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    Epicoene, Or, The Silent Woman
    Epicoene, Or, The Silent Woman
    Epicoene, Or, The Silent Woman
    Ebook252 pages2 hours

    Epicoene, Or, The Silent Woman

    By Ben Jonson

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    Ben Jonson (1572-1637) was an English playwright best known for writing satirical plays such as The Alchemist and Every Man in His Humour.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKrill Press
    Release dateDec 17, 2015
    ISBN9781518340284
    Epicoene, Or, The Silent Woman
    Author

    Ben Jonson

    Benjamin Jonson (c. 11 June 1572 – c. 16 August 1637 was an English playwright and poet. Jonson's artistry exerted a lasting influence upon English poetry and stage comedy. He popularised the comedy of humours; he is best known for the satirical plays Every Man in His Humour (1598), Volpone, or The Fox (c. 1606), The Alchemist (1610) and Bartholomew Fair (1614) and for his lyric and epigrammatic poetry. He is generally regarded as the second most important English dramatist, after William Shakespeare.

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      Book preview

      Epicoene, Or, The Silent Woman - Ben Jonson

      EPICOENE, OR, THE SILENT WOMAN

      ..................

      Ben Jonson

      YURITA PRESS

      Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

      This book is a work of nonfiction and is intended to be factually accurate.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2015 by Ben Jonson

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Epicoene; Or, The Silent Woman

      TO THE TRULY NOBLE BY ALL TITLES SIR FRANCIS STUART

      DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

      PROLOGUE

      ANOTHER.

      ACT 1.

      SCENE 1.1.

      SCENE 2.1.

      SCENE 2.2.

      SCENE 2.3.

      SCENE 2.4.

      ACT 3.

      SCENE 3.1.

      SCENE 3.2.

      ACT 4.

      SCENE 4.1.

      SCENE 4.2.

      ACT 5.

      SCENE 5.1.

      GLOSSARY

      Epicoene, Or, The Silent Woman

      By

      Ben Jonson

      Epicoene, Or, The Silent Woman

      Published by Yurita Press

      New York City, NY

      First published circa 1637

      Copyright © Yurita Press, 2015

      All rights reserved

      Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      About Krill Press

      Krill Press is a boutique publishing company run by people who are passionate about history’s greatest works. We strive to republish the best books ever written across every conceivable genre and making them easily and cheaply available to readers across the world. Please visit our site for more information.

      EPICOENE; OR, THE SILENT WOMAN

      ..................

      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, because 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.

      DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

      ..................

      MOROSE, a Gentleman that loves no noise.

      SIR DAUPHINE EUGENIE, a Knight, his Nephew.

      NED CLERIMONT, a Gentleman, his Friend.

      TRUEWIT, another Friend.

      SIR JOHN DAW, a Knight.

      SIR AMOROUS LA-FOOLE, a Knight also.

      THOMAS OTTER, a Land and Sea Captain.

      CUTBEARD, a Barber.

      MUTE, one of MOROSE’s Servants.

      PARSON.

      Page to CLERIMONT.

      EPICOENE, supposed the Silent Woman.

      LADY HAUGHTY, LADY CENTAURE, MISTRESS DOL MAVIS, Ladies Collegiates.

      MISTRESS OTTER, the Captain’s Wife, MISTRESS TRUSTY, LADY HAUGHTY’S Woman, Pretenders.

      Pages, Servants, etc.

      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 taste, 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 them 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 course art.

      The poet prays you then, with better thought

      To sit; and, when his cates are all in brought,

      Though there be none far-fet, 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 ord’naries, on his broken meat:

      If his muse be true,

      Who commends her to you.

      ANOTHER.

      ..................

      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 touch’d, to tax the crimes.

      Then, in this play, which we present to-night,

      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 gain’d

      By writing truths, but things (like truths) well feign’d.

      If any yet will, with particular sleight

      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 1.

      ..................

      SCENE 1.1.

      ..................

      A ROOM IN CLERIMONT’S HOUSE.

      ENTER CLERIMONT, MAKING HIMSELF READY, FOLLOWED BY HIS PAGE.

      CLER: Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy?

      PAGE: Yes, sir.

      CLER: Let me hear it.

      PAGE: You shall, sir, but i’faith let nobody else.

      CLER: Why, I pray?

      PAGE: 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.

      CLER: I think, and above a man too, if the truth were rack’d out

      of you.

      PAGE: No, faith, I’ll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play with

      me, and throw me on the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and she

      kisses me with her oil’d face; and puts a peruke on 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.

      CLER: 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.

      PAGE [SINGS]: Still to be neat, still to be drest—

      [ENTER TRUEWIT.]

      TRUE: 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 have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well,

      sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute, or

      condemn’d to any capital punishment to-morrow, you would begin

      then to think, and value every article of your time, esteem it

      at the true rate, and give all for it.

      CLER: Why what should a man do?

      TRUE: Why, nothing; or that which, when it is done, is as idle.

      Harken after the next horse-race or hunting-match; lay wagers,

      praise Puppy, or Pepper-corn, White-foot, Franklin; swear upon

      Whitemane’s party; speak aloud, that my lords may hear you;

      visit my ladies at night, and be able to give them the character

      of every bowler or better on the green. These be the things

      wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I for

      company.

      CLER: Nay, if I have thy authority, I’ll not leave yet. Come,

      the other are considerations, when we come to have gray heads

      and weak hams, moist eyes and shrunk members. We’ll think on

      ‘em then; and we’ll pray and fast.

      TRUE: Ay, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which our

      want of ability will not let us employ in evil!

      CLER: Why, then ‘tis time enough.

      TRUE: Yes; as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to

      effect his business the last day. O, Clerimont, this time, because

      it is an incorporeal thing, and not subject to sense, we mock

      ourselves the fineliest out of it, with vanity and misery

      indeed! not seeking an end of wretchedness, but only changing the

      matter still.

      CLER: Nay, thou wilt not leave now—

      TRUE: See but our common disease! with what justice can we complain,

      that great men will not look upon us, nor be at leisure to give

      our affairs such dispatch as we expect, when we will never do it

      to ourselves? nor hear, nor regard ourselves?

      CLER: Foh! thou hast read Plutarch’s morals, now, or some such

      tedious fellow; and it shews so vilely with thee! ‘fore God, ‘twill

      spoil thy wit utterly. Talk me of pins, and feathers, and

      ladies, and rushes, and such things: and leave this Stoicity

      alone, till thou mak’st sermons.

      TRUE: Well, sir; if it will not take, I have learn’d to lose as

      little of my kindness as I can. I’ll do good to no man against his

      will, certainly. When were you at the college?

      CLER: What college?

      TRUE: As if you knew not!

      CLER: No faith, I came but from court yesterday.

      TRUE: Why, is it not arrived there yet, the news? A new foundation,

      sir, here in the town, of ladies, that call themselves the

      collegiates, an order between courtiers and country-madams,

      that live from their husbands; and give entertainment to all the

      wits, and braveries of the time, as they call them: cry down, or

      up, what they like or dislike in a brain or a fashion, with most

      masculine, or rather hermaphroditical authority; and every day

      gain to their college some new probationer.

      CLER: Who is the president?

      TRUE: The grave, and youthful matron, the lady Haughty.

      CLER: A pox of her autumnal face, her pieced beauty! there’s no man

      can be admitted till she be ready, now-a-days, till she has

      painted, and perfumed, and wash’d, and scour’d, but the boy here;

      and him she wipes her oil’d lips upon, like a sponge. I have made

      a song, I pray thee hear it, on the subject.

      PAGE. [SINGS.]

      Still to be neat, still to be drest,

      As you were going to a feast;

      Still to be powder’d, still perfum’d;

      Lady, it is to be presumed,

      Though art’s hid causes are not found,

      All is not sweet, all is not sound.

      Give me a look, give me a face,

      That makes simplicity a grace;

      Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:

      Such sweet neglect more taketh me,

      Then all the adulteries of art;

      They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

      TRUE: And I am clearly on the other side: I love a good dressing

      before any beauty o’ the world. O, a woman is then like a

      delicate garden; nor is there one kind of it; she may vary every

      hour; take often counsel of her glass, and choose the best. If

      she have good ears, shew them; good hair, lay it out; good

      legs, wear short clothes; a good hand, discover it often;

      practise any art to mend breath, cleanse teeth, repair eye-brows;

      paint, and profess it.

      CLER: How? publicly?

      TRUE: The doing of it, not the manner: that must be private. Many

      things that seem foul in the doing, do please done. A lady

      should, indeed, study

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