University of Virginia Library

Scæn. 3.

Enter Nantolet, la-Castre, de-Gard, Lugier, Mirabell.
Mir.
Your Patience, Gentlemen; why do ye bait me?

Nan.
Is't not a shame you are so stubborn-hearted,
So stony and so dull to such a Lady,
Of her Perfections, and her Misery?

Lug.
Does she not love ye? does not her distraction
For your sake only, her most pityed Lunacie
Of all but you, shew ye? does it not compell ye?

Mir.
Soft and fair, Gentlemen, pray ye proceed temperately.

Lug.
If ye have any feeling, any sense in ye,
The least touch of a noble heart.

la-Cast.
Let him alone;
It is his glory that he can kill Beauty,
Ye bear my Stamp, but not my Tenderness;
Your wild unsavoury Courses set that in ye!
For shame be sorry, though ye cannot Cure her,
Shew something of a Man, of a fair Nature.

Mir.
Ye make me Mad.

De-G.
Let me pronounce this to ye,
You take a strange felicity in slighting
And wronging Women; which my poor sister feels now,
Heavens hand be gentle on her: Mark me, Sir,
That very hour she dyes; there's small hope otherwise,
That minute you and I must grapple for it;
Either your life or mine.

Mir.
Be not so hot, Sir,
I am not to be wrought on by these Policies;
In truth I am not; Nor do I fear the Tricks,
Or the high sounding Threats of a Savoyen:
I glory not in Cruelty; ye wrong me;
Nor grow up water'd with the Tears of Women;
This let me tell ye, howsoe're I shew to ye
Wilde, as you please to call it; or self-will'd;
When I see cause, I can both doe, and suffer,
Enter Rosaluce & Lelia.
Freely, and feelingly, as a true Gentleman.

Ros.
O pity, pity; thousand thousand pities!

Lel.
Alas, poor soul! she will die; she is grown sensless;
She will not know, nor speak now.

Ros.
Die for Love,
And Love of such a Youth? I would die for a Dog, first.
He that kils me, Ile give him leave to eat me;
Ile know men better ere I sigh for any of 'em.

Lel.
Ye have don a worthy act, Sir; a most famous;
Ye have kild a Maid the wrong way; ye are a conqueror.

Ros.
A Conqueror? a Cobler; hang him Sowter;
Goe hid thy self for shame; go lose thy Memory;
Live not 'mongst Men; thou art a Beast, a Monster;
A Blatant Beast.

Lel.
If ye have yet any honestie,
Or ever heard of any; take my Counsell;
Off with your Garters; and seek out a Bough,
A handsom Bough; (for I would have ye hang like a Gentleman;)
And write some dolefull matter to the world,
A warning to hard-hearted men.

Mir.
Out Kitlings:
What Catterwalling's here? what gibbing?
Do you think my heart is softned with a black Santis;
Shew me some Reason.

Enter Oriana on a bed.
Ros.
Here then, here is a reason.

Nant.
Now, if ye be a man, let this sight shake ye.

la C.
Alas poor Gentlewoman! do ye know me Lady?

Lug.
How she looks up and stares.

Ori.
I know ye very well:
You are my Godfather; and that's the Monsieur.

De-G.
And who am I?

Ori.
You are Amadis de Gaule, Sir.
Oh, oh, my heart! were you never in love, sweet Lady?
And do you never dream of Flowres and Gardens;
I dream of walking Fires: take heed, It comes now,
Who's that? pray stand away; I have seen that face sure;
How light my head is.

Ros.
Take some rest.

Ori.
I cannot.
For I must be up to morrow, to go to Church:
And I must dress me, put my new Gown on,
And be as fine to meet my Love: Heig ho!
Will not you tell me where my Love lies buried?

Mir.
He is not dead: beshrew my heart she stirs me.

Ori.
He is dead to me.

Mir.
Is't possible my Nature
Should be so dampnable, to let her suffer;
Give me your hand.

Or.
How soft you feel; how gentle?
Ile tell ye your fortune, Friend.

Mir.
How she stares on me?

Ori.
You have a flattring face; but 'tis a fine one;
I warrant you may have a hundred Sweet-hearts:
Will ye pray for me? I shall die to morrow;
And will ye ring the Bells?

Mir.
I am most unworthy;
I doe confess unhappy; doe you know me?

Ori.
I would I did.

Mir.
Oh fair tears; how ye take me.

Ori.
Do you weep too? you have not lost your Lover?
You mock me: Ile go home and pray.

Mir.
Pray ye pardon me:
Or if it please ye to consider justly,
Scorn me; for I deserve it: Scorn, and shame me:
Sweet Oriana.

Lel.
Let her alone; she trembles.
Her fits will grow more strong, if ye provoke her;

Ca-Last.
Certain she knowes ye not, yet loves to see ye
How she smiles now:

Bel.
Where are ye? oh, why doe not ye laugh: come laugh at me;
Why a devill, art thou sad, and such a subject,
Such a ridiculous subject, as I am
Before thy face?

Mir.
Pre'thee put off this Lightnes,
This is no time for mirth, nor place: I have us'd too much on't:
I have undon my self and a sweet Ladie,
By being too Indulgent to my Foolery
Which truly I repent: looke here.

Bel.
What ayles she.

Mir.
Alas she is mad.

Bel.
Mad.

Mir.
Yes, too sure for me too.

Bel.
Dost thou wonder at that? by this good light, they are all so;
They are coz'ning mad, they are brawling mad, they are proud mad.
They are all, all mad: I came from a world of mad women,
Mad as march Haires: get'em in Chaines, then deale with'em.
There's one that's mad: she seemes well, but she is dog mad:
Is she dead, do'st think?

Mir.
Dead? heaven forbid.

Bel.
Heaven further it.
For till they be key-cold dead, there's no trusting of'em
What ere they seeme, or howsoere they carry it,
Till they be chap-falne, and their Tongues at peace,
Nayl'd in their Coffins sure, Ile ne're beleeve'em,
Shall I talk with her.

Mir.
No, deer friend, be quiet;
And be at peace a while.

Bel.
Ile walk a side,
And come again anon: But take heed to her
You say she is a woman?

Mir.
Yes.

Bel.
Take great heed:
For if she doe not Cozen thee, then hang me:
Let her be mad, or what she will, shee'll cheate thee

—Exit
Mir.
Away wild Foole: how vild this shewes in him now?
Now take my faith, before ye all I speake it,
And with it, my repentant Love.

La-Cast.
This seemes well.

Mir.
Were but this Lady cleere again, whose sorrowes
My very hart melts for; were she but perfect
(For thus to marry her, would be two Miseries,)
Before the rishest, and the noblest Beautie,
France, or the world could shew me; I would take her
As she is now, my Teares, and praires shall wed her.

de-Ga.
This makes some small amends.

Ros.
She beckens to ye.
To us too, to goe off.

Nant.
Let's draw aside all.

Ori.
Oh my best friend: I would faine.

Mir.
What? she speakes well,
And with another voice.

Ori.
But I am fearfull,
And shame a little, stops my tongue.

Mir.
Speake boldly.

Ori.
Tell ye, I am well, I am perfect well, 'pray ye mock not;
And that I did this to provoke your Nature,
Out of my infinite, and restles Love,
To win your pitty: pardon me.

Mir.
Goe forward;
Who set ye on?

Ori.
None, as I live, no Creature.
Not any knew, or ever dreamt, what I meant:
Will ye be mine?

Mir.
'Tis true, I pittie ye;
But when I marry ye, ye must be wiser;
Nothing but Tricks? devises?

Ori.
Will ye shame me?

Mir.
Yes, marry will I: Come neer, Come neer, a Miracle,
The Womans well: she was only mad for Mariage,
Stark mad to be ston'd to death; give her good Councel,
Will this world never mend? are ye caught, Damsell?

Enter Bellure, la-Castre, Lugier, Nantolet, de-Gard, Rosaluce, Bianth.
Bel.
How goes it now?

Mir.
Thou art a kind of Prophet,
The woman's well again; and would have gull'd me,
Well, excellent well: and not a Taynt upon her.

Bel.
Did not I tell ye? Let'em be what can be;
Saints, Devills, any thing, they will abuse us;
Thou wert an Asse to beleeve her so long: a Coxcomb;
Give'em a minute, they'll abuse whole Millions.

Mir.
And am not I a rare Phisitian, Gentlemen?
That can cure desperate mad Mindes?

de-Ga.
Be not insolent.

Mir.
Well, goe thy waies: from this howre, I disclame thee,
Unles thou hast a Trick above this: then Ile love thee.
Ye owe me for your Cure; pray have a Care of her,
For fear she fall into Relaps; Come Bellure
We'll set up Bills, to Cure diseased virgins.

Bel.
Shall we be merry?

Mir.
Yes.

Bel.
But Ile no more projects;
If we could make 'em mad, it were some Mastery.

Exeunt.
Lil.
I am glad she is well again.

Ros.
So am I, certain
Be not ashamed.

Ori.
I shall never see a man more.

de-G.
Come ye are afoole: had ye but told me this Trick,
He should not have gloried thus.

Lug.
He shall not long neither.

la-Cast.
Be rul'd, and be at peace: ye have my Consent,
And what powre I can work with.

Nant.
Come, leave blushing;
We are your Friends; an honest way compell'd ye;
Heaven will not see so true a love unrecompenc'd;
Come in, and slight him too.

Lug.
The next shall hit him.

Exeunt.