A tragedy of Cola's furie, or, Lirenda's miserie written by Henry Burkhead, 1645.

THE SONG.

1. Sould.

Pitho is doting, we care not who knowes it, The Worst is but thee pence a day if we loose it;

For were he not from God knowes whom descended, He had on poore souldiers more freely expended, Let us not then boyes expect from such men Any favour whose honour was got with the pen.

Omnes.

Cast away care boyes, trouble not your minde, For we shall be payd, when the divell is blinde.

2. Sould.

'Tis too well knowne sirs such men to get pelfe VVith strange devices rob the common-wealth, By a colloging craftie kinde of stealing They are made great ones; O fie on false dealing, Then let us pray boyes, for them will thus palter May iustly be serv'd in their kinde with a halter.

Omnes.

Cast away cares boyes, &c.

3. Sould.

No marvaile then sirs, wee seeke after pillage, In Citie, suburbs, towne, or Countrey village, VVhen our grave statesman conceives it good pay, A souldiers allowance but three pence a day, Then helpe your selves boyes, O 'tweare a bravado If wee, could but see Pitho, in the strapado:

Omnes.

Cast away care boyes, &c.

Enter a Traveller.

1. Sould.

Silence gentlemen, stand cleere, yonder comes a traveller.

2. Sould.

I'le dive into his pocket straight;

3. Sould.

His cloake is mine already,

4.

And if his felt be worth the taking, from whence come you Sir?

Trav.

Who gives authoritie to question me,

1. Sould.

Povertie bids us to examine you, canst lend us money friend?

Trav.

Not a pennie.

2. Sould.

Wilt thou bestow some on us then?

They rifle him.

Trav.

Forbeare, forbeare;

1. Sould.

Wee must change cloakes,

3. Sould.

Your felt is good I see,

Trave.

You will not deale thus shamefully I troe?

1. Sould.

Get thee gone, begone, or I will make thee goe.

Trav.

With a light purse, and a heavy heart,

Exit.

1. Sould.

See, see, 'tis waightie, silver O my conscience

well, wee'll share anon, good lucke attend us.

Enter a Maide servant.

Who comes next?

4. Sould.

A maid with something in her lappe.

1. Sould.

Stirre not a foote, she comes directly this way▪ What ha'st thou here sweet heart?

Maid.

Nothing for you.

1. Sould.

What need you be so coy? 'tis ne're the worse wee see't.

Maid.

Nor much the better neither: loe 'tis bread and meate my mistris sent me for unto the market.

2. Sould.

Your mistris put not a crum of this into her chappes by God.

Maid.

Thou louzie, filching rogue, let goe my meate, or I will to thy captaine presently complaine: cannot folkes passe the streets for you?

2. Sould.

There's thy napkin, we scorne basenesse.

Maid.

Basenesse. base rougues, what are you else?

3. Sould.

Do'st call us rogues.

Maid.

Your actions speakes it so.

2. Sould.

Z'life trull begon or I will kicke thee home: an angrie spider to grumble for a little victualls thus:

3. Sould.

Get home scold, get home.

They beat her off.

Enter a Gentleman.

4. Sould.

A prize, a prize:

1. Sould.

Stand close, for if he spies us hee'll drop in some house or other: Save you Sir.

Gent.

And you likewise;

2. Sould.

Kinde Sir, regard a Souldiers want, something to drinke, your bounty Sir,

Gent.

There's twelve pence for yee;

2. Sould.

In earnest of a greater summe, your leave Sir;

Gent.

Keepe off, you are too forward Sirs;

1. Sould.

Draw if you dare, an thou lovest thy life stirre not:

Gent.

I am a Protestant.

2. Soul.

Be what you will, all's one to us sweet Sir:

They ri∣fle him.

Gent.

Restore my purse, and I'le part with it freely;

2. Sould.

An'if we doe the King shall know it; ha, ha.

Gent.

I must share with mine owne,

3. Sould.

You looke to be beaten. I see that, goe to the Councell complaine, tell Pitho an himselfe were here I'de doe as much.

Gent.

There's no contesting with these desperate knaves.

Exit.

1. Sould.

Ha ha brother, am not I a nimble lad?

3. Sould.

Fackings and that thou art,

4. Soul.

Grammercy bully, how has learn'd the tricke ant?

2. Sould.

Ah to plunge into a well lin'd pocket, no art beyond it.

3. Sould.

Or to whip off a hatt or a cloake and a wey-wit: but say what occupation likes thee best?

4. Soul.

Warr's but a pedling figarie, with a number of lowzie customers, knocks, hunger, cold, thirst, the captain's-pay, a disease that sore torment us, 'tis a most unchristian purgation, some vermen too, la, they creepe, bite, and keepes a damnable quarter on my shoulders, an'I could shrug them off, I'de ne're desire'em on againe.

2. Sould.

No better barrell better hering on us all, we can sing the same song, to the tune of Lachrimae, but to the purpose.

4. Sould.

Faith mine jumpes right with thine Bullie, 'tis a neate kinde of trade, we onely borrow from those can spare it: yet I say 'tis more gentill far then three pence a day,

1. Sould.

Has hit the nayle i'th' head, come shake hands, this day we thrive lads, to morrow againe boyes, a short life and a merry Sirs, follow your leader.

Omnes O brave Timothy, Orare Timothie.

Exeunt.

Enter Tigranes and Barbazella with a guard.

Barb.

If ere I did conspire with Cornet Brinfort, or knew of his departure, before I was inform,d he went; O let me ne're behold, Sun, Moone, Starres, or any Celestiall power, that keepes due motion in their proper spheres

Tigr.

Perjured slut, thy complices are yet extant, whose owne confessions doe approve thy crime;

Barb.

Produce my accusers,

Tigr.

Them gentlemen that now are in restraint for the same fact speakes thy accomplisht willingnesse,

Barb.

O no. doe not cast that foule aspersion on them, so farre I doe presume their worth is such, that death cannot urge them expresse as much,

Tigr.

This falshood shall in thy blood appeare,

Barb.

Noble Sir: my fault as you have censured it, never deserv'd the least of this God knowes: if innocence may pleade my cause, no soule more wrong'd then I;

Weepes,

Tigr.

Them teares resemble Synons trecherie against old Priams Troy, wherefore 'tis said, vice doth her just hate never more provoke, then when she vailes it under vertues cloake: discover Brinsforts plot immediatly or as I live I'le spare no tortures on thee:

Bar.

Enjoyne my sinne some other penance, if truth must not appeare t'acquit me from so foule a scandall, hide, O hide, my loath'd face, in some nastie gloomy dungeon; or hang in chaines untill I eate the flesh, that ne're offended, here then my naked brest, readie to receive what you will scribe thereon; my blood will serve in stead of inke, where if you please record, how willingly I suffer'd for my Lord and maker Christ.

Tigr.

For lustfull treason rather, untill thou dost confesse, il'e write in wounds

fit characters to thy rightfull sufferance.

Here shee is drawne aloft, with burning matches between each finger.

Barb.

O kill me, kill me, doe but grant that favour, be no more crueller then death, feele, O feele, your heart's transform'd to stone, let my heart's blood dissolve your selfe againe, else you'le become the lively portraicture of tirannie;

Tigr.

Thus I expresse me yet,

Barb.

And yet I live:

Tigr.

All the torments hell can boast of shall be inflicted on thee; not suddenly no, but with a fretting paine vex thy desire,

Barb.

Thy cruell thoughts to hell's darke plagues aspire, Iesu Redeemer of my soule, to thee I must addresse my pittifull complaint, when men rakes lesse remorse on contrite teares then Tigers doe, thou knowest, O Lord; whither my thoughts were ever guiltie of that crime deserving this unheard of crueltie, but, O eternall wisedome my griefe cryes at thy watchfull eare for every, vouchsafe it may, abate them torments that will last for aye.

1. Sould.

How resolute these pettish Papists are,

Aside.

she'd sooner let her fingers burne to th'bone, then once reveale a rebells base intention,

2. Sould.

Who was her sweet heart, and loved him deerely,

1. Sould.

Mas lad an seemes so;

Tigr.

Speake huswife, speake,

Barb.

What would you have me speake,

Tigr.

What Brinforts plot was in departing hence

Barb.

Aske me no more, I am a stranger in't:

Tigr.

Did ever man behold such impudence? I know thou lyest;

Bar.

O be not thus incredulous, Iewes, Turkes, Infidells, yes Heathens to, all nations doe commiserate the dolefull paines of them like me, nor will not urge them further, once the fires exposed, but your beliefes

more strange then theirs.

Tigr.

Confesse, thou foolish wench confesse, or I will cause new match to be applyed:

Bar.

Doe what you please, my God I trust will strengthen me against thy hellish furie.

Tigr.

'Tis a folly. to compell this slut I see, goe, take her off. untill some evidence comes in against her.

Exeunt.