 | The Spanish Curat |  |
Scæna Prima.
Enter Don Henrique, Violante, Ascanio.Hen.
Heare but my reasons,
Viol.
O my patience heare 'em.
Can cunning falshood colour an excuse?
With any seeming shape of borrowed truth?
Extenuate this wofull wrong, not error.
Hen.
You gave consent that to defeat my brother
I should take any course,
Viol.
But not to make
The cure more loathsome then the fowle disease:
Was't not enough you took me to your bed,
Tir'd with loose dalliance, and with emptie veines,
All those abilities spent before and wasted,
That could conferre the name of mother on me?
But that (to perfect my account of sorrow)
For my long barrennesse you must highten it
By shewing to my face, that you were fruitfull
Hug'd in the base embraces of another?
If Solitude that dwelt beneath my roofe,
And want of children was a torment to me
What end of my vexation to behold
A bastard to upbraid me with my wants?
And heare the name of father paid to ye
Yet know my self no mother,
What can I say?
Hen.
shall I confesse my fault and ask your pardon?
Will that content ye?
Viol.
If it could make void,
What is confirm'd in Court. No no, Don Henrique,
You shall know that I find my self abus'd,
And adde to that I have a womans anger,
And while I look upon this Basilisk,
Whose envious eyes hath blasted all my comforts
Rest confident I'le study my dark ends,
And not your pleasures,
Asc.
Noble Lady, heare me,
Not as my Fathers son, but as your servant,
Vouchsafe to heare me, for such in my duty,
40
My poore ambition, ever to looke on you,
But with that reverence; which a slave stands bound
To pay a worthy Mistris: I have heard
That Dames of highest place, nay Queenes themselves,
Disdaine not to be serv'd by such as are
Of meanest Birth: and I shall be most happie,
To be emploi'd when you please to command me
Even in the coursest Office, as your Page,
I can wayte on your trencher: fill your wine
Carry your pontafles, and be sometimes bless'd
In all humilitie to touch your feete
Or if that you esteeme that too much grace
I can run by your Coach: observe your lookes
And hope to gaine a fortune by my service,
With your good favour, which now, as a Son,
I dare not challenge
Viol.
As a Son,
Asc.
Forgive me
I will forget the name, let it be death
For me to call you Mother.
Viol.
Still upbraided?
Hen.
No way left to appease you?
Viol.
None: now heare me,
Heare what I vow before the face of heaven,
And if I breake it all plagues in this life,
And those that after death are fear'd, fall on me,
While that this Bastard staies under my rooffe,
Looke for no peace at home, for I renounce
All Offices of a wife,
Hen.
What am I falne to?
Viol.
I will not eate, nor sleepe with you and those howres
Which I should spend in prayers for your health
Shall be emploi'd in Curses,
Hen.
Terrible.
Viol.
All the day long, i'le be as tedious to you
As lingring fevers, and i'le watch the nights,
To ring alou'd your shame and breake your sleepes
Or if you doe but slumber, i'le appeare
In the shape of all my wrongs, and like a fury
Fright you to madnes, and if all this faile
To worke out my revenge, I have friends and kinsmen,
That will not sit downe tame with the disgrace
That's offer'd to our noble familie
In what I suffer.
Hen.
How am I devided
Betweene the duties I owe as a Husband,
And pietie of a Parent?
Asc.
I am taught Sir
By the instinct of nature that obedience
Which bids me to prefer your peace of mind,
Before those pleasures that are dearest to me
Be wholy hers (my Lord) I quit all parts,
That I may challenge: may you grow old together
And no distast e're find you and before
The Characters of age are printed on you
May you see many Images of your selves,
Though I, like some false Glasse, that's never look'd in
Am cast a side, and broken from this hower
(Unles invited, which I dare not hope for)
I never will set my forbidden feete,
Over your threshold: onely give me leave
Though cast off to the world, to mention you,
In my devotions 'tis all I sue for
And so I take my last leave
Hen.
Though I am
Devoted to a wife nay allmost sol'd
A slave to serve her pleasures, yet I cannot
So part with all humanity, but I must
Shew something of a Father: thou shalt not goe
Unfurnish'd and unfriended too: take that
To guard thee from necessities; may thy goodnes
Meet many favours, and thine innocence
Deserve to be the heire of greater fortunes,
Then thou wer't borne to. Scorne me not Violante
This banishment is a kind of civill death,
And now, as it were at his Funerall
To shed a teare or two, is not unmanly
And so farewell for ever: one word more,
Though I must never see thee (my Ascanio)
When this is spent (for so the Judge decreed)
Send to me for supply: are you pleas'd now?
Viol.
Yes: I have cause: to see you howle and blubber
At the parting of my torment, & your shame
Bed ready, wine, table Standish & Paper.
'Tis well: proceed: supply his wants: doe doe:
Let the great dowre I brought serve to maintain
Your Bastards riots: send my Clothes and Jewells,
To your old acquaintance, your deare dame his Mother
Now you begin to melt, I know 'twill follow,
Hen.
Is all I doe misconstrude?
Viol.
I will take
A course to right my selfe a speeding one:
By the bless'd Saints, I will; if I prove cruell
The shame to see thy foolish pitty taught me
To loose my naturall softnes, keepe off from me
Thy flateries are infectious, and i'le fle thee
As I would doe a Leaper.
Hen.
Let not fury
Transport you so: you know I am your Creature,
All love, but to your self, with him, hath left me
I'le ioyne with you in any thing
Viol.
In vaine
I'le take mine owne waies, and will have no partners,
Hen.
I will not crosse you,
Viol.
Doe not, they shall find
That to a Woman of her hopes beguil'd
A viper troad on, or an Aspick's, mild.
Exeunt.
| The Spanish Curat | |