University of Virginia Library

Act I.

Scene I.

Enter Brennoralt, Doran.
Brennoralt.
I say, the Court is but a narrow circuit;
Though somthing elevate above the common;
A kind of Ants nest in the great wilde field,
O're charg'd with multitudes of quick Inhabitants,
Who still are miserably busied to get in,
What the loose foot of prodigality,
As fast do's throw abroad.

Dor.
Good:
A most eternall place of low affronts,
And then as low submissions.

Bren.
Right.
High cowards in revenges 'mongst themselves,
And only valiant when they mischiefe others.

Dor.
Stars, that would have no names,
But for the ills they threaten in conjunction.

Bren.
A race of shallow, and unskilfull Pilots;
Which doe misguide the Ship even in the calme,
And in great stormes serve but as weight to sinke it.
More, prethee more.—
(Alarum within.
'Tis musique to my melancholy.

Enter Souldier.
Sold.
My Lord; a cloud of dust and men
The Sentinels from th'East gate discover;
And as they guesse, the storme bends this way.

Bren.
Let it be.

Sold.
My Lord?—

Bren.
Let it be,
I will not fight to day:
Bid Stratheman draw to the trenches.
On, prethee on.

Dor.
The King imployes a company of formall beards,
Men, who have no other proofes of their
Long life, but that they are old.

Bren.
Right, and if th'are wise,
'Tis for themselves, not others.—
(Alarum.
As old men ever are.

Enter second Soldier.
2 Sold.
Coronell, Coronell;
Th'enemies at hand, kils all the Centries:
Young Almerin leads them on agen.

Bren.
Let him lead them off agen.

2 Sold.
Coronell.—

Bren.
Be gone.
If th'art afraid, goe hide thy selfe.

2 Sold.
What a Divell ayles he?—

(Exit.
Bren.
This Almerin's the ague of the Camp:
He shakes it once a day.

Dor.
Hee's the ill conscience rather:
He never lets it rest; would I were at home agen.
'Sfoot we lie here i'th' trenches, as if it were
For a winde to carry us into th'other
World: every houre we expect—
I'le no more on't.

Bre.
Prethee—

Dor.
Not I, by heaven.

Bre.
What man! the worst is but faire death.

Dor.
And what will that amount to? A faire Epitaph.
A fine account.—I'le home I sweare.

Enter Stratheman.
Stra.
Arme, arme my Lord,
And shew your selfe, all's lost else.

Dor.
Why so?

Stra.
The Rebels like an unruly floud,
Rowle o're the trenches, and throw downe
All before them.

Bre.
Ha?

Stra.
We cannot make a stand.

Bre.
He would out-rivall me in honour too,
As well as love; but that he must not doe.
Help me Strathman.—
(Puts on Armour.
The danger now growes worthy of our swords;
And, oh Doran, I would to heaven there were
No other stormes then the worst tempest here.

(Exeunt.
Enter Marinell, throwing downe one he carries.
Mari.
There;
The Sun's the nearest Surgeon I know,
And the honestest; if thou recoverest, why so:
If not, the cure's paid, they have mauld us.

Enter Grainevert, with another upon his backe.
Grain.
A curse light on this powder;
It stayes valour, ere it's halfe way on it's journey:
What a disadvantage fight we upon in this age?
He that did well heretofore,
Had the broad faire day to shew it in:
Witnesses enough; we must beleeve one another—
'Tis night when we begin:
Eternall smoake and sulpher.
Smalke; by this hand I can beare with thee
No longer; how now? dead as I live;
Stolne away just as he us'd to wench.
Well goe thy wayes, for a quiet drinker, and dier,
I shall never know thy fellow:
(searches his pockets.
These trifles too about thee?
There was never an honester poore wretch
Borne I thinke—look i'th' tother pocket too—hum,
Marinell.

Mar.
Who's that?

Grani.
'Tis I; how goes matters?

Mar.
Scurvily enough;
Yet since our Colonell came, th'ave got no ground
Of us; A weake Sculler against Winde and Tide,
Would have done as much, harke:
This way the torrent beares.

Exeunt.
Enter Fresolin, Almerin, Rebels.
Fres.
The Villaines all have left us.

Alm.
Would they had left their feares
Behind them. But come, since we must—

Enter Brennoralt, Souldiers.
Bren.
Hoe! Stratheman;
Skirt on the left hand with the horse,
And get betwixt these and that Body;
They'r new rallied up for rescue.

Dor.
Th'are ours.
Brennoralt charges through.
I doe not see my game yet.—

Exeunt.
A shout within.
Enter Brennoralt, Doran, Stratheman, Marinell.
Bren.
What shout is that?

Stra.
They have taken Almerin, my Lord.

Bren.
Almerin? the Divell thanke 'em for't:
When I had hunted hard all day,
And now at length unhearded the proud Deere,
The Currs have snatch't him up, sound a Retreat:
There's nothing now behinde. Who saw Doran?

Str.
Shall we bring Almerin in?

Bre.
No; gazing is low Triumph:
Convey him fairely to the King,
He fought it fairely—

Dor.
What youth was that, whom you bestrid my Lord,
And sav'd from all our swords to day?
Was he not of the Enemy?

Bre.
It may be so—

Str.
The Governors Son, Fresolin, his Mistris brother.

(In Dorans eare)
Br.
No matter who. 'Tis pitty, the rough hand
Of warre, should early courages destroy,
Before they bud, and shew themselves i'th' heate
Of Action—

Mar.
I threw (my Lord) a youth upon a banke;
Which seeking, after the retreate, I found
Dead, and a woman, the pretty daughter
Of the Forrester; Lucillia.

Bre.
See, see Doran; A sad experiment:
Woman's the cowardly'st and coldest thing
The world brings forth: Yet Love, as fire works water,
Makes it boyle o're, and doe things contrary
To'ts proper nature—I should shed a teare,
Could I tell how—Ah poore Lucilia!
Thou didst for me what did as ill become thee.
Pray see her gently bury'd—
Boy, send the Surgeon to the Tent; I bleed:
What lowsie Cottages th'ave given our soules?
Each petty storme shakes them into disorder;
And 't costs more paines to patch them up agen,
Then they are worth by much. I'm weary of
The Tenement.—

Exeunt.
Enter Villanor, Grainevert, Marinell, and Stratheman.
Gra.
Villanor! welcome, welcome, whence camest thou?

Vil.
Looke, I weare the Kings high way still on my boots.

Gra.
A pretty riding phrase, and how? and how?
Ladies cheap?

Vil.
Faith, reasonable:
Those toyes were never deare thou know'st;
A little time and industry they'l cost;
But in good faith not much: some few there are
That set themselves at mighty rates—

Gra.
Which we o'th' wise passe by,
As things o're-valued in the market.
Is't not so?

Vil.
Y'have said Sir, Harke you, your friend the Rivals married.
Has obtain'd the long lov'd Lady, and is such an asse after't.

Gra.
Hum.
'Tis ever so.
The motions of married people, are as of
Other naturals; violent Gentlemen to the place,
And calme in it.

Mar.
We know this too; and yet we must be fooling.

Gra.
Faith, women are the baggage of life:
They are troublesome, and hinder us
In the great march, and yet we cannot
Be without 'em.

Mar.
You speake very well,
And Souldier-like.

Grain.
What? thou art a wit too I warrant,
In our absence?

Vil.
Hum—no, no, a poore pretender,
A Candidate or so, 'gainst the next Sessions:
Wit enough to laugh at you here.

Gra.
Like enough; valour's a crime:
The wise have still reproached unto the valiant,
And the fooles too.

Vil.
Raillerie a part, Grainvert;
What accommodations shall we finde here?

Gra.
Cleane straw (sweet-heart) and meat
When thou canst get it.

Vil.
Hum? straw?

Gra.
Yes.
That's all will be betwixt Incest:
You, and your mother earth must lye together.

V.
Prethee let's be serious; will this last?
How goes affaires?

G.
Well.

V.
But well?

G.
Faith, 'tis now upon the turning of the ballance:
A most equall businesse, betwixt Rebellion
And Loyaltie.

V.
What doest meane?

G.
Why; which shall be the vertue, and which the vice.

V.
How the Divell can that be?

G.
Oh: successe is a rare paint; hides all the uglines.

V.
Prethee, what's the quarrell?

G.
Nay, for that excuse us;
Aske the children of peace.
They have the leisure to study it,
We know nothing of it; Liberty they say.

V.
'Sfoot, let the King make an Act,
That any man may be unmarried agen;
There's liberty for them. A race
Of half-witted fellowes quarrell about freedome?
And all that while allow the bonds of Matrimony?

G.
You speake very well Sir.

Enter King, Lords, Brennoralt.
M.
Soft; the King and Councell—

G.
Looke, they follow after like tyred spannels:
Quest sometimes for company; that is, concurre:
And that's their busines.

M.
They are as weary of this sport
As a young unthrift of's land:
Any bargaine to be rid on't.

V.
Can you blame them?—
Who's that?

M.
Brennoralt, our brave Coronell:
A discontent, but, what of that? who is not?

V.
His face speaks him one.

G.
Thou art i'th' right.
He looks still as if he were saying to
Fortune; Huswife, goe about your busines.
Come, let's retire to Barathens Tent.
Taste a bottle, and speake bold truths;
That's our way now.

Ex. Manet King and Lords.
Mies.
—Thinke not of pardon Sir,
Rigor and mercy us'd in States uncertainly,
And in ill times, looke not like th'effects
Of vertue, but necessity: Nor will
They thanke your goodnes, but your feares.—

Melid.
My Lords;
Revenge in Princes should be still imperfect:
It is then handsom'st, when the King comes to
Reduce, not Ruine—

Bre.
Who puts but on the face of punishing,
And only gently cuts, but prunes rebellion:
He makes that flourish which he would destroy.
Who would not be a Rebell when the hopes
Are vaste the feares but small?

[Mel.]
Why, I would not.
Nor you my Lord, nor yon, nor any here.
Feare keeps low spirits only in, the brave
Doe get above it, when they doe resolve.
Such punishments in infancy of warre,
Make men more desperate, not the more yeelding.
The common people are a kind of flyes;
They're caught with honey, not with wormewood, Sir.
Severity exasp'rates the stirr'd humour;
And State distempers turnes into diseases.

Bre.
The gods forbid, great Polands State should be
Such as it dares not take right Physick. Quarter
To Rebels? Sir! when you give that to them,
Give that to me, which they deserve. I would
Not live to see it—

3 Lord.
Turne o're your owne, and other Chronicles,
And you shall finde (great Sir)
“That nothing makes a Civill warre long liv'd,
“But ransome and returning backe the brands
Which unextinct, kindled still fiercer fires.

Mies.
Mercy bestow'd on those that doe dispute
With swords, do's loose the Angels face it has,
And is not mercy Sir, but policie;
With a weake vizard on—

King.
—Y'have met my thoughts
My Lords; nor will it need larger debate.
To morrow, in the sight of the besiedg'd,
The Rebell dyes: Miesla, 'tis your care.
The mercy of Heav'n may be offended so,
That it cannot forgive: Mortals much more,
Which is not infinite, my Lords.

(Exeunt.
Enter Iphigene, Almerin (as in prison.)
Iph.
O Almarin; would we had never knowne
The ruffle of the world! but were againe
By Stolden banks, in happy solitude;
When thou and I, Shepheard and Shepheardesse;
So oft by turnes, as often still have wisht,
That we as eas'ly could have chang'd our sex,
As clothes; but (alas!) all those innocent joyes,
Like glorious Mornings, are retir'd into
Darke sullen clouds, before we knew to value
What we had.

[Alme.]
Fame & victory are light
(to himself.
Huswifes, that throw themselves into the armes,
Not of the valiant, but the fortunate.
To be tane, thus!

[Iph.]
Almerin

[Alm.]
nipt 'ith' bud
Of honour!

[Iph.]
My Lord

[Alm.]
Foil'd! & by the man
That doe's pretend unto Francelia!

Iph.
What is't you doe, my Almerin? sit still?
And quarrell with the Winds, because there is
A shipwrack tow'rds and never thinke of saving
The barke?

[Almer.]
The Barke? What should we doe with that
When the rich freight is lost: my name in armes?

Iph.
—Who knowes
What prizes are behind, if you attend
And waite a second Voyage?

[Almer:]
Never, never:
There are no second Voyages in this,
The wounds of honour doe admit no cure.

Iph.
Those slight ones which misfortune gives, must needs.
Else, why should Mortals value it at all?
For who would toyle to treasure up a wealth;
Which weake inconstancy did keep, or might
Dispose of?—
Enter Melidor.
Oh my Lord, what newes?

Mel.
As ill as your owne feares could give you;
The Councell has decreed him sudden death,
And all the wayes to mercy are blockt up.

(She weeps and sighs.
Almer.
My Iphigene—
This was a misbecomming peece of love:
Women would manage a disaster better—
(Iphig: weeps & sighs agen.
Againe? thou art unkinde—
Thy goodnes is so great, it makes thee faulty:
For while thou think'st to take the trouble from me,
Thou givest me more, by giving me thine too.

Iph.
Alas! I am indeed a uselesse trifle;
A dull, dull thing: For could I now doe any thing
But grieve and pitty, I might help: my thoughts
Labour to finde a way; but like to birds
In cages, though they never rest, they are
But where they did set out at first—

Enter Jaylor.
Jay.
My Lords, your pardon:
The prisoner must retire;
I have receiv'd an order from the King,
Denies accesse to any.

Iph.
—He cannot be
So great a Tyrant.

[Almer.]
I thanke him; nor can
He use me ill enough: I onely grieve
That I must dye in debt; a Bankrupt: Such
Thy love hath made me: My deare Iphigene
Farewell: It is no time for Ceremony.
Shew me the way I must—

(Exit.
Iph.
Griefe strove with such disorder to get out,
It stopt the passage, and sent backe my words
That were already on the place—

[Melid.]
stay, there
Is yet a way.

[Iph.]
O speake it

[Mel.]
But there is
Danger in't Iphigene, to thee high danger.

Iph.
Fright children in the darke with that, and let
Me know it: There is no such thing in nature
If Almerin be lost.

[Melid.]
Thus then; You must
Be taken pris'ner too, and by exchange
Save Almerin.

Iph.
How can that be?

Mel.
Why—
(studies.
Step in, and pray him set his hand, about
(To the Jaylor.
This distance; his seale too—

Jay.
My Lord, I know not what this is.

Mel.
Setling of money-busines, foole, betwixt us.

Jay.
If't be no more—

(Exit.
Mel.
Tell him that Iphigene and I desire it:
I'le send by Strathocles his servant,
A Letter to Morat thus sign'd and seal'd,
That shall informe the sudden execution;
Command him as the only meanes
To save his life, to sallie out this night
Upon the quarters, and endeavour prisoners.
Name you as most secure and slightest guarded,
Best pledge of safety; but charge him,
That he kill not any, if it be avoydable;
Least't should inrage the King yet more,
And make his death more certaine.

(Enter Jaylor with the writing.
Jay.
He understands you not
He sayes; but he has sent it.

Melid.
So—

Iph.
But should Morat mistrust now?
Or this miscarry?

Melid.
—Come;
Leave it to me; I'le take the Pilots part;
And reach the Port, or perish in the Art.

(Exeunt.