University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

Enter Valentine, and Michael.
Mich.
That he is desperate sick I do believe well,
And that without a speedy cure it kills him,
But that it lyes within the help of Physick
Now to restore his health, or art to cure him;
Believe it you are cozen'd; clean beside it.
I would tell ye the true cause too, but 'twould vex ye,
Nay, run ye mad.

Val.
May all I have restore him?
So dearly and so tenderly I love him,
I do not know the cause why, yea my life too.

Mich.
Now I perceive ye so well set, I'll tell you,
Hei mihi quod nullis Amor est medicabilis herbis.

Val.
'Twas that I only fear'd: good friend go from me,
I find my heart too full for further conference;
You are assur'd of this?

Mich.
'Twill prove too certain,
But bear it nobly, Sir, Youth hath his errours.

Val.
I shall do, and I thank ye; 'pray ye no words on't.

Mich.
I do not use to talk, Sir.

[Exit.
Val.
Ye are welcome;
Is there no Constancy in earthly things,
No happiness in us, but what must alter?
No life without the heavy load of Fortune?
What miseries we are, and to our selves,
Even then when full content seems to sit by us,
What daily sores and sorrows?

Enter Alice.
Alice.
O dear Brother,
The Gentleman if ever you will see him
Alive as I think.

Enter Cellide.
Cel.
O he faints, for Heavens sake,
For Heavens sake, Sir.

Val.
Go comfort him, dear Sister.
[Exit Alice.
And one word, sweet, with you: then we'll go to him.
What think you of this Gentleman?

Cel.
My pity thinks, Sir,
'Tis great misfortune that he should thus perish.

Val.
It is indeed, but Cellide, he must dye.

Cel.
That were a cruelty, when care may cure him,
Why do you weep so, Sir? he may recover.

Val.
He may, but with much danger; my sweet Cellide,
You have a powerful tongue.

Cel.
To do you service.

Val.
I will betray his grief; he loves a Gentlewoman,
A friend of yours, whose heart another holds,
He knows it too, yet such a sway blind fancy,
And his not daring to deliver it,
Have won upon him, that they must undo him:
Never so hopeful and so sweet a Spirit,
Misfortune fell so foul on.

Cel.
Sure she's hard hearted,
That can look on, and not relent, and deeply
At such a misery; she is not married?

Val.
Not yet.

Cel.
Nor near it?

Val.
When she please.

Cel.
And pray Sir,
Does he deserve her truly, that she loves so?

Val.
His love may merit much, his Person little,
For there the match lyes mangled.

Cel.
Is he your friend?

Val.
He should be, for he is near me.

Cel.
Will not he dye then,
When th'other shall recover?

Val.
Ye have pos'd me.

Cel.
Methinks he should go near it, if he love her;
If she love him.

Val.
She does, and would do equal.

Cel.
'Tis a hard task you put me; yet for your sake
I will speak to her, all the art I have;
My best endeavours; all his Youth and Person,
His mind more full of beauty; all his hopes
The memory of such a sad example,
Ill spoken of, and never old; the curses
Of loving maids, and what may be alledg'd
I'll lay before her: what's her Name? I am ready.

Val.
But will you deal effectually?

Cel.
Most truly;
Nay, were it my self, at your entreaty:

Val.
And could ye be so pitiful?

Cel.
So dutiful;
Because you urge it, Sir.

Val.
It may be then
It is your self.

Cel.
It is indeed, I know it,
And now know how ye love me.

Val.
O my dearest,
Let but your goodness judge; your own part's pity;
Set but your eyes on his afflictions;
He is mine, and so becomes your charge: but think
What ruine Nature suffers in this young man,
What loss humanity, and noble manhood;
Take to your better judgment my declining,
My Age hung full of impotence, and ills,
My Body budding now no more: seer Winter
Hath seal'd that sap up, at the best and happiest
I can but be your infant, you my Nurse,
And how unequal dearest; where his years,
His sweetness, and his ever spring of goodness,
My fortunes growing in him, and my self too,
Which makes him all your old love; misconceive not,
I say not this as weary of my bondage,
Or ready to infringe my faith; bear witness,
Those eyes that I adore still, those lamps that light me
To all the joy I have.

Cel.
You have said enough, Sir,
And more than e'r I thought that tongue could utter,
But you are a man, a false man too.

Val.
Dear Cellide.

Cel.
And now, to shew you that I am a woman
Rob'd of her rest, and fool'd out of her fondness,
The Gentleman shall live, and if he love me,
Ye shall be both my triumphs; I will to him,
And as you carelesly fling off your fortune,
And now grow weary of my easie winning,
So will I lose the name of Valentine,
From henceforth all his flatteries, and believe it,
Since ye have so slightly parted with affection,
And that affection you have pawn'd your faith for;
From this hour no repentance, vows, nor prayers
Shall pluck me back again; what I shall do,
Yet I will undertake his cure, expect it,
Shall minister no comfort, no content
To either of ye, but hourly more vexations.

Val.
Why, let him dye then.

Cel.
No, so much I have loved
To be commanded by you, that even now,
Even in my hate. I will obey your wishes.

Val.
What shall I do?

Cel.
Dye like a fool unsorrow'd,
A bankrupt fool, that flings away his Treasure;
I must begin my cure.

Val.
And I my Crosses.

[Exeunt.