 | The Constant Maid |  |
Act. IV.
Enter Startup, Close.Start.
Where are we now? 'tis verie cold, why do'st not
Lead me to some house?
Clos.
What, at this time a night?
All people are a bed, the verie Owles
Are in their dead sleep; or if we could
Be admitted, would you venture a this fashion,
And publish your disgrace, proclaime your selfe
Coward, and lay some imputation
Upon the place you came from, where your hopes
May yet be faire for marriage? This brunt over.
To meet some Drunkard now were comfortable,
Whose eyes enflamed might serve for torches,
Or he might spit flapdragons from his fire
Of Sack, and light us: But no sober man,
Considering what case you are in, sir,
By my consent should see you.
Start.
Ha, what's that?
Clos.
Where, where? a fire-drake.
Start.
Now 'tis gone: 'tis bright
Agen, Is't not a spirit? Oh deliver me.
Clos.
I have heard some such things use to walke the fields.
Start.
What shall I do?
Pray, pray with as much strength
As if you had no land, or were confined
To my annuity: Now I feare no spirits;
This riches makes us cowards; Hide your selfe,
I will go neerer.
Star.
Dost know the devill if thou seest him, Close?
A pox of love, if this be the reward on't;
Some call it fire, but I finde no such matter;
I am frozen to the Blanket, and my teeth
Strike one another, and keep time like hammers
That beat a Psalme upon the vertuous Anvile;
I do beleeve if they were beaten out,
They would make false Dyce, there's quicksilver in 'em,
I know already by their dancing.
Clos.
Sir, where are you?
Star.
Here I am still.
Clos.
Y'are a dead man.
Star.
More terrour? what's the matter?
Clos.
'Tis my Master with a darke
Lanthorne, that pursues us: By
This darknesse, 'tis his voice, wrap your selfe up,
And roule into some ditch, flight will betray us.
Start.
I had as good be kill'd, but yet I'll venture.
Exit.
Clos.
'Tis he indeed, and more than I expected:
The matters do not fadge well with his Mistris.
Enter Hartwell.
Hart.
What a sweet thing is night? how calme and harmlesse?
No whispering, but of leaves, on which the breath
Of heaven playes Musick to the birds that slumber;
Here are no objects to betray our sence
To repentance, nor can women, thus
Advantag'd by the Tapers of the night,
Spread their temptations to undoe poore man:
What a fine book is heaven? which we may read
Best now, when every Star is a faire letter:
How much they wrong thee night, which call thee guilty
A glorious whore, engages men to act 'em,
And taking then the darknesse to obscure 'em:
We unjustly lay the shame upon thy browes,
That art so innocent; Thou never sawest them
Befriended with this silence; I begin
To wander: There's no wildernesse abroad,
To him that's lost at home.
Clos.
Sir.
Hart.
Who's that?
Clos.
One that has taken paines for you to night:
I am Close.
Hart.
What mak'st thou here?
Clos.
I wait upon
My charge; I led your Rivall a procession
In's shirt, perswading him you had resolv'd
To cut his throat else; he's hard by at's prayers,
And thinkes you ha' pursued him.
Hart.
Ha, I'll do't;
Shew me the foole, by all my hopes I'll kill him,
And send his base heart as a present to her:
Fate has preserved me with this revenge,
And I will not delay his death a minute.
Clos.
You wo'not kill him basely?
Hart.
No.
Clos.
Why then
There is no feare but he'll live long enough;
I'll undertake he nere shall go provided
To fight w'ee; and for other satisfaction,
Name it, and take it; so I'll fetch him to ye.
Hart.
Stay, I have been too passionate, let him live
To be her punishment; that's revenge enough,
While I pursue my owne wayes.
Clos.
Whither now?
Hart.
Whither thou must not follow, by thy honesty,
I charge thee come not after me.
That bindes my attendance, sir.
Hart.
But not when I command
The contrary, if thou dost move this way,
Thou drawest my anger: Minde the preservation
Of the tame thing you undertooke; Farewell,
If thou dost love me, follow not, nor question
'Tis in my power to loose thee or my selfe.
Exit.
Clos.
I cannot see i'th' darke with spectacles,
And mine owne eyes ha' lost him o'the suddaine;
Well, I must hope the best; What shall I do
With my hen-hearted lover, that would give
Halfe his estate his colde fit were well over:
I shall make worke for the Physitians:
Caudles and Cullices will nere restore him;
If he but scape with life, I am not sorry,
He may be a souldier, and indure the trenches;
I put him first to the becomming sufferance:
But what are these? an army of hornes and Halberds?
Upon my conscience, the Watch; I thought
The fields had not been haunted with these goblins:
I cannot run; If I should squat, and they finde me,
There were no mercy but Bride-well,
Or some such lovely place; I am resolv'd
To cast away a few good words upon 'em,
A leg and worshipping; the Constable
That leads the rusty Regiment will quit me,
I passe the gates wo't often, and so may
The devill if he pay the Porter; blesse you:
Enter Constable and Watch-men.
My masters what a clocke is't?
1.
Who's theere?
Const.
I charge you stand.
Clos.
Your worship may do much.
Const.
Where have you beene?
Clos.
At Islington, and please you, about businesse.
Const.
Some thiefe, I warrant him, no honest man,
The fields are pester'd with such sturdy robbers.
Clo.
He is a rogue that watches, for my part.
Con.
He cals my watchmen rogues.
1.
How Mr. Constable? you are one your selfe.
Const.
Away with him.
Clo.
Good Sir.
2.
We will provide you a lodging.
Clo.
Where?
Con.
New prison.
Clo.
But are you in earnest, Gentlemen?
If there be no remedy.
2.
We'll humble you.
Clo.
I have a companion hereabouts: where are you Sir?
Star.
Here in the ditch.
Const.
They seldome go alone:
We'll finde him out; ha sirra.
Enter Watch-men and Startup.
Star.
I thanke you honest men: where art thou Close?
Clo.
Here; these good men will helpe us to a lodging.
Star.
Blessing on their hearts. I am almost starv'd.
Const.
Yes, we'll do you that favour; Come away, sir.
Star.
Whether shall we go now?
Clos.
To prison.
Star.
How, Close?
1.
You shalbe close enough.
Star.
D'ee heare, sweet Gentlemen?
Clos.
I follow, Sir, I cannot leave you in adversity;
All this is for your health, cleane straw is warme, sir;
You have the benefit of being naked:
I shall have worke to morrow in the woollen.
Const.
Away, away; bring them away.
Exeunt.
Mistris Bellamy and Nurse.
Bell.
I heard some noise; looke, call up the servants,
See if the Gentlemen be a bed; I'm troubled.
Nur.
Oh Mistris?
What's the matter?
Nur.
Mr. Startup is not a bed, and here is all is left
Of Mr. Hartwell.
Bell.
This is verie strange.
Nur.
I dare not tell her of his shift, they're gone,
The doores I found left open, and no signe
Which way they are bestowed.
Bell.
This puzzles me:
Pray Heaven there be no mischiefe in this absence:
Is Franck abed?
Nur.
Yes.
Bell.
What should move 'em
To leave my house so late, and Mr. Hartwell
Without his clothes? Some knock there:
Beshrew me but I trembled.
Nur.
'Tis a stranger,
And sayes he would speake with you.
Bell.
At this late houre?
What accidents are these? from whence?
Nur.
I know not.
Bell.
Has he no name? what should this meane?
Nur.
He sayes he is a Countrey-man of Mr. Startups.
Bell.
Admit him, he perhaps does bring some newes.
Enter Countrey-man.
Count.
By your leave Mistresse, pardon my importunitie
At so unfit an houre.
Bell.
Y'are welcome, sir.
Count.
I met with fortunate directions,
Though I came late; I understand you have
A guest, one Startup of Northampton-shire,
That comes a wooing to your daughter.
Bell.
Such an one there was that supt with us, and went
To bed; but since, as I have faith, I know not
Which way he has convey'd himselfe; another
Gentleman too is missing, and his Rivall.
Count.
Pray do not mock me, Lady, I ha rid
Bell.
You may beleeve me, he is no such treasure
I should conceale him.
Enter Frances.
Count.
Then I see you dally:
Know, Mistresse, you may slack your preparations,
Your daughter must look out another husband,
He is contracted.
Bell.
How?
Count.
And something more,
Gotten with child one, that without blushing
I cannot call my daughter; he shall make
Her credit straight agen, although my fortunes
Have no equalitie with his, I shall
Find Law to force him.
Fran.
You preferr'd this sutor,
This newes returnes my bloud.
Bell.
Sir, you shall find
All truth I have deliver'd, I am not sorrie,
To heare this newes, this is no time to seek him:
Please you accept the lodging that was his,
My servant shall attend you in the morning,
To help your search.
Count.
You seeme a noble Gentlewoman,
I take your courtesie.
Bell.
Nurse, a light; pray walk, sir.
Fran.
I was unkind to Hartwell, he not wise;
But love still apprehends too much, or nothing.
Exit Countrey-man.
Bell.
Frances, a word: do not you know what is
Become o' these Gentlemen.
Fran.
Not I, their absence
Is strange to me.
Bell.
Oh, Franck, I am undone.
Fran.
Good Heaven, forbid.
Bell.
This Gentleman, Mr. Hartwell,
Whom we shall never see agen, I feare.
Fran.
How, mother? are you acquainted
Bell.
'Tis in vaine
To tell thee how I loved him.
Fran.
Blesse my senses! you love him?
Bell.
'Bove all the world, affectionately plac'd him
Too neere my heart.
Fran.
I heard you made pretence
Of love, to trie him for my sake; and pardon me,
If yet I dare not beleeve more.
Bell.
Oh Franck—
Fran.
My heart doth thrill, I feele a coldnesse run
Through all my veines already.
Bell.
I had no other thought,
At first; but wisely to distinguish whether
His heart was fixt on thee, or my estate;
With resolution, if I found him more
A Courtier of thy fortune than thy person,
To punish him with losse of both: But Love
Hath chang'd both scene and title in our Comedy,
And what I meant should shipwrack all his hopes,
Hath ruin'd us, his modest and calme answer:
To accept my tender, with such force and reason
Directed to my fancie, turn'd my purpose,
And made me his indeed, his perfect Lover:
But now we ha' both lost him.
Fran.
All the pietie
That ever taught childen to love their mother,
Will but suffice to keep my heart obedient.
Was ever Maid so miserable? Was there
No other, in my fate, to rivall me?
I live too long; oh breake, breake my poore heart;
For she that gave me life, hath took it from me.
Bell.
Why do you weep?
Fran.
I do not weep, or if
I do, I know not why.
Bell.
Now I perceive
Upon my life you love him still; Have my
Commands no more respect? My care and love
So ill rewarded, that my heart desiring
One comfort in the world, and shall my childe
Rise up to take it from me?
Fran.
Alas I knew not
You loved him too, indeed I had rather die
Than you should call me rebell.
Bell.
Now I see
The cause of his departure in this fashion,
Pray heaven he have not made away himselfe:
Did ever childe deceive a mother so?
I have a sad presage, you may to bed,
And rise without my blessing, yet
You may stay, wherefore should I despaire
Of his returne? You say you could not tell
That I affected him.
Fran.
Indeed not I,
And do believe it now against my will;
But I am your daughter.
Bell.
Shew it, in confirming
Your selfe to my desires, and what is past,
I can forgive you, if he come againe:
Will you be rul'd, and shew no favour to him?
For 'tis in you, I see, to make me happy;
I will not tye you to affect the other,
Choose any for your husband but this man,
My love and prayers shall go along with you;
Answer.
Fran.
Indeed I dare not, yet could I
Put off the knowledge that you are a mother—
Bell.
What then?
Fran.
Though in imagination I allow you
The greatest woman in the earth, whose frowne
Could kill, and eyes at pleasure make alive
Bell.
Pray let's heare.
Fran.
I durst tell you,
In confidence of my cause, that you betray
Two innocents to sorrow; and though heaven
Looke on, and seem to smile upon your cruelty,
Yet there is punishment for divorcing those
Whose hearts that hath conjoyned: I durst tell you,
Though all your terrours were prepared to punish
My bold defence; you were a tyrant.
Bell.
How?
Fran.
A most unjust, a sacrilegious tyrant.
Bell.
You would not be so violent.
Fran.
That thus,
Not only ruine and deface the Altar,
But steal away the very Sacrifice;
And I durst adde and smile upon your anger.
Though as you frown'd death stood in every wrinckle,
My soul's above your tyranny, and would
From torturing flame, receive new fire of love,
And make your eye faint to behold the brightnesse
Of my poore bodies Martyrdome; and if ever
Love shewed a miracle, my heart should beare
The Characters of him you have torne from it,
With beames about it like a Saint that suffer'd:
But as you are my mother, thus I kneele
And beg a pardon for my innocence,
If that offend you; Live you happy still,
And be the Mistris of your vowes, live to
Enjoy whom you affect, may every houre
Returne new blessings on you both; renew
Your spring, and let him thinke you young againe,
And let me beg but this for all my duty;
Against that day you marry him to provide
My Coffin, for I feare I sha'not have
Breath many minutes after, to pray for you.
Will serve my Funerall, and deck my Herse;
Beneath which you should say, there lies your daughter
That dies to shew obedience.
Bell.
Why shouldst thou
Continue thus to him?
Fran.
I know he loves me, yet hereafter your affections
May not.
Bell.
But never procure thee one sad thought;
Now I have tried you both; assure my childe,
I loved him but for thee, dispose thy selfe
To be his Bride: This newes, at his returne,
Will make all well to rest.
Fran.
Can this be true?
Bell.
'Twere sin to mocke thee any more: To bed.
Fran.
I'll spend all night
In prayers for you, mother: Oh my Hartwell
Exeunt.
Enter Playfaire and his Cousen.
Play.
I am bound ever to thee.
Cous.
Does she not become her rich cloathes too?
Play.
The morning never look'd
So fresh, nor Venus with more charmes upon her:
Adon would melt before her eye, and wooe her
Her kisses, at expence of his last breath:
Cupid himselfe, could he but see, would fall
In love with her, and throwing away his shafts,
Offer the empty quiver to her eyes,
Ambitious to fill it with her beames;
The least of which, would wound more hearts, than all
His stocke of golden Arrowes.
Cous.
No more Raptures.
Play.
Didst thou not know before, that love is able,
Without the helpe of Sacke, to make a Poet,
My nimble Mercury, Joves Herald in
Reversion?
Cous.
I must confesse
His pocket for the Keyes.
Play.
He never mist 'em?
Cous.
His eyes were drench'd in suds, and I return'd em
Ere they recover'd light.
Play.
'Twas excellent;
He walkes in darknesse still.
Cous.
D'ee think he'll know her?
Play.
His cloathes already have
Made him forget himselfe, or if he have
But the remembrance of such a woman;
The more he sees her now, the more he'l thinke
The change impossible.
Cous.
Where ha' you left him?
Play.
I'th' Gallery, where with much patience,
He does expect his highnesse will send for him.
Cous.
Then all runs smoothe, his wonder still continues.
Play.
I fed that humour artificially;
He is halfe perswaded all's but a dream,
To which imagination his clothes
Are a great help, because he paid not for 'em:
Sometimes he is very merry, then agen
He struts about with such a scurvy pride,
As some new crept into Nobility;
When men of their first Livery come to see 'em;
His honour has so chang' him, that he now
Knowes not of what Religion he is;
Or if he chance to thinke of his first faith.
He spits o'th hangings, and excused with,
I do not like the Story, 'tis apocryphall:
Sometimes he'll offer at a jest, and talke
Non-sense with him that has been seaven yeares Lorded;
Frowne upon any man that will presume
To have more knowledge, in worse clothes; I told him
It was his Graces pleasure he should be
Controuler of the Masque, and he did sweat,
To cleere the presence: he is here; away.
Exit.
Hornet and Sr. Clement.
Horn.
And you are Master of the house, Sir Clement,
For so I heard you call'd.
Clem.
It is my name,
Sr. Gyles, unworthy of this grace his Highnesse
Is daign'd to shew in honouring of my daughter.
Horn.
And was she married this morning, say you?
Clem.
This morne she lost her Virgin name.
Horn.
I have not seen her yet, nor any of the Ladies,
You have but little noise methinkes in the house.
Clem.
It would offend his Grace.
Horn.
Who, as you say, came hither privately, with a small train
Of Lords; Would I might see his face agen;
I am not sent for yet, I have beene ready,
Sr. Clement, these three houres, and I do wonder
His Grace forgets himselfe so much.
Clem.
That Musick speaks him on entrance.
Enter Cousen and Lords.
Flourish.
Cous.
I, that garbe becomes him;
How was his person lost within that shape
He was first presented to me?
Horn.
Indeed the case is somewhat
Altered, by your highnesse bounty
To your poore subject, Hornet.
Play.
Now he lookes
As he did scorne the quorum, and were hungry
To eat a Statesman; 'Las an office in
The houshold is too little for a breakfast:
A Baron, but a mornings draught, he'll gulpe it,
Like a round Egge in Muscadine: Me thinkes
At every wiping of his mouth, should drop
A golden saying of Pythagoras;
A piece of Machiavell; I see already
Hang on his Beard (which wants but stroaking out)
Taken a lease at his tongues end.
Cous.
I will think on't;
He shall be—but toth' banquet,
Then let the masque be ready, there we shall
Employ your worthy diligence.
Horn.
Heaven blesse your mightie Grace.
Cous.
You'll follow.
Exit.
Horn.
I attend you presently:
I know not what to think of these things yet,
'Tis verie strange I should be thus exalted
Without desert; best knowne unto my selfe.
Princes I see are mortall, and may be
Deceiv'd in placing of their honours, I
Am little better than a favorite,
If this be true: If? 'tis a question,
Let me consider wisely, it may be
I am not I. No, no, I am a Knight:
Are these my clothes? I did not use to weare such
A pocket in my sleeve and velvet hose,
Six times translated since they were a Mid-wives
Fore-part, were things I wore on holidayes.
The price of these would break a Cammels back,
And yet some men walk under 'em like Elephants,
And have varietie, as the Devill were
Their Taylour, who best knowes where all their land lies.
Then why this cost on me? it is a dreame,
And I am verie glad on't, 'tis impossible
I should be true, it does not hang together,
I will have patience till I wake agen,
And care not what becomes on't.
Enter Sr. Clement.
Clem.
'Tis his Highnesse
Pleasure now the banquet's done.
Horn.
How, the banquet done? I was comming to't,
You could hardly say grace by this time.
That's a ceremony growne out of use;
It was a running banquet.
Horn.
A running? so it seemes, it made great haste:
I doe dreame certainly, there's no sense nor reason
In any thing they say.
Sr. Clem.
You know your place,
The masque will straight begin, and his Grace wo'not
Have any one admitted, he resolves,
If the conceit affect him, it shall be
Perform'd i'th' Court hereafter, i'th' meane time
He does command all privacie: There are
Some set to guard the doore; but your care must
Provide his Highnesse be not interrupted.
Back, they are rude already.
Exit. Knocks.
Horn.
Let me alone:
What turbulent Knave is that?
Within.
I am a Countrey Gentleman, Sr. Gyles;
And if I may presume upon good clothes,
You may before his Grace call me your Couzen,
And not be asham'd; here is a Lady too.
Horn.
A Lady too? Is she with child? What makes she
Here, and she be with child already?
'Tell thee none such shall be admitted, while
I am in place: More rapping? Keep the doores,
If I do fall a swearing once, look to't.
Within.
I beseech you, for my wives sake.
Horn.
Thy wives?
What's he that pleads In forma pauperis?
Within.
A Citizen, and like you.
Horn.
Like me? thou lyest: I am more like a Lord.
Thou shalt fare ne're the better for that word:
Knock downe the women, and there be a hundred,
And make their husbands drunk; the Guard are lazie:
These womens insolence will force a Statute,
I will petition to the King my selfe,
They may have libertie but once a yeere
To their Chamber, and one Prentice—yet agen.
Within.
Sir Gyles, Sr. Gyles, you know me well enough.
Horn.
But while I am in office I'll know no body.
Scri.
I am your Scrivenor.
Horn.
Draw thy purse, wherein
Thou keep'st thy eares, and leave 'em at the doore;
The Guard trust none without a pawne; they'll serve,
If they be ne're redeem'd, to seethe in milke
For a sore throat: Jewes eares I know they are.
Scri.
Sir Gyles, here's your Neece.
Horn.
My Neece? the devill she is.
Neec.
Within.
Pray Uncle let me in.
Horn.
Her very voice: Ha? open the doores there;
Where is she?
With.
Whom?
Horn.
My Neece that call'd to me.
With.
None call'd: nor was there any woman here.
Horn.
No, nor my Scrivener bawling out, Sir Gyles,
Not at any hand your worship.
Horn.
Then I dreame,
And I am a fool to make a question on't.
With.
Ha, ha, ha.
Horn.
The knaves laugh at me, but let 'em, I
Shall be as merry with this tale to morrow:
What fancies men have in their sleep sometimes?
His Highnesse.
Enter Cousen, Lords.
Where be the Ladies?
Clem.
They are all i'th' Masque.
Horn.
Nay, 'tis no matter, why do I aske the question?
Clem.
You'll see 'em, Sir, anon.
1 La.
Wilt please your Grace?
Gives papers to the King and Sr. Gyles
And you Sir Gyles, the subject of the Masque.
Horn.
What's here, the three Goddesses
Contention for the golden ball?
This is Paris; So.
Enter Juno, Pallas, Venus.
These are the three Goddesses;
Juno, Pallas, Venus.
The Goddesses dance, and court Paris for his Ball: To Juno enters one like a King; Takes his Crowne and Scepter, offers it to Paris, be refuses.
2 La.
Juno doth wooe him with her State and Kingdomes.
Horn.
But he refuses, more foole he.
To Pallas, enter one like a Souldier arm'd, with a Booke in his hand; She presents them to Paris, he neglects.
Clem.
He is not for her service, though she offer
To make him Schollar and a Souldier:
A compleat man.
Horn.
No, no, that fairie must win the ball.
To Venus comes Cupid, leading in Hornet's Neece, richly drest.
Ha? that's my Neece.
Clem.
Which, Sr. Gyles?
Horn.
That whom Dame Venus and her Dandiprat
Are busie withall.
1 Lo.
Why that's the Bride.
Horn.
Bride, quotha?
Clem.
Married this morning; 'Tis my daughter, sir.
Horn.
Nay, if she be my Neece, I am sure she was not
Married this morning.
She's safe enough at home,
And has but halfe her wits, as I remember:
The devill cannot juggle her from my custody.
Ha, ha, I do dreame still.
Cupid joynes their hands, and sings; Which done, Exeunt Masquers.
Cous.
'Tis time to breake off revels: How like you this,
Sr. Gyles?
Horn.
A very fine dreame, ifaith.
Cous.
I see you'd be a bed; You are not us'd
To these late houres.
Clem.
Lights for his Highnesse.
Horn.
I humbly beg your license
I may returne to my owne lodging.
Clos.
Well, sir, 'tis easily granted.
Exit.
1 Lo.
Lights for Sir Gyles: One shall attend you home.
Horn.
Ha, ha, ha.
Clem.
Why do you laugh?
Horn.
At a conceit, at a conceit:
What did I eat last night, to make me dream thus?
Exeunt.
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