University of Virginia Library

Scœn. 1.

Enter Hostesse, Ciceley, Bellamie.
Hostesse.

Feare not Mistris any of their attempts in my house: you
have your instructions and my ayde. Make use of any
thing I owne for your honest ends, and if you need my person,
I am ready in my barre at your call.

Exit.
Cice.
We thanke you Mistris.
Why should you feare the execution
Of my desires? why are women subject
To that disease? or else hath nature chose it
To shew the difference? I was meant a man sure;
For I have Masculine resolutions,
Which no deluding spirits can abuse
With their mis-guiding; nor imperfect moone-light
Mock with false shadowes. Danger frights not me.

Bella.
Doubt of my lov'd friends safety (without whom
My soules abilities are dead to use)
Hath numb'd the sense of action: I'm all passive.
Yet I haue heard from him relations
Of horrid battailes, and his persons danger;
When as the murdering Canons choak't the ayre
With their curl'd mists, their lowd noise ushering death
To his black triumph. A little custome made it
To be my pastime. Those were dangers past;
But these to come.

Cice.
You have a soldier sweet-heart,
And no more courage! what a race of Cowards
Would spring from that loves joyning? for Physitians
Say women have most right in the conception.
Were but our causes chang'd (our cases are)
I'de tell this brother all; and if his love
From a pretence of care deny'd me ayde,
I'de schoole him soundly. Come, come, you shall tell
Your Brother that I love him.

Bella.
Love my Brother?

Cice.
Your Brother Mistris. If my beauty can
(Which ha's beene flatter'd for a taking one)
Win upon his desires, I'le soone worke him
To what you please. Nay, rather then the project
Should faile of a successe, he shall enjoy me;
But fairely.

Bella.
Ayde me now discretion. Would you
Make me an agent to undoe my Brother;
And but for such meane ends?

Cice.
Why gentlewoman,
Disparage not my low condition.
Perhaps misfortune meant it not my birth;
That might be noble as your owne, though boasted
From th'heraulds Catalogue of dead Ancestors.
My father oft hath told me when my fingers
Prest the Cowes dugges, and from their fulnesse drew
Aboundance of white streames, that Nature meant not
These limbs for labour. But this may appeare
The flattery of my selfe.

Bella.
Into what maze
My dangers lead me! I'th middle ther's a Monster,
If I goe on, will ruine me: if back;
I want an Ariadnean Clue of policie
To be my guide.

Cice.
If you'l preserve your selfe
From a discovery, you must counterfeit
Some other passions; or clothe these in mirth.