University of Virginia Library

ACTUS TERTIUS.

Scæna Prima.

Emilia and Lauia.
Emil.
Your good demeasnor may procure a pardon,
But you must worke it first.

Lav.
I shall indeauer.

Emil.
Are all things readie?

Lav.
Yes.

Emil.
Where's your lord?

Lav.
There, madam.

Enter Millecert.
Emil.
Come, you are allwayes y'your dumps; be merry, man,
And see how I can force a mirth: for can it
Be naturall to see my younger sister,
(And onely in opinion toe, not blood,)
Triumphing in her pride, by the duke's fauor,
And I must crouch to her, as to an idoll?
O my diuining soule, that prompted mee
To fixe her glorie in obscuritie!
Wo'd she had neuer seene the light! But I
Will put on calmenes, smooth as innocence,
Till anger finds a way vnto my wishes.

Mille.
And will you vent it, when she sues for peace,
That hath receyued the iniurie?

Emil.
True, she sends for mee,
And with faire promises couers her wrongs:
But shall I trust her? Wo'd you trust your brother,
If hee should seeke a reconcilement?

Mille.
Oh, you raise a storme within my breast, that cannot
Bee laid without a shower of teares; I wo'd
Repaire the breatch I ha' made with any hazard.

Emil.
Then th'art a thinne brain'd fellow, and I'le vse yee soe:
A flegmetique soule—Now I am going to court,
I must not be rain'd vp by a tame musler,
That shall confine my freedome to his winks.
A roming eye is a court comet, and
Showes the prodigious fall of some great man.
Husbands, like rough drawne shadowes, nere at hand
Looke course and scurvelie, but at a distance
They sett a hansome peice of prittie well.
In time you'le know what's fitt.

Mille.
My brother's iniuries
Fall thick vpon mee now. Yee guids of reason,
Why do you giue mee patience to indure this?

Emil.
Nay, you must beare more yet, therefore 'tis best
To practize now.

Enter Pantarbo.
Pant.
My honor'd lady, welcome!
I must redouble it, for the duke's mistris
Kisses her.
Your faire and vertuous sister, with a sweetnes
Equall vnto her beautie, doth command it.

Emil.
Shee is all goodnes.

Pant.
But your faire indowments
(Were there no other motiue) will attract
The powers—vm—shakes on 't! see now if I can hitt on 't—
The powers—and faculties of humane reason,
Aside.
To such an apprehension of your worth
That all the world will striue to doe you seruice
For y'are a peece of s---
The whole of all felicit---

Emil.
My lord,
I find such high perfections flowing ---
That I must stop the currant of yo---
And pay some tribute back againe, for ---
She kisses Pantarbo.
I haue receyued. This cannot choose but vex---

Pant.
You rauish mee with sweetnes, dearest lady.

Mille.
I shall grow desperate, rackt with iniuries,
And breake into reuenge. I now begin
To see my shame and loth it: 'tis belowe
My spirit to grapple with weake words or woman,
But I will gaine a conquest on my selfe.

Exit.
Pant.
The man is iealous sure?

Emil.
Hee is, my lord.

Pant.
Wo'd he were here agen, that I might kill him
With kissing thee.

Reenter Millecert.
Mille.
Why heere hee is agen—
Thou ragg of vanitie, patcht into greatnes,
What dar'st thou doe?

Drawes.
Pant.
O hold! I was in ieast, sir.

Mille.
Take that in earnest then; thou hast a soule
Toe cheape for my revenge.

He hurts him.
Emil.
Help! murder! help!

Exeunt Millecert and Emilia.
Enter Antonio and Trebutio.
Pant.
O heere he comes agen!

Peepes vp.
Anto.
What noise was that?

Treb.
It was Emilia that past by.

Anto.
Shee raises
Tempests where e're shee goes. Wo'd I were safe
I'my owne witts againe at home; the court
Will ---hen such black porpisces
[OMITTED]
---t-man
--- growne a fauorite. Sure 'tis shee
---amant so raues on, for the duke
---nd her 'a hunting.
There hee tooke her vp
And 'tis not the first wench his goodly beagles
Haue hunted after: Busiro's old dog at it.
Braines of a brick-bat! looke where a lord lies!

Treb.
Sleeping.
This shred is cutt y'the whole peece. Hee's hurt—

Anto.
And feares a second slash. Wee'le ha' some sport.
Behold the fall of a great man, whome time
And enuie of his good parts hath brought lowe.

Treb.
'Tis strange! among his owne, so nere the court
Where he was honor'd.

Anto.
Truly 'tis great pittie;
Wee'le see him nobly buried. Are yee peeping?

He lifts vp his head.
Pant.
O, I am kil'd!

Anto.
With what, a ladie's lipp?

Pant.
The villaine Millecert has run mee through
Because I kist his wife.

Anto.
You must be licking,
And liquorish flies do sometimes meet with flaps.

Treb.
Gett vp—gett vp.

Pant.
I cannot stand.

Treb.
I warrant yee.

Pant.
O for a surgion quickly, I shall sound elce.

Treb.
If you be sound you neede no surgion.

Anto.
Come,
Weele lead him to Romilia's, and cage him
Among the vncleane birds, his father feeds there.

Treb.
The whores will pinch him to the quick.

Anto.
No matter—
His lordship's strong broths must haue vent; you see
Hee is too rampant. Will your lordship walke now,
And leaue your cringes and long leggs?

Pant.
O gentlemen—
I doe beseech you help mee.

Anto.
The good man
Is mortified. I'le take his wound for two pence.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Cloris and Emilia.
Clo.
Sister, I haue no time to speake your welcome,
The duke is coming in.

Emil.
O noble madame,
I find a sad repentance for the ills
I did inflict vpon you, and your goodnes
In this your pardon, moues a thankefulnes,
Would melt mee into teares; mine actions shall
Hereafter in the humblest straine of gratitude
Expresse a sorrow, though I neuer can
Deserue forgiuenes.

Clo.
Vrge no more—We'are friends.

Emil.
I hope this is well acted; if it bee not
I could draw flouds of teares out, rather then
Betray mine enuie to her.

Aside.
Clo.
See, the duke.

Enter The Duke, Busiro, Antonio, Trebutio, Seruius, Tonsus, and Attendants.
Duke.
My prittie Cloris, thou art all the ioy
The world hath left mee, and reviu'st a loue
That hath bene buryed long. Who's that?

Clo.
My sister.

Duke.
Shee is most welcome for thy sake.

Emil.
What curse
Gouern'd my birth, that I deserue no better?

Duke.
Thou hast bene absent long: when I am frome thee
I wander from the course of all my comfort.
Here lett mee fixe, for should my roving fancie
Incounter all the obiects that great Nature
Hath framed beautifull, they would appeare
But drosse compar'd to this. Me-thinks shee looks
Like a cælestiall figure, that hath borrowed
Mortallitie, to mock the world withall.

Anto.
The duke is strangely alter'd.

Treb.
Past beleefe!

Duke.
Nay, it is soe: elce could her eares be deafe
To my solicitations? If thou bee'st
Compos'd of the same elements wee are,
Instruct thy hart to loue, that I may find
There's something in thee mortall!

Anto.
Marke Emilia,
How her soule grates to heare this.

Duke.
Dearest Cloris,
Thou dost not know my loue yett.

Whisper.
Treb.
See Busiro,
How hee looks crest-falne.

Anto.
Ha's bene at it lately.
He has an ytch, the old goate must be frisking.

Treb.
Hee's very sad a'late; something lyes heauy on him.

Anto.
Those little leggs of his support a waight
Of villainie wo'd make strong Atlas bend.

Treb.
But yet he hants the wenches at Romilia's
To recreate his spirits.

Anto.
Hee may do any-thing.
The duke thinks all complaints that come against him
Proceed from enuie. 'Tis the miserie
Of princes that they are debarr'd the freedome
That wee enioy, they learne no other tunes
But what theise whistle to 'em.

Treb.
If hee goes now a bulling,
Hee may chance find the calfe his sonne before him.

Enter Aramant.
Anto.
S'so, here comes Aramant.

Treb.
What do's hee heere?

Ara.
'Tis shee, or elce my memorie's too actiue
For all my faculties. My great preseruer,
So nere the duke! I neuer heard of her.
Am I myselfe? or is this some new fancie
Shaping another ruine to my reason?
I am not much distemper'd now; the greatest
Passion I feele is mou'd by her faire eyes—
This litle peece of life knocks at the dore
As if it wo'd breake out. I will speake to her—
Yet stay—there's danger in't—To snatch a prey
From a feirce lion's foot, doth argue rashnes
Not resolution. See gazes on mee,
And casts her eyes to heauen, as if her vowes
Were written there. There is some secret in't.

Treb.
The duke is angrie!

Duke.
All forbeare the roome.

Anto.
This is some soudaine passion—Lett's away.

Exeunt.
Duke.
Cloris, I find my tendernes begetts
A disrespect in thee; that which I thought
To bee a harmelesse inocence, appeares
Proud, and disdainefull follie: I did marke,
When Aramant came in, how your blood danc't
Vpon your cheekes, your eyes were riuetted
As if you ment to fixe there, and my words
Past vnregarded by.

Clo.
My lord, I fear'd
Least the distemper which his iniuries
Haue brought vpon him, sho'd breake into rage
Here in your presence, to disturbe the quiet
Of your faire mind.

Duke.
Come, that is not the cause.
Can'st thou desire my quiett, and yett bee
So cruell to mee?

Clo.
If I do not prize it
More then my happines, then lett that leaue mee!
I wo'd lay downe my life to buy your peace.

Duke.
This is a ridle. Would'st thou purchase that
So dearely, which thou might'st so easily giue?
Thy loue will doe it.

Clo.
Why, you haue it, sir;
My dutie calls mee your's as y'are my prince,
And as you haue rais'd mee to this height of fauor,
Aboue the ascent of my desert, preseruing
My honor free, you haue so farr oblig'd mee,
Made mee so much a seruant to your goodnes,
That my poore loue is lost in soe much merrit.

Duke.
Then I shall find it. 'Tis enough; I ioy
In thy expressions, as condemned captiues
In a repriue, when Death, with shaking hand,
Doth threaten 'em. Deare Cloris, vse thy power
In my great loue, make mee to show the world,
There is not any thing man calls a blisse
But what is in thee. Wilt thou not command mee?
I cannot thinke thou lou'st mee, as thou sai'st,
If that thou dost not fixe thy sole beleife,
That I do prize no benefitt, this peice
Of transitorie life can yeild to man,
Equall vnto thy loue.

Clo.
How am I wretched,
That I must yett refuse so great a blessing!
Sir, I could weepe my eyes out, if your sufferings
Wo'd bee lost with 'em: there is such a vertue
Habituate in you, that it is more hard
For mee to abandon such an noble loue,
Then to confirme my peace of mind for vrging
Vnkindnes from a hart soe full of goodnes.

Duke.
What meanes my Cloris?

Clo.
I am sorry, sir,
You do not vnderstand mee, for I greiue
To speake more of it, yett I may bee bolder,
For sure there is some hidden power restraines
My will in this affection, elce my blood
Could not be circled in with such a snow!
With greater sorrow, then example can
Show to the eyes of men, I now must begg
You wo'd not loue mee.

Duke.
'Tis a strange request!
And dost thou greiue to begg it toe?

Clo.
I doe.

Duke.
'Tis an odd louing way, to begg the want
Of what you most desire.

Clo.
Nay, you may thinke it
Maddnes in mee; and indeed my mind
Is much perplext, for it doth trouble mee
To speake theise harsh words, more then you to heare 'em.

Duke.
This is some new-found way to try my loue;
Thou can'st not make it greater. Doe not hold mee
In this suspence, it may diminish it—
I am as subiect vnto passions as any other man—
Doe not prouoke mee—
I prithe do not—'tis my loue intreats thee—
Thinke but of that and then thou wilt not change.

Clo.
I am not chang'd, sir.

Duke.
Noe! Did'st thou not tell mee
That thou did'st prize mee more then happines?
Aboue thy life? equall vnto thy soule?
And do'st thou now recant?

Clo.
I am the same still,
And euer wil be soe. I feele a dutie
That ties my reuerence to you: I could kneele
As to a father, and heere offer vp
My teares to tell you, that my fate hath otherwise
Dispos'd of mee.

Duke.
Yes, I haue found your haunt out,
You doate on Aramant! I am too old,
Fitter to bee a father then a husband!
Is thy mind so lasciuious? I did thinke
It had bene like thy lookes, without a blemish,
Pure, cleare and innocent; but now I find
Black lust inhabitts there.

Clo.
O, say not soe, sir!

Kneels.
Duke.
I know not what to say indeed: myne anger
Transports mee soe, and yett I am too calme,
And beare too much. If my loue can doe nothing,
Lett thy ambition moue thee! Is the name
Of dutches in noe more regard? Can that
Not stirr affection? Art thou not a woman?
The dames of Burgundie will blush for thee
When they shall know this. There is something in thee
That calls to my remembrance, I had once
A vertuous wife; for her faire sake I will not
Vse thee with harshnes. Rise; me-thinks thou should'st
Bee kinder to mee, for I cannot choose
But loue thee dearely.

Clo.
If the same regard
Holds not my hart in reuerentiall feare
And dutie to your grace, then let mee neuer
Haue libertie to looke vpon you more,
Which if you barr mee from, I shall dye wretched.

Duke.
This is the strangest loue that e're was heard,
Thou shouldst affect mee thus, yett shun'st the way
That doth expresse it most.

Clo.
I loue your noblenes,
And I could alwayes dwell with such a vertue.

Duke.
Come, theise are tricks to putt mee of; I will not
Foole my selfe out of my desires; thy slownes
Is fuell to my fire, which all thy teares
Cannot extinguish. Doe not vrge mee further:
I shall grow furious—yett I cannot hurt her,
There dwells such prittie innocencie in her!
I am resolu'd—Busiro! Who's without there?

Enter Busiro.
Busi.
Your grace—

Duke.
Bee this your charge, and on your life
Lett none come nere her. It is fitt that shee
Should bee a prisoner, that doth captiue mee.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Romilia and Mela.
Rom.
Looke that the house be hansome; sweeten the roomes;
Lay your best things abroad—the lord Busiro
Will bee heere presently.

Mel.
All shal be readie.

Rom.
Hee brings the Indies with him: 'tis his purse
That giues vs meanes to eate, to drinke, to sleepe:
Hee tyes vp all men's tougnes—a nobleman
For a protector, and a courtier too,
Is no meane base to build on.

Mel.
But, for the branch of the old tree, Pantarbo,
What will you do with him?

Rom.
I'le mew him vp.
I find the young lord coming, hee may happ
To make vs all. But not a word of him
To the old lord.

Mel.
I'm mute.

Rom.
About your busines,
And I'le goe visitt my young sickly suckling.
O, 'tis a bucksome boy!

Exeunt.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Pantarbo in an old night-gowne and capp, with a foule napkin about his necke.
Pant.
Shame a'your surgerie, if yee call this mending!
My hurt is well enough, 'twas but a scratch:
But now they haue crackt mee betwixt wind and water
A'most past cure. Stay, let me feele my selfe.
Shakes his leggs.
'Tis reasonable well yett. Troth, Romilia
Is very kind. 'Tis a good wench, I warrant her,
Shee is soe carefull. Heere shee comes—

Enter Romilia.
Rom.
Sweet lord,
You will take cold; health is a tender thing.
I wo'd not, for the wealth of Burgundie,
You sho'd miscarry heere. Soe braue a courtier,
One so compleately man! Preserue yourselfe:
My house is your's, and so am I; your noblenes
Inflames my hart to serue you.

Pant.
Why, I thank yee.
I haue enough, you haue giuen mee enough.

Rom.
If any thing bee wanting, lett me know it:
All that are mine attends yee. Y'are not merry;
I do not find mirth sparkling in your eye,
As it was wont.

Pant.
Who, I? I am all fire
In my affection to thee, deare Romilia.
I must goe scowre vp one a'old speeches
Aside.
To stop her mouth, I shall not be at quiet elce.
Thy loue to mee is of more price, then number
Or memorie can value; such a sweetnes
The world's impouerisht in, for heere is all
That man can call a blessing: smiles, wo'd tempt
Carthusians from their cells: cheekes, lips, and eyes
Wo'd make proud Loue himself a sacrifice.
I doe restraine my fluent faculties
From a full joy, elce my redundant hart
Could not but bee too silent.

Rom.
Now it works.
Aside.
This is, my lord, too much the other way;
If that you knew at what a deare regard
I hold your worth, you would not mock your seruant.

Pant.
'Slid! I must now professe what I but ieasted,
Aside.
Or I shall marr all—Prithee, pule not, wanton,
I am in earnest; th'art a prittie sweeting.
What I can say, or doe, shall both direct
Their ends to thee. Come, come, thou knowst I loue thee.

Rom.
Then for my sweet, I'le haue delight, with wreathes
To crowne thy browes. This lint shall vanish hence;
Plentie shall deck thy tables, while the waiters
Shall, like so many Bacchanalian nimphs,
Dance thee a Thrasian round.

Pant.
This wil bee rare.

Enter Mela.
Rom.
How now?

Mel.
The lord Busiro's at the door;
Shift my young cub into his hole againe,
Hee'le bee smelt out elce.

Rom.
My dearest lord,
I haue the rarest pictures.

Pant.
I had rather
Behold the substance.

Rom.
You shall see 'em all.
But, pray, keepe warme.

Pant.
Theise are the kindest wenches.

Exeunt.
Enter Busiro solus.
Busi.
Conscience, thou followest mee; I cannot shun thee,
No more then I can shun the wickednes
I haue committed! There's a hell within mee.
Who wo'd bee pollitique? This faire pretence
Guilds many a foule crime o're; and to trust witches,
And make 'em oracles of truth! What diuell
Vrg'd me to this beleife? the sence of theise
I faine wo'd mittigate, and cannot do it
But by addition of as bad; and there's
Another crosse too—my vngratious sonne
I thinke is dead; I haue not heard of him
Since his last hurt. There's nothing now but women
Can putt new life into mee; when I see 'em,
I shall forgett the miseries I suffer,
As if I had drunke Lethæ. Who's within there?

Enter Romilia, two or three Wenches.
Rom.
My gratious lord!

Busi.
How now my wanton flippitt?
Where are thy ging of sweetnes? this is mettle
To coyne young Cupids in. Wo'd each haire
That fronts this face co'd like a circling serpent
Twine 'bout your naked limbs! Alas I'me old,
But yett I haue a mind as vigorous
As a hott veined negro. Farewell Care,
I banish thee for euer; lett vs sett
And tast a banquett wo'd make Cleopatra
A bankrupt to prouide, while from theise cates,
Like Eson's bath, wee do renew our strength
To a new world of blish.

Rom.
My deare lord's welcome.

Busi.
Now I am in my sphere: me thinks I looke
Like Joue in his bright orbe. O for a dram
Of that elixar, that made Hercules
Incounter fiftie maids, and make 'em mothers
All in one night! Crowne mee a boule of wine.
Heere is a health to our great patronesse,
And her blind son; lett it goe round.

Rom.
More wine.

Busi.
Yett this is but a blast, a flash of ioy:
Aside.
There is a hidden horror in my breast
I cannot shake of.

Rom.
What d'ye want, my lord?

Busi.
Nothing; a toy I thought on. Fill more wine.

Rom.
Come, Mela, sing the song you studied last.

[Mela]
SONG.

Busi.
Are you of that mind too?

Pantarbo above.
All.
Wee all are soe.

Busi.
Good girles, good girles!

Pant.
O thou old incubus!
Aside.
So many wenches at a clap! 'Tis strange,
One that lookes like the master of Bridewell
Sho'd loue the game soe. How he grins and wehes!
Hee's myne owne father right, a plaine Sir Pecksell,
A gray-rump stallion. I'le preserue thy bones,
When thou art dead; they will bee excellent
For readie propogation.

A knock within.
Mela.
Who's that knocks?

Busi.
Keepe fast the dore.

Serv.
It is one from the duke
Wo'd speake with lord Busiro.

Busi.
Hang his busines!
Farwell, farwell, good wenches! I will find
Some other time—I thanke yee, I thanke yee all.

Exeunt.
Pant.
This is some new state trick to keepe th'old man
From his deare recreation. Well, the prouerbe
“Follow thy father, good son!” you heere shall see:
If it bee good for him, 'tis good for mee.

Exit.