University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A Grove.
Collier, Faucet.
Col.
Faucet, this is the most outrageous wrong
That ever on two honest hearts was practised.

Fau.
Yes, and it grieves me; but thou art aware
Our final ruin is the consequence
Of such unition.

Col.
It is too apparent.

Fau.
Therefore it us behoves with all our power
To frustrate and undo the fatal match.

Col.
It is a most cruel and unfriendly game!

Fau.
Ay, but the stake we play for, think of that,
And judge if woman's sighs are countervail.
A maid's regret is quickly overpast.
I love Sir Anthony, nor would do aught
Against his good—but I avouch this step
Tends neither to his honour nor his peace—
He's safer far without her—Keep we there.

Col.
Thou did'st astonish me not less than him—
How camest thou by their secret chamber converse?

Fau.
I have a cue none wots of; and, besides,
So long an inmate of her father's house,
I know her bye-words and her pretty oaths,
And all the sly unmeaning terms that hang
Upon her flexile tongue, and nothing lack
But syllables to give them birth in music.
A woman's tongue's the mere machine of feeling;
Nor motive needs of ripen'd thought to move it—
It wags of will—so well I know all this,
She could not in nice circumstance be placed,
That I would not recite some words she utter'd.
Though not precisely, he was then in mood
To have believed it, whether true or not.
Words said in transport barely are remember'd—
I knew I could give that would make the whole
Like truth direct.

Col.
Whom do you mean to blame
As her seducer? Will you criminate
A stranger, or yourself?

Fau.
Nay you, perhaps;
If you affect, you shall the honours wear
Of this high envied prize.

Col.
I would rather not,
If you so please— (Bowing.)
—I humbly thank you, knight.

Fau.
But here the hero comes in woeful guise;
Leave it to me, Sir Richard.

Col.
I do most cordially.

Enter Moore.
Moore.
You left me too abruptly, brother warriors—
You do not wish that women thus should part us?

Fau.
Therefore we left you.

Moore.
Thou wast short, my Faucet,
Obscure, and harsh, and I must beg thee solve
Thy hideous riddle, for its folds have nigh
Reft me of reason.

Fau.
On my life, my lord,
This is too much!—I, in my turn, must beg
Of thee never to name the subject more.
Talk of aught else, of battles, or alarms,
And I'll consort thee, for such talk becomes us.
But thus to harp on such a theme as woman!
That puling, puking, garnish'd levity!
I hate them all, yet never so as now.

Moore.
Few words will serve:—In pity, Faucet, say
All that thou know'st, for something thou dost know
Of most vile import.

Fau.
Dost thou think I love thee?

Moore.
Did I e'er doubt it?

Fau.
I have set my life
On a dead hazard, even for thine honour;
Not once or twice, but often.

Moore.
Yes, thou hast.
My generous friend, I cannot doubt thy love.

Fau.
Then, in one word, this sickening love engagement
Must go no farther—It must either pass
For trick of gallantry, else you and I
Meet not again—The feeling's much beyond
What I can suffer—Must I tell you all?

Moore.
All, every thing—I am prepared for it.

Fau.
Thou know'st her chamber in the eastern turret,
And the fruit-ladder's needful aidance well?
Into that midnight chamber I've been welcomed,
I need not say how oft.
(Moore draws his sword slowly out of the sheath, eyeing him the while.)
Nay, strike, my lord;
If I have wrong'd thee, strike, for this is true.
Could I bear this?—Can I see you enthrall'd
By one that mocks you?—This is not the whole:
I have heard patterings at her window-board,
And her smooth sounding name breathed by the sash,
Soft as the whisper of the autumn breeze.
(Calls in a whisper)
“Caroline, Caroline—wakest thou, my Caroline?
“Chill hangs the night-dew on thy lover's cheek,
“And scarce a star peeps through the rack of heaven!
“O take him to thy bosom, Caroline!”
Did'st thou thyself aye gain admittance there?

Moore.
Damnation on't!
Why do you ask whether I did or not?

Fau.
Finding my conquest shared, I stranger grew;
But late, returning from the wars, I went
Unknowing aught of thee, and was received—

Moore.
Hold, hold! no more! I see it all, and know
How you possest our converse—Infamous!

Fau.
She told me all, and laugh'd at you—I fled
As from a serpent's touch—Am I to blame?

Moore.
No, no, in friendship thou art honourable.
Most infamous, abandon'd cub!—she shall
Pay dear for this!—Curse the whole sex!—I loathe them!
Faucet, think'st thou that hell had ever been
Unless for women?

Fau.
Pray view this as it is,
A jest—sheer gallantry!—Such things are done
In England every day.

Moore.
(Furiously.)
A jest, Sir Barnard!
Did'st thou say jest?—Now, by the soul of him that—
I was about to swear a dreadful oath,
But I'll not do it— (Feigns carelessness.)
—View it as a jest?
Why, so I do—it is a jest—Ha, ha!
(Laughs in his throat, then starts and looks serious.)
'Tis but a dream, a phantasy—but then
'Tis such a pressure on the soul—a blight
Upon the harvest of fair purposes,
The reaper's paralized—Did'st thou say jest?
Then 'tis no dream—Damn him that says it is
One or the other—he that ever said
Or framed such perilous blasphemy as this
Within his heart—Oh, I forgot;
It is a jest, ha, ha!—A goodly one
That soon will set mankind even to the lees,
Grinning like monkies!—Out upon them all,
The neighing chattering race—and you—and you!

(As they support him off, he alternately laughs franticly, and looks enraged.