 | Vortigern |  |
SCENE IV.
A Wood.Enter Pascentius, Flavia disguised, and Fool.
Pas.
Speak, dearest sister, say, how fares it with thee?
But cheer thee up, my Flavia, whilst I'm with thee,
Thou must not faint, if there be comfort near
I'll seek it, and from out the tiger's jaw
I'll tear thee food, or if the thirsty lion
Should stand betwixt me and the bubbling brook,
This arm shou'd find a passage to his heart.
But an thou need'st nor food, nor element,
Then will I sit and comfort thy sweet tears,
And as the smaller stream doth oft times mingle,
And add its nothingness to the vast sea,
So on thy streaming cheek will I let fall
One pitying tear, one tender drop of sorrow.
Fla.
Oh! gentle, excellent, most loving brother,
It is my aching heart which thus o'ercomes me,
Wretch that I am! what hath my mother done,
That lacking pity I could leave her thus,
How can her drooping heart bear this sad shock?
Can her meek soul my father's rage encounter;
No, no, impossible! then am I wretched.
Then O! you righteous and all powerful Judge,
If breath of man, with pure soul offer'd up,
Can touch you, or obtain your gentle hearing,
Behold a maiden for a mother begs,
And on her bended knee sues for protection.
Let some kind angel, minister of mercy,
Pour on her wounded soul the balm of comfort,
And in the place of overwhelming sorrow,
Let the dear plant of smiling joy bud forth;
And shou'd she weep, then may her dewy tears
Be those of tender peace and charity.
Fool.
By my troth, mine eyes did never water
so before, sweet mistress, an thou hast charm'd
thy Fool, methinks the choir o'angels needs must
o'mine do sorely ach, and wherefore shou'd they?
for an I do eat, then am I loaded, and do bear it
well, but now that I am empty, these porters
won't carry me, this is strange, and needs more
wisdom to unveil, than lies in my poor foolish
brain.
Fla.
Methinks I'd sit and rest me here a-while.
Pas.
Then to the shade of yon imperial oak
I'll lead thee, there thou calmly may'st repose;
Our honest knave here, he shall sing the while,
And sooth thy sad and secret melancholy.
Fool.
Why, to be brief good master, I needs
wou'd sing, but that gentle lady hath crack'd the
strings o'my voice; an 'twill please you weep,
marry I'll take the loudest pipe, and shou'd I fail
in giving entertainment, why then I'll to Paul's,
and there i'the presence of Bonner, be whipp'd for
a slanderer.
Pas.
I pray thee Fool do as I list.
Fool.
Now then I'll pipe, but by my troth you
seem sad, and needs will me to sing merrily; well,
an folly will please you, I'll to't straight.
Lack, lack, and a well a day,
And in his shoes must bury
His sorrow and all his care;
Then is not the Fool's lot hard,
Is not his mind sore treated,
Do not his friends of's poor brains
Make physic for their senses?
Then lack, lack and well a day.
Lack, lack and well a day,
We our old friends change for new,
When they no longer suit us;
Then heigh-ho poor dobbins all,
Be sharp with men I pray you,
They carry fool's minds indeed,
Yet are but knaves I tell you.
Then lack, lack, ah! well a day.
Fla.
Good honest Fool, I do sincerely thank thee.
Fool.
Nay, nay, say not so, an I had flatter'd,
why then perchance I had merited this, but i'faith
gentle lady, he that says nought, save the bare
truth, doth oft times meet but a bare compliment.
But an you do flatter, methinks the compliment
will savour more of untruth, than did the flattery,
but thus it goes with our slippery world.
Pas.
Who is it comes this way?
Fla.
Let us retire,
Perchance it may be one of our pursuers.
Fool.
An thou'lt listen a while to me I'll tell
thee thou need'st not fear, 'tis but the Post on's
way to your father's palace.
Enter Post.
Pas.
Friend, thou out runnest almost speed itself;
Whither ar't bound?
Post.
I am for London, Sir.
Pas.
Nay stop one moment, I conjure thee stop!
Say what these tidings that demand such haste?
Post.
That which my packets do contain.
Pas.
An thou will tell me their contents, there's gold.
Now, i'troth, thou'lt unlock letters,
packets, and all, look, look, the knave doth handle
it with good grace, sirrah an thou play'dst on
David's harp, thy fingers ne'er wou'd move so
glibly o'er the strings, as o'er yon gold, do'st hear
me.
Post.
Thy gold indeed doth please, it fills my purse,
And though it should not, yet what matters it?
I am well fee'd for telling that alone,
Which every simple peasant soon must know,
Then thus it is; Vortigern is accus'd
Of the base murder of Constantius!
Fla.
Heavens!
Post.
Yea, and even now the Princes marching hither
From Scotland, with them bring a numerous army.
Pas.
Alas my father! yet I do beseech thee,
How know they this? Who was't instructed them?
Post.
Swift messengers dispatch'd by friends to Rome,
Further I know not—therefore must away
[Exit Post.
Fool.
Go to, go to, I do believe thee; marry
an thou art humble, thy purse is somewhat prouder.
Good Sir, wer't not best we put on, I am
faint at heart; marry 'tis pity my wits did not fill
their owner, as well as those who do beg them.
Pas.
Let's on, and yet what course is't fit we take?
The night doth throw his sooty mantle round,
And robs us of the cheering light of day.
Fla.
Oh! Wou'd this night cou'd pluck my sorrow from me,
Wou'd close life's wretched, weary pilgrimage.
Pas.
Oh! Sister an thou lov'st me grieve not so.
Fla.
If charity be meek, so will I be,
And where thou lead'st, resign'd I'll follow thee.
Fool.
Marry, an you'll listen to a fool, perchance
he may for once speek wisely.
Pas.
Out with thy council then.
Fool.
Thus it is—chance hath made me your
fool, and chance will now that your fool speak
something like wisdom; marry is not this the
road to Scotland? Do'st understand me?
Pas.
Truly, I understand thee.
Fool.
To't again, what say'st thou o'joining the
young Princes on their march?
Pas.
It is most wisely utter'd, my good Fool.
Come gentle sister, we'll to th'skirt o'th'wood,
And find some cottage that may serve to night,
As 'twere a palace—all will yet be well.
[Exeunt.
| Vortigern | |