 | Arden of Feversham |  |
SCENE, another room in Arden's house.
Arden and Franklin sitting together on a couch: Arden thoughtful.
Frank.
Nay, wonder not.—Tho' ev'ry circumstance
Thus strangely met to prove the lady false,
And justify the husband's horrid vengence;
Yet it appears to ev'ry honest eye,
(Too late for the poor lady) she was wrong'd.
Ard.
Is't possible?
Frank.
—Ay very possible:
He lives that proves it so. Conceal'd from justice,
He pines with ceaseless sorrow for his guilt,
And each hour bends him lower towards his grave.
Ard.
I know thy friendship, and perceive its drift.
I'll bear my wrongs—for sure I have been wrong'd.
Do I but think so then! What fools are men
Whom love and hatred, anger, hope, and fear,
And all the various passions, rule by turns,
And in their several turns alike deceive?
Frank.
To cast away, and on suspicion only,
A jewel, like Alicia, were to her
Unjust, and cruel to yourself.
[Clock strikes ten.]
Good night,
The clock has strucken ten.
Ard.
I thought it more.
Frank.
I thought it not so much.
Ard.
Why, thus it is:
Our happy hours are few, and fly so swift,
That they are past ere we begin to count 'em:
But when with pain and misery opprest,
Anticipating Time's unvarying pace,
We think each heavy moment is an age.
Frank.
Come, let's to rest. Impartial as the grave,
Sleep robs the cruel tyrant of his pow'r,
Gives rest and freedom to the o'erwrought slave,
And steals the wretched beggar from his want.
Droop not, my friend, sleep will suspend thy cares,
And time will end them.
Ard.
True, for time brings death,
The only certain end of human woes.
Sleep interrupts, but waking we're restor'd
To all our griefs again. Watching and rest
Alternately succeeding one another,
Are all the idle business of dull life.
What shall we call this undetermin'd state,
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless oceans,
That whence we came, and that to which we tend?
Is it life checker'd with the sleep of death?
Or death enliven'd by our waking dreams?
But we'll to bed. Here, Michael, bring the lights.
Enter Michael with lights.
Heaven send you good repose.
[Gives Franklin a candle.
Frank.
The like to you.
Mich.
Shall I attend you, sir?
Frank.
No, no, I choose to be alone. Good night.
Exit Franklin. Michael attends his master with the other light, and returns.]
Mich.
I, who shou'd take my weapon in my hand,
And guard his life with hazard of my own,
With fraudful smiles have led him, unsuspecting,
Quite to the jaws of death—But I've an oath.
Mosby has bound me with an horrid vow,
Which if I break, these dogs have sworn my death.
I've left the doors unbar'd.—Hark! 'twas the latch.
They come—I hear their oaths, and see their daggers
Insulting o'er my master's mangled body,
While he for mercy pleads.—Good master, live:
I'll bar the doors again. But shou'd I meet 'em—
What's that?—I heard 'em cry, Where is this coward?
Arden once dead, they'll murder me for sport.
Help—call the neighbours—Master—Franklin—help.
Enter Arden and Franklin, undress'd, at several doors.
Ard.
What dismal outcry's this?
Frank.
What frights thee, Michael?
Mich.
My master!—Franklin!
Ard.
Why do'st tremble so?
Mich.
I dream'd the house was full of thieves and murderers.
[Trembling.
Ard.
Dream'd! what, awake! Are all the doors made fast?
Mich.
I think they are.
Ard.
I'll go and see myself.
[Exit Arden.
Frank.
You made a fearful noise.
Mich.
Did I?—
Ard.
[within]
Why Michael!
Frank.
You tremble still.—Has any one been here?
Mich.
No, I hope not. My master will be angry.
Enter Arden.
Ard.
This negligence not half contents me, sir:
The doors were all left open.
Mich.
Sir—
Ard.
To bed,
And as you prize my favour be more careful.
[Exit Michael.
Frank.
'Tis very cold. Once more, my friend—
Ard.
Good night.
[Exit Arden.
Scene changes to the street before Arden's door, the door shut.
Enter Black Will, and Shakebag.
B. Will.
Zounds! Michael has betray'd us—
The doors are fast. Away, away—Disperse.
[Exeunt.
Arden and Franklin sitting together on a couch: Arden thoughtful.
Frank.
Nay, wonder not.—Tho' ev'ry circumstance
Thus strangely met to prove the lady false,
And justify the husband's horrid vengence;
Yet it appears to ev'ry honest eye,
(Too late for the poor lady) she was wrong'd.
Ard.
Is't possible?
Frank.
—Ay very possible:
He lives that proves it so. Conceal'd from justice,
He pines with ceaseless sorrow for his guilt,
And each hour bends him lower towards his grave.
Ard.
I know thy friendship, and perceive its drift.
I'll bear my wrongs—for sure I have been wrong'd.
Do I but think so then! What fools are men
Whom love and hatred, anger, hope, and fear,
And all the various passions, rule by turns,
And in their several turns alike deceive?
Frank.
To cast away, and on suspicion only,
A jewel, like Alicia, were to her
34
Good night,
The clock has strucken ten.
Ard.
I thought it more.
Frank.
I thought it not so much.
Ard.
Why, thus it is:
Our happy hours are few, and fly so swift,
That they are past ere we begin to count 'em:
But when with pain and misery opprest,
Anticipating Time's unvarying pace,
We think each heavy moment is an age.
Frank.
Come, let's to rest. Impartial as the grave,
Sleep robs the cruel tyrant of his pow'r,
Gives rest and freedom to the o'erwrought slave,
And steals the wretched beggar from his want.
Droop not, my friend, sleep will suspend thy cares,
And time will end them.
Ard.
True, for time brings death,
The only certain end of human woes.
Sleep interrupts, but waking we're restor'd
To all our griefs again. Watching and rest
Alternately succeeding one another,
Are all the idle business of dull life.
What shall we call this undetermin'd state,
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless oceans,
That whence we came, and that to which we tend?
Is it life checker'd with the sleep of death?
Or death enliven'd by our waking dreams?
But we'll to bed. Here, Michael, bring the lights.
Enter Michael with lights.
Heaven send you good repose.
[Gives Franklin a candle.
Frank.
The like to you.
Mich.
Shall I attend you, sir?
35
No, no, I choose to be alone. Good night.
Exit Franklin. Michael attends his master with the other light, and returns.]
Mich.
I, who shou'd take my weapon in my hand,
And guard his life with hazard of my own,
With fraudful smiles have led him, unsuspecting,
Quite to the jaws of death—But I've an oath.
Mosby has bound me with an horrid vow,
Which if I break, these dogs have sworn my death.
I've left the doors unbar'd.—Hark! 'twas the latch.
They come—I hear their oaths, and see their daggers
Insulting o'er my master's mangled body,
While he for mercy pleads.—Good master, live:
I'll bar the doors again. But shou'd I meet 'em—
What's that?—I heard 'em cry, Where is this coward?
Arden once dead, they'll murder me for sport.
Help—call the neighbours—Master—Franklin—help.
Enter Arden and Franklin, undress'd, at several doors.
Ard.
What dismal outcry's this?
Frank.
What frights thee, Michael?
Mich.
My master!—Franklin!
Ard.
Why do'st tremble so?
Mich.
I dream'd the house was full of thieves and murderers.
[Trembling.
Ard.
Dream'd! what, awake! Are all the doors made fast?
Mich.
I think they are.
Ard.
I'll go and see myself.
[Exit Arden.
Frank.
You made a fearful noise.
Mich.
Did I?—
36
[within]
Why Michael!
Frank.
You tremble still.—Has any one been here?
Mich.
No, I hope not. My master will be angry.
Enter Arden.
Ard.
This negligence not half contents me, sir:
The doors were all left open.
Mich.
Sir—
Ard.
To bed,
And as you prize my favour be more careful.
[Exit Michael.
Frank.
'Tis very cold. Once more, my friend—
Ard.
Good night.
[Exit Arden.
Scene changes to the street before Arden's door, the door shut.
Enter Black Will, and Shakebag.
B. Will.
Zounds! Michael has betray'd us—
The doors are fast. Away, away—Disperse.
[Exeunt.
| Arden of Feversham | |