University of Virginia Library

Scene 3.

Dionysia. Rafe.
Dio.
Thou tell'st me things, that truth never came near.

Ra.
Tis perfect truth: you may believe it, Lady.

Dio.
Maintain't but in one sillable more, Ile tear
Thy mischievious tongue out.

Ra.
Fit reward for Tell-troths.
But that's not the reward you promis'd me
For watching of your brothers actions;
You said forsooth (if't please you to remember)
That you would love me for it.

Dio.
Arrogant Rascal.
I bad thee bring account of what he did
Against his enemy; and thou reportst.
He took his enemies danger on himself,
And help't to rescue him whose bloody father
Kild ours. Can truth or common reason claim
A part in this report? My brother doe't!
Or draw a sword to help Theophilus.

Ra.
Tis not for any spight I ow my Master,
But for my itch at her that I do this.
I am strangely taken. Such brave spirited women
Have cherish'd strong back'd servingmen ere now.

Dio.
Why dost not get thee from my sight, false fellow?

Ra.
Ile be believed first. Therefore pray have patience
To peruse that.

gives her a paper.
Dio.
My brothers charecter!
Theophilus sisters name—The brighter Lucy
So often written? nothing but her name—
But change of attributes—one serves not twice.
Blessed, divine, Illustrious, all perfection;
And (so heaven bless me) powerful in one place.
The worst thing I read yet, heap of all vertues—
Bright shining, and all these ascrib'd to Lucy.
O I could curse thee now for being so just
Would thou had'st belied him still.

Ra.
I nere belied him, I.

Dio.
O mischief of affection! Monstrous! horrid.
It shall not pass so quietly. Nay stay.

Ra.
Shee'l cut my throat I fear.

Dio.
Thou art a faithful servant.

Ra.
It may do yet:
To you I am sweet Lady, and to my master
In true construction: he is his friend I think
That finds his follies out to have them cur'd,
Which you have onely the true spirit to do.

Dio.
How I do love thee now!

Ra.
And your love Mistress,
(Brave sprightly Mistress) is the steeple top
Or rather Weathercock o'top of that
To which aspires my lifes ambition.

Dio.
How didst thou get this paper.

Ra.
Amongst many
Of his rare twelve-moneths melancholy works,
That lie in's study. Mistress tis apparent
His melancholy all this while has been
More for her Love, then for his fathers death.

Dio.
Thou hast my love for ever.

Ra.
Some small token
In earnest of it. Mistress, would be felt,

He offers to kiss her, she strikes him.
Dio,
Take that in earnest then.

Ra.
It is a sure one.
And the most feeling pledge she could have given:
For she is a virago. And I have read
That your viragoes use to strike all those
They mean to lie with: And from thence tis taken
That your brave active women are call'd strikers.

Dio.
Set me that chair.

Ra.
The warm touch of my flesh
Already works in her. I shall be set
To better work immediately. I am prevented.
Away and be not seen. Be sure I love thee.

Enter Arthur.
Ra.
A ha! This clinches. Another time I'm sure on't.

exit.
Ar.
Sister! where are you? How now not well or sleepy.

(She sits.
Dio.
Sick brother—sick at heart, oh—

Ar.
Passion of heart! where are our servants now
To run for doctors? ho—

Dio.
Pray stay and hear me.
Her's no work for them. They'l find a master here
Too powerful for the strength of all their knowledge.

Ar.
What at thy heart?

Dio.
Yes, brother, at my heart.
Too scornful to be dispossest by them.

Ar.
What may that proud grief be? good sister name it.

Dio.
It grieves me more to name it, then to suffer't.
Since I have endur'd the worst on't, and prov'd constant
To sufferance and silence, twere a weakness
Now to betray a sorrow, by a name,
More fit to be severely felt then known.

Ar.
Indeed I'le know it.

Dio.
Rather let me die,
Then so afflict your understanding, Sir.

Ar.
It shall not afflict me.

Dio.
I know you'l chide me for't.

Ar.
Indeed you wrong me now. Can I chide you?

Dio.
If you be true and honest you must do't,
And hartily.

Ar.
You tax me nearly there.

Dio.
And that's the physick must help me or nothing.

Ar.
With grief I go about to cure a grief then.
Now speak it boldly, Sister.

Dio.
Noble Physitian—It is—

Ar.
It is! What is it? If you love me, speak.

Dio.
Tis—love and I beseech thee spare me not.

Ar.
Alas dear sister, canst thou think that love
Deserves a chiding in a gentle breast?

Dio.
Do you pitty me already. O faint man
That tremblest but at opening of a wound!
What hope is there of thee to search and dress it?
But I am in thy hands, and forc'd to try thee.
I love—Theophilus—

Ar.
Ha!

Dio.
Theophilus, brother;
His son that slew our father. Ther's a love!
O more then time 'twere look'd, for fear it festers.

Ar.
She has put me to't indeed. What must I do?
She has a violent spirit; so has he;
And though I wish most seriously the match,
Whereby to work mine own with his fair Sister,
The danger yet, in the negotiation
May quite destroy my course; spoyle all my hopes.
Ile therefore put her off on't if I can.

Dio.
Can you be tender now?

Ar.
What? To undo you?
I love you not so slightly. Pardon me.
A rough hand must be us'd: For here's a wound
Must not be gently touch'd; you perish then,
Under a Brothers pitty. Pray sit quiet;
For you must suffer all.

Dio.
I'le strive to do it.

Ar.
To love the Son of him that slew your Father!
To say it shews unlovingness of nature;
Forgetfulness in blood, were all but shallow
To the great depth of danger your fault stands in.
It rather justifies the act it self,
And commends that down to posterity
By your blood-cherishing embraces. Children,
Born of your body, will, instead of tears,
By your example, offer a thankful joy
To the sad memory of their Gransiers slaughter.
Quite contrary! How fearful 'tis to think on't!
What may the world say too? There goes a daughter,
Whose strange desire leap'd from her Fathers ruine;
Death gave her to the Bride-groom; and the marriage
Knit fast and cemented with blood. O Sister—

Dio.
O Brother.

Ar.
How! Well? And so quickly cur'd?

Dio.
Dissembler; foul dissembler.

Ar.
This is plain.

Dio.
Th'hast play'd with fire; and like a cunning fellow
Bit in thy pain o'purpose to deceive
Anothers tender touch. I know thy heart weeps
For what't has spoke against. Thou that darst love
The daughter of that Feind that slew thy father,
And plead against thy cause! unfeeling man,
Can not thy own words melt thee? To that, end
I wrought and rais'd 'em: 'Twas to win thy health,
That I was sick; I play'd thy disease to thee,
That thou mightst see the loath'd complection on't,
Far truer in another then ones self.
And, if thou canst, after all this, tread wickedly,
Thou art a Rebel to all natural love,
And filial duty; dead to all just councel:
And every word thou mock'dst with vehemence
Will rise a wounded father in thy conscience,
To scourge thy Judgement. There's thy Saint crost out,
And all thy memory with her. I'le nere trust
She tears & throws the paper to him.
Revenge again with thee (so false is manhood)
But take it now into mine own powerfully,
And see what I can do with my life's hazard;
Your purpose shall nere thrive. There I'le make sure work.

Exit.
Ar.
How wise and cunning is a womans malice;
I never was so cozened.

Exit.