Hautboys and Wenches

What Might Have Happened if the Elizabethans, Had Gone in for Musical Comedy

SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN

SCENE: Hampstead Heath, Bohemia. A T avern.

Enter, serving-wenches, potboys, hostlers, apprentices, guests, etc. They sing:

"Yeatiy in the Dewy Morn"

Featly in the dewy morn Twirl the jocund foot and hip—

Babies in Bohemia born,

Rathe or late, they all must trip.

Heigh-ho! Tiddle-e-o!

Lads hop, and wenches skip!

Ere mine host from slumber start,

Shake the nimble anklc-o!

Fee, fie, fo, and a gooseberry tart!

Jolly sins don't ranklc-o!

Night avaunt, and welcome day,

And tiddle-e-o, Bohem-i-ay!

Mine host a surly man is he—

Rheums and fevers plague him sore!

But his daughter, oh, a lass is she That Cupid's self might well adore.

Alack, alack, and eke alas!

That such a thing should come to pass!

Alas, that pippins fair' as she Grow on a crab-apple-tree!

E'en though, forsooth, it be the way, Heigh-ho, in Bohem-i-ay!

(Enter, a Fool)

THE FOOL: I have two eyes in my head, one and one,, and therefore, see what I see; and what I see belongs and adheres to mine eyes; in sooth and in brief, the eyes have it. Marry! that's the way of it, fair or foul, in health or in physic. Soft, now, consider: what see these eyes now, these same identical eyes—to wit, wenches and varlets and their kith and kin: in fine, nothing; thus and ergo, I am alone in this inn or hostel and may speak my mind freely. For he who is alone and speaks Never for excuses seeks;

But he whose tongue doth dangle loose, Himself shall dangle in a noose.

Good folk, fine folk, gentlefolk, I pray you, quiet, quiet! for as ye are all vermin, dogs, scum, swine and kitchen-dregs, it is meet and proper that you abate your natural selves in my presence. Drink softly and muffle yourspeech, for I am about to give utterance to such thoughts as would make you blanch, had you the least belly for thinking. Out, louse; in, lion! Do you fathom my intent? Nay, that you do not, nor do I either. Well, then, to begin; and here enters the plot proper and substantial—in a word, there is an English princeling in Hampstead Heath, and being English, therefore not Bohemian, as must needs be, as to cause and effect; and here he tarries, and all because of a wench, and this same wench none other than our landlord's daughter —scurvy take her and all wenches, in and out of wedlock, say I!

SONG: " 'Ware of Wenches Ever" (Sung by the Fool and Company)

If you would merrily, merrily live,

And cheerily, cheerily, die-O!

Never unto wenches give A glance of the amorous eye-O!

Albeit their guise is human,

Their hearts, I vow, are never;

Put not your trust in woman,

And 'ware of wenches ever:

To your bosom take The spotted snake,

But 'ware of wenches ever!

(Enter, the Landlord)

LANDLORD: What now, by the rood, what's the meaning o' this? Offal! swine! beggars, sons o' witches! Do you take my tavern for a— FOOL: For a tavern, friend landlord, and in hoc signo—

LANDLORD: Out, crack-pate! Out, all of you. Kitchen and stables for such maggots!

A GUEST: HO, there, mine host, is this respect for—

LANDLORD: What? Am I to be pro'd and con'd? Are we to have considerations and arguments? Am I to be baited in mine own inn? A sorry time, in sooth!

SONG: "A Sorrier Time Was Never Known" (Landlord and Company)

Was ever sorrier time than this?

No, never!

One so devoid of earthly bliss?

No, never!

Since Adam first began it,

Woe hath ruled this planet Ever,

But never

Hath been an age so sore remiss As this!

Ah, what dishonor now to be A parent,

When damsels arc so wild and free And errant!

They are not fain to marry,

And home they will not not tarry Ever;

No, never,

Was age so prodigal of kisses As this is!

(Saraband by the company)

LANDLORD: Now, get you gone, all of you, or by my&emdash;

(Enter his daughter, Susan)

LANDLORD: What? thou, too? And by what leave, I pray you, my lady, dost trip in upon this pack o' drunken bellies at this hour o' day? SUSAN: Hist father; softly, softly. LANDLORD: Softly, mine eyes!

SUSAN: Thou art my father; therefore to be loved.

THE FOOL: Et cetera, et cetera, et cet. SUSAN: Thou art my senior; hence to be respected.

THE FOOL: Et cetera, et cetera, et cet. SUSAN: Thou art the stronger; therefore to be feared.

LANDLORD: What! Art stringing me?

THE FOOL: Ay, that; thou'rt hamstrung! LANDLORD: Out, lout! Out, carrions!

(Exeunt Fool, serving-wenches etc. with alarums )

LANDLORD: NOW, wench, what's this bustle o' blank verse? Am I being scanned? Am I being con'd? and that by mine own daughter, in witness whereof, howbeit, there's naught but her mother's testimony!

SUSAN

The pith and substance of my verse is this: That, though thou art my father by repute— And rumour is the father of us all—

I am not to thy various humours blind:

Thou art, in sooth, a most intemperate crab;

A surly, biting crab; a crab o' crabs.

Is this a way to talk to honest men?

Are potboys then inhuman? Is a wench The less a wench for wenching in an inn?

Is thine own daughter, flesh of thine own flesh—

More than a wench, albeit, a toothsome wench?

LANDLORD: A plague on this wenching! My very ears do stare! Hark you, sullen baggage, an thou mendest not thy tongue, by my blood, spleen'and four humours, I'll mend thee. And should I come upon thee in another hedge with that fine princeling o' thine, I'll prince thee and hedge thee, and hedge-prince thee, in the bargain—zound9, that I will!

(Exit Landlord. A potboy appears from beneath a table)

SUSAN: Mercy! How thou didst frighten me! POTBOY: What? I—Susan?

SUSAN: Susan?

POTBOY: Ah, me! how blind is love, the blind bow-boy, that sees all pot-boys black. SUSAN: Cyril!

POTBOY: Ay, that—my blackbird, my dainty, thine own Cyril, Earl of Tenpenny, second son of the Duke of Essex, natural son, in dispute, of the Duke of Sussex, cousin of the Duke of Wessex, nephew of the Duke of Middlesex, and for thy sake, my sweet Susan, sworn page of the Lord of Sex.

SUSAN : My Lord!

DUET: " 'Mong Pots and Pans for Love I Dwelt."

CYRIL

'Mong pots and pans for love I dwelt,

And ne'er the least discomfort felt;

When passion thro' the blood runs hot,

Who would not gladly go to pot?

SUSAN

Tho' smudged be thy handsome pan,

Thou art a true-born Englishman,

For . though their love burn e'er so hot,

Britons never go to pot!

CYRIL

Nay! Nay!

SUSAN

Yea! Yea!

CYRIL AND SUSAN

never

sometimes

go to pot

CYRIL: Hark thee, my turtle, there's a sh;p awaits us in the harbor. Thither we fly at once and so to Merrie England —to Merrie England, my love, where we'll marry.

(Continued on page 78)

(Continued from page 52)

SUSAN: Merrie in Marry England? CYRIL: Nay, my duncelet, marry in Merrie England.

SUSAN : But Bohemia has no seacoast.

CYRIL: What! are we to be thwarted for lack of a sea-coast?

(Enter, the entire company)

SONG: ENSEMBLE Stone-walls do not a prison make, Nor lack of coasts a cage;

her

Oh, how thy father's bones will ache my

With rancour, spleen and rage.

LANDLORD I shall pursue you both!

SUSAN AND CYRIL We'll fly thee, nothing loth.

THE OTHERS He vows he shall pursue.

They do but answer "Do!"

CYRIL: NOW shifts the scene to Merrie England and Good Queen Bess. Long may she reign! To ship!

LANDLORD

There's many a slip 'Twixt the ship and the lip!

ENSEMBLE To ship! To ship!

With a heigh-ho and a skip!

(Flourish of trumfets off) VOICE OFF: Make way, make way. A messenger from England.

(Enter, a messenger) ENSEMBLE: Make way, make way. A messenger from England.

MESSENGER: My lord, a message from England.

(He hands scroll to Cyril) CYRIL: (reading) What's this?. What's this?

SUSAN: My lord, is aught amiss? CYRIL: The Dukes of Essex, Sussex, Wessex, Middlesex are dead, And I am heir to their estates.

LANDLORD: Then take her here to bed!

ENSEMBLE: Hurrah! Hurrah!

He'll take her here to bed;

Hurrah! Hurrah!

He'll wed her here instead!

(Susan and Cyril embrace!) MESSENGER: I crave a mug of beer. ENSEMBLE: Hurrah! he'll wed her here!

CURTAIN