gentleman, his friend
Truewit, another friend
Epicoene, a young gentleman, supposed the Silent Woman
Sir John Daw, a knight, her servant
Amorous La Fool, a knight also
Thomas Otter, a land, and sea captain
Cutbeard, a barber
Mute, one of Morose's servants
Madam Haughty,
Madam Centaur,
Mistress Mavis, Ladies Collegiates
Mistress Trusty, the Lady Haughty's woman
Mistress Otter, the captain's wife
Parson
Pages
Servants
Pretenders
The Scene: London
Prologue
Truth says, of old, the art of making plays
Was to content the people; and their praise
Was to the poet money, wine, and bays.
But in this age, a sect of writers are
That only for particular likings care,
And will taste nothing that is popular.
With such we mingle neither brains nor breasts;
Our wishes, like to those (make public feasts)
Are not to please the cook's tastes, but the guests'.
Yet, if those cunning palates hither come,
They shall find guests' entreaty, and good room;
And though all relish not, sure, there will be some,
That, when they leave their seats, shall make 'em say,
Who wrote that piece, could so have wrote a play:
But that he knew this was the better way.
For to present all custard, or all tart,
And have no other meats to bear a part,
Or to want bread, and salt, were but coarse art.
The poet prays you then, with better thought
To sit; and when his cates are all in brought,
Though there be none far fetched, there will dear-bought
Be fit for ladies: some for lords, knights, squires,
Some for your waiting wench, and city-wires,
Some for your men, and daughters of Whitefriars.
Nor is it only while you keep your seat
Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eat
A week at ordinaries, on his broken meat:
If his Muse be true,
Who commends her to you.
Another
(Occasioned by some person's impertinent exception)
The ends of all, who for the scene do write,
Are, or should be, to profit, and delight.
And still 't hath been the praise of all best times,
So persons were not touched, to tax the crimes.
Then, in this play, which we present tonight,
And make the object of your ear and sight,
On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true:
Lest so you make the maker to judge you.
For he knows, poet never credit gained
By writing truths, but things (like truths) well feigned.
If any yet will (with particular slight
Of application) wrest what he doth write,
And that he meant or him, or her, will say:
They make a libel, which he made a play.
Act I
Scene 1
Clerimont's house
Enter Clerimont He comes out making himself ready, Boy
CLE. Ha' you got the song yet perfect I ga' you, boy?
BOY. Yes, sir.
CLE. Let me hear it.
BOY. You shall, sir, but i'faith let nobody else.
CLE. Why, I pray?
BOY. It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir, besides me a perfect deal of ill-will at the mansion you wot of, whose lady is the argument of it: where now I am the welcomest thing under a man that comes there.
CLE. I think, and above a man too, if the truth were racked out of you.
BOY. No faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play with me, and throw me o' the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and she kisses me with her oiled face; and puts a peruke o' my head; and asks me an' I will wear her gown; and I say, no: and then she hits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me innocent, and lets me go.
CLE. No marvel if the door be kept shut against your master, when the entrance is so easy to you – well, sir, you shall go there no more, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, a fortnight hence. Sing, sir. Boy sings.
Enter Truewit
TRU. Why, here's the man that can melt away his time, and never feels it! What, between his mistress abroad, and his ingle at home, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle, he thinks the hours ha' no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well, sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute, or condemned to any capital punishment tomorrow, you would begin then to think, and value every article o' your time, esteem it at the true rate, and give all for't.
CLE. Why, what should a man do?
TRU. Why, nothing: or that, which when 'tis done, is as idle. Hearken after the next horse-race, or hunting-match; lay wagers, praise Puppy, or Peppercorn, Whitefoot, Franklin; swear upon Whitemane's party; spend aloud, that my lords may hear you; visit my ladies at night, and be able to give 'em the character of every bowler, or better o' the green. These be the things wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I for company.
CLE. Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come, the other are considerations, when we come to have grey heads, and weak hams, moist eyes, and shrunk members. We'll think on 'em then; then we'll pray, and fast.
TRU.
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