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    Epicoene, or, The Silent Woman
    Epicoene, or, The Silent Woman
    Epicoene, or, The Silent Woman
    Ebook141 pages3 hours

    Epicoene, or, The Silent Woman

    By Ben Jonson

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    Ben Jonson's career began in 1597 when he held a fixed engagement in the "Admiral's Men", and although he was unsuccessful as an actor, his literary talent was apparent and he began writing original plays for the troupe. Jonson's works are particularly recognizable because of his consistencies in style, intricacy of plot, characterization and setting. He focused on creating works that implemented elements of the realistic as well as the absurd. His reputation diminished somewhat in the Romantic era, when he began to be unfairly compared to Shakespeare; however, after the Restoration, many of his plays, including "Epicoene," was revived and well appreciated. The story takes place in London, where a wealthy old man named Morose has made plans to disinherit his nephew by marrying. The dejected young man forms a revenge plot on his uncle, secretly arranging a calamitous marriage, complete with all the comedic elements expected of Jonson's work.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2011
    ISBN9781596258235
    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

      BY BEN JONSON

      A Digireads.com Book

      Digireads.com Publishing

      Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4085-5

      Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-59625-823-5

      This edition copyright © 2012

      Please visit www.digireads.com

      CONTENTS

      TO THE TRULY NOBLE BY ALL TITLES

      DRAMATIS PERSONAE

      PROLOGUE

      ACT I, Scene i.

      ACT I, Scene ii.

      ACT I, Scene iii.

      ACT I, Scene iv.

      ACT II, Scene i.

      ACT II, Scene ii.

      ACT II, Scene iii.

      ACT II, Scene iv.

      ACT II, Scene v.

      ACT II, Scene vi.

      ACT III, Scene i.

      ACT III, Scene ii.

      ACT III, Scene iii.

      ACT III, Scene iv.

      ACT III, Scene v.

      ACT III, Scene vi.

      ACT III, Scene vii.

      ACT IV, Scene i.

      ACT IV, Scene ii.

      ACT IV, Scene iii.

      ACT IV, Scene iv.

      ACT IV, Scene v.

      ACT IV, Scene vi.

      ACT IV, Scene vii.

      ACT V, Scene i.

      ACT V, Scene ii.

      ACT V, Scene iii.

      ACT V, Scene iv.

      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.

      Epicoene, a young gentleman, supposed the Silent Woman.

      Sir John Daw, a knight, her servant.

      Sir Amorous La Fool, a knight also.

      Thomas Otter, a land and sea captain.

      Cutbeard, a barber.

      Mute, one of Morose's servants.

      Lady Haughty,  }

      Lady Centaur,  }

      Mistress Mavis,   } Ladies Collegiates.

      Mistress Trusty, Lady Haughty's woman.

      Mistress Otter, the Captain's wife.

      Parson.

      Pages.

      Servants, etc.

      Pretenders.

      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-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 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 gained

      By writing truths, but things (like truths) well feigned.

      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 I, Scene i.

      A room in Clerimont's house.

      [Enter Clerimont, making himself ready, followed by his Page.]

      CLERIMONT. Have you got the song yet perfect, I ga' you, boy?

      PAGE. Yes, sir.

      CLERIMONT. Let me hear it.

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

      CLERIMONT. 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.

      CLERIMONT. I think, and above a man too, if the truth were racked 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 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.

      CLERIMONT. 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 dressed—

      [Enter Truewit.]

      TRUEWIT. 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 condemned to any capital punishment tomorrow, you would begin then to think, and value every article of your time, esteem it at the true rate, and give all for't.

      CLERIMONT. Why what should a man do?

      TRUEWIT. Why, nothing; or that which, when it is done, is as idle. Hearken 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 o' the green. These be the things wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I for company.

      CLERIMONT. 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.

      TRUEWIT. Aye, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which our want of ability will not let us employ in evil!

      CLERIMONT. Why, then 'tis time enough.

      TRUEWIT. Yes; as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to effect his business the last day. Oh, 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.

      CLERIMONT. Nay, thou wilt not leave now—

      TRUEWIT. 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?

      CLERIMONT. Foh! Thou hast read Plutarch's morals, now, or some such tedious fellow; and it shows 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.

      TRUEWIT. Well, sir; if it will not take, I have learned 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?

      CLERIMONT. What college?

      TRUEWIT. As if you knew not!

      CLERIMONT. No faith, I came but from court yesterday.

      TRUEWIT. 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:

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