 | The Inconstant Lady |  |
5
ACTUS PRIMUS.
Scena Prima.
Antonio, Trebutio.Treb.
Who's that? Antonio? Well mett.
Anto.
Trebutio, thou art as welcome, for 'tis rare to see
Freindship in this age meet soe happily.
Here's neither cringes nor curvetts, to make
An asse vnload his big and burthenous tougne
Vpon the dunghill of stale complement,
That none but fooles admire.
Treb.
'Tis the best posture
For your lip-mongers, that are all meere out side;
Whose tougnes do wander so farr from the hart,
That they are faine to stoope to 't.
Anto.
I am angrie
To see the guiddie world run thus a'wheeles
In such vntoward tracks, guided by men
That haue their greatnes more in noyse then nature
Whose couert plotts, should they but view the light,
Wo'd crack the axel-tree, and, though they breake it,
Wee must not say they do't. O, thirst of gold
And honor! how it tougne-ties Vertue, Goodnes;
And, like a violent working medicyne, runs
Through all the body-pollitique, and makes
6
To entertaine diseases.
Treb.
'Tis a plague
Raignes euery where; what citty is so free
From theise wild rages, where not freindship onely
Or tyes of consanguinitie, but bonds
Of sacred wedlock are not violated
By this corrupted mattayle?
Anto.
Nay, the alters
Prophan'd with such poluted hands, as haue
Noe other God but their admired Mammon;
Who do not blush themselues to act these crimes
They raile against.
Treb.
But how com'st thou turnd satire?
'Tis not thy humour.
Anto.
It wo'd burst a stoick
To see such follie. I'le go neerer home now,
And talke of that, which moues this anger in mee.
Our freind's vndone!
Treb.
Who, Aramant?
Anto.
The same.
Thou knew'st his father violently bent
Against his mariage with Emilia—
Treb.
And hee is dead, so that he may proceede
Without an obstacle.
Anto.
But in his death,
(As if he ment that curses like a whirlewind
Should breake the vrne where his black ashes lay,
And blowe 'em into ayre,) he hath pul'd downe
7
And all the estate vnto the younger brother;
And, by a power constraind, doth abrogate
The lawe of Nature.
Treb.
There's a silly, wild,
Fantastique fury doth possesse old age;
Who, in their thinne and flegmetique braines, conceiue
Their vnborne reason, which is monstrous;
From which they forme out their conceits, and those
Proue but abortiues. For you seldome see
The elder loose his right, but that the younger
Is still the ruine of the famelie.
Anto.
And may it alwayes happen soe, where Vertue
Looses her iust reward.
Treb.
'T wo'd griue a man
To part with such a fortune for a woman.
Anto.
It is his honestie that binds him to it,
His promise to her.
Treb.
But doth shee loue him?
There is a skittish, proud, ambitious trick
In woman, such a vanitie, as loues
The varnisht outside more then inward soundnes:
'Tis for the land they loue to take the heire.
Anto.
If shee bee such a one, may shee liue miserable,
And none lament it. But, Trebutio,
Can there bee such an angell-deuill?
Treb.
Yes—
That mauchandize with suitors, and the man
That bids most carries them away.
8
Hee has
A goodly purchase that hath such a bargaine!
But heere comes Aramant, and his brother with him.
Enter Aramant and Millecert.
Ara.
If my vnworthynes may call you freinds,
I haue not lost all: but if you should thinke,
The deprauation of my nature, or
The breatch of loyaltie I owe to goodnes
Did cause this ruine, it wo'd more afflict mee
Then my lost fortunes.
Anto.
Thinke not, worthie freind,
You can loose any thing in vs, while Vertue
Doth find her self in you. Can the huge text
Of the vast law cancell the assurances,
Or disanull the bonds of friendship; or
Conferr affection as it doth large titles
Or great estates to men? No—'tis a power
Full of diuinitie, not grosse and earthie.
Treb.
Wee rather wonder at your sufferance, sir,
That beare it thus with patience.
Ara.
O, my freinds,
Though I haue lost a father, and with him
A birth-right, yett I haue a brother heere,
(A noble one, I hope,) and such a mistris,
That had my father, in his great displeasure,
Throwne mee into some barren wildernes
Where shee had bene, her smiles wo'd ha' preseru'd mee,
And added fresh fire to my emptie veines.
9
But now the flame burnes dim.
Ara.
Cleare as her eyes.
My brother is going with mee to behold
The saint I worship soe, and hee shall iudge
If that I had not cause to quit the world
And all it's outward blessings for a creature
Of such diuine perfection.
Mille.
Shall wee goe then?
Ara.
Yes: I do long to see her. My deare freinds,
I hope wee are not still at such a distance,
That I should make excuse for my departure:
You know my mind too well.
Exeunt.
Anto.
Farewell, sweet Aramant.
Treb.
Thou art more noble farr, then fortunate.
Anto.
'Tis true Emilia's faire, that's all; shee setts
Her selfe in the world's eye to be admir'd:
But Fame reports her sister (for no man
Could euer yett haue freedome to come nere her,)
Exceeds her as bright day the sullen morne:
It is so soft and sweet an innocence,
That Nature made it for a master-peece
Of admiration; but her iealous sister
Fearing all eyes would fix on such an obiect,
Restraines her of the libertie of her birth.
Treb.
How?
Anto.
Keepes her close shutt within her chamber, and
Doth make the onely flower of beautie liue
In solitude.
Treb.
By what power doth shee this?
10
Since her old father's death, she hath the managing
Of the estate, and so her will's her lawe.
Enter Pantarbo, Seruius, and Tonsus.
Treb.
But stay, Antonio, what pageant's this?
This thinge compos'd of shreads?
Anto.
A peece of greatnes
Men call a lord; and those a brace of courtiers.
Treb.
Are lords such compounds?
Anto.
How can honor bee
But much abas'd, when 'tis the price of money,
And not of merritt? Our great ancestors
(Who by their vertue, and their noble deeds
Gain'd an immortall name,) blush in their graues,
Such guilded outsides should be rais'd to greatnes,
That haue no other honor but their title.
Yett you shall see this peece of follie now
If it but spew vpon you, raise a complement
Wee cannot well charme downe againe, without
A counter-spirit from Amadis de Gaul,
Sir Palmerin of England, or such authors,
From whence he gleanes speeches of all degrees
And quallites, and spits 'em out meere naturall.
Come, let's away, and shun him, for a shower
In a full haruest is not soe vnwelcome,
As hee's to mee.
Exeunt.
Pant.
Come, show your courtship now,
And see, who can do't best.
Tons.
But lett's barr bookes then.
11
Barr bookes! you show your ignorance; why do not
Your greatest clarks learne all things from their books?
Tons.
Yes, to imbellish that which is their owne,
But you take all. What's that—The Schole of Complement?
Pant.
Stay, I must con a little.
Serv.
Who begins?
Pant.
Seruius, do you.
Serv.
Hum. Beleeue it, gentle lord,
You are compleately drest. This ruff is sett
With such a nicitie, that it exceeds
Proportion.
Pant.
That's a sweet complement indeed,
To say my ruff exceeds my proportion—ha, ha!
Serv.
I meane the liniaments of art and order;
Ther's such a discipline and methode in 't,
Soe quaintly curious, euery sett so neate,
And yett it borrowes lusture from the wearer.
Pant.
Pish, this is comon. Tonsus, lett ha' your part.
Serv.
Come, wee must please him in his follie.
Tons.
Well.
Now I approach to tell this noble lord,
Rich clothes are like the trappings of an asse,
And do not take my eye, nor can your ruff,
Though printed at Madrid, but suffer censure
By the most learned, if compar'd to you;
To praise the clothes when ther's a face wo'd take
The eyes of wonder.
Pant.
This is monstrous—
What do you make mee? ha!
12
Wee are both silent.
Pant.
Theise are rude things like th'earth that brought 'em forth.
Behold mee now. Suppose some mightie prince
Were standing heere, then thus wo'd I direct
My speech vnto him. Greatest of earth's monarchs!
Lett the bright heauen of your admired judgement
Shower downe some dropps of fauor on your seruant,
Who, like a barren gaping land, is dryed
For want of moisture.
Serv.
This is begging language.
Pant.
But if that sacred and reuyuing dewe
(Drawne by the sun-beames of your brighter reason)
Bee all contracted into clouds alreadie,
Lett 'em breake out in showers, and with their wealth
Inrich this lower orbe. How do you like it?
Tons.
Why ex'elent well.
Serv.
Hee wo'd haue all your great ones,
Before they grow too high, like swelling clouds
Breake and disperse to nothing.
Tons.
Then his father will hardly scape.
Pant.
Now to some princesse, or great lady thus.
Serv.
What complement to them? He cannot goe
Aboue the heauens.
Tons.
Hee must descend to them, man.
Pant.
More than most faire, what power of magick charmes
Shoote from your sweet refulgent eyes!
Serv.
Sweet eyes!
Why not sweet tooth as well?
13
Your peerlesse hand—
Serv.
Why, must shee haue but one?
Pant.
You putt me out—
Is that inchanted wand, whose touch doth make
A wanton feauer dance through all my bloud;
'T hath a magnetique vertue, sympathizing
With humane apprehention.
Tons.
O, rare nonsence!
Pant.
I'me out, I thinke.
Serv.
When were you euer in?
Pant.
Ther's a magnetique vertue in your touch
That workes a simpathie transcending farr
All humane apprehention.
Tons.
Now a'hits on't.
Serv.
But then this princesse, sir, and you must sympathize—
Pant.
Or elce 'tis nothing. But now marke this straine—
Your beautie, faire one, I so much admire,
That like the satyre I could kisse my fire,
(Although it burnes me vp with dollers dire,)
So I may haue a sweet kisse for my hire;
And without so much blisse I shall expire.
Tons.
Hee's out a'breath.
Serv.
Damsells, come to the crier!
Pant.
Pish; I haue speeches readie fram'd and fashioned
For euery sex, size, age; 'tis all my studdie.
Come, lett's go see the ladies.
Tons.
Hee's wi' child,
Till he bee brought to bed with this course yssue.
Serv.
O lett him spawne it out, 'twill crack his braine elce.
Exeunt.
14
Scena II.
Enter Emilia and Lavia.Emil.
Lauia!
Lav.
Madame.
Emil.
Call my sister hether;
But see the dores bee fast till shee returnes.
Exit Lavia.
The land being gon, where is the maintenaunce?
Can sighs and protestations keepe a coach,
And maintaine footmen? Or is mistress Constancie
A good dispencer, can shee keepe a table?
I cannot feed like Mab, the queene of fairies,
On spider's leggs, nor receyue nourishment
From kisses of my hand. If Aramant
Hath lost his land, I doubt hee'le loose Emilia.
Enter Cloris.
Clo.
Is it my fault or fate, that thus I am
Restrain'd the freedome of my birth? Can I
Not haue the libertie that Nature gaue mee?
The meanest creature hath that happines.
The warbling quiristers of the woods do hopp
From sprey to sprey, in their owne natiue freedome,
Hauing no sence of such a seruitude—
But miserable I am more restrain'd.
Emil.
Sister, I loue you well, tak't not vnkindly
That thus you are reclus't; it shall not last long;
Beleeue it, gentle Cloris! and the cause
That thus restraines thee, is to make mee happie.
15
The glorie of the time, and will not you
Beare something for a sister? If thy beautie
Sho'd get abroad, how meane should I appeare?
For from those shadowes that do come from thee
I borrow all my lusture.
Clo.
Gentle sister,
If that this face, which you call beautifull,
Offend yee, make it worse; I will indure it:
I will vse art to keepe theise wanton locks
From curling thus, theise cheeks shall grow more pale,
Or I will chace the liuely blood away
With silent sighs, or wash 'em with my teares,
To make 'em white, as is myne innocence.
Enter Lavia.
Emil.
Come, come, be patient; you must beare awhile.
Lav.
Madam, your seruant and his brother with him,
Young Milecert, whome Fame reports the heyre.
Emil.
They come as wish't for, Cloris away; be silent;
I am all furie elce.
Exit Cloris.
Enter Aramant and Millecert.
Ara.
My dearest mistris!
If there be happines on earth, as wee
May count that soe which is the cheifest good,
Then giue your humblest seruant leaue to say
It liues in you.
Emil.
You flatter, Aramant.
16
It hath cheife growth and prime adition
From the true worthynes I find in you.
Ara.
No more, my faire Emilia, why should wee
Keepe such a distance? This smooth languague best
Suites vnresolued soules; wee need no words
But such as haue a power to crowne our wishes;
Our hearts haue found this vnion. Heer's my brother,
My onely brother, know him, hee's a kind one—
What saist thou, Milecert, is shee not faire?
Would not this purchace tempt aduentrous youth
To ship their fortunes in the angry sea
Of parent's rage, to find out such a mine,
Where all the treasure of the world's inclos'd?
The rich Peru is but a sunny banck
Compar'd to her—
And the proud East hath not so many pearles
As shee hath beauties.
Mille.
'Tis a goodly creature.
Ara.
Her touch is an elixar, which wo'd moue
Halfe marble men, and raise the spirits of age
To youth and vigour. Shee's a sea of nectar
To which the Lethæ of my cares do run,
And loose themselves for euer; Set your land
(Which was my birth-right) by her, and I'd part wo'tt,
Oft'ner then I haue thoughts, e're part with this.
Me thinks I'me all compos'd of ayre, a lightnes
Shootes through my veines, when I behold her eyes.
Lauia, how did thy lady rest to night?
He talkes to Lavia.
17
My brother is transported, and indeed
I do not blame him, lady; such a beautie
Cannot but worke effects of admiration.
Emil.
Your goodnes adds vnto my meane deserts
Too large a title. But, pray tell me, sir,
Hath your dead father setled all th'estate
On you, (as it is nois'd,) and left my seruant
To seeke new fortunes.
Mille.
Yes; upon his death-bed
Hee put to's choice, whether he would enioy
His land, or you; for both hee should not haue:
My brother's answere was but short, he valewd
Your loue aboue all earthly happines,
And quickly quitt his interrest in the land.
Emil.
It showes your brother was of meane desert:
It better suites with you, for greatest fortunes
Attend the noblest minds; it falls upon 'em
Like a distilling dew on a rich soyle
To make it swell with fattnes; but a curse
Followes vnworthines, like noysome blasts,
That makes all barren. I shall neuer thinke
That hee had vertue now.
Ara.
But prithee tell mee
To Lauia.
Do's shee not dreame of mee? I'me sure shee do's:
For the toyld spirits, ministers of day,
Doe spend their wandring phansies in the night
On the same subiect; and shee hath not blusht
To check the howers for too officious speed,
When with our kisses wee did mingle soules.
18
Then shee and I haue had, but if his hast
To meet his amourous loue had hinder'd ours,
Her frownes wo'd make it night; and in such darkenes
Shee cannot choose but dreame.
Lav.
My lord, of late
Shee hath beene farr from any such distemper.
Mille.
The beaten mariner, after long toyle,
To Emilia.
Wo'd not reioyce to be at home in safetie,
As I sho'd ioy in you, wer't not disloyall,
And most iniurious to my worthie brother.
Emil.
I cannot thinke he doth deserue that title:
Your father knew some foule play, otherwise
How co'd hee bee so cruell? wo'd a tiger
Expose her young ones to the rage of want,
And not prouide for 'em? Is there a creature,
Whome nature hath not taught an aptitude
To cherish and preserue her owne? Beleeue it,
You wrong your buried father thus to doubt
The justice of his act, being his last:
And, if his act were iust, then haue you cause
To doubt him for your brother.
Mille.
O the power
Of loue and beautie! how hast thou bewitcht mee?
I must be any thing that you will make mee.
Emil.
Why now I find thee worthy of my fauor,
And thy great fortune; wee will stand the brunt
Of this man's furie, though it speake in thunder;
And when the danger's past, then reape th'effects
19
Mille.
Lett this confirme it.
Ara.
Thou art thy mistris' cabinet, and wilt
Discouer nothing. Now, my louing brother,
How do you like my faire Emilia?
Mille.
Why well.
So well, I thinke I neuer shall
Like any better.
Aside.
Ara.
'Tis a heauenly feature,
But yett this outside is a wildernes
Vnto the pleasant paradize within.
Emil.
Fie, fie! it is too much; you'l spoile the bargaine
With praising the comoditie; it needs not—
The match is made alreadie.
Ara.
'Tis so, sweet one,
And made so firme, that time may weare 'em out,
But neuer breake the bonds.
Emil.
That time's at hand.
Ara.
It hath alreadie bene too slowe, but wee
Will pay it a full interest; Hymen's torch
Shall now begin to flame.
Emil.
You are deceyu'd, sir.
Ara.
I hope, I am not; yett I read a storie
Upon thy brow, which makes mee hope againe
I am deceyu'd, for thou canst not be angrie.
Emil.
No more then Southerne ayre chaft into heat
By the sunn's scorching beames. Can I loue barrenes?
Weake, sordid man! All creatures naturally
Suck vp their preseruacion: if they want it,
20
Ara.
How's this?
Emil.
Nay neuer wonder, for 'tis true.
Ara.
It cannot bee, for thou art full of goodnes,
And such black guiltie thoughts can ne're abide
Where Vertue dwells, therefore they flie thus from thee;
When they are all past, thy pure naturall sweetnes
Will show it selfe agen, and that firme loue
Wee planted once with interchanged vowes,
And waterd with our teares to make 'em growe,
Will spring againe and florish.
Emil.
Noe, 'tis wither'd;
For it doth want the sap that should preserue it;
And by how much my loue exceeded measure,
When it did fix on thee, the same extreame
Augments my hate; the propertie is alter'd!
'Tis true I loued thee firmely, when thou wert
Heire to that fortune, which thou now hast lost;
But when the substance is once gon, think'st thou
That I can loue the shadowe?
Ara.
Doe I dreame?
This is some furie sure, not my Emilia.
Thou seem'st to mee some foule malignant vapor
Rais'd from the sinke of syn, swolne with a venombe
Transcending woman's pride, which breaking on
Poore credulous man did blast his growing hopes,
And make him thinke there is no other hell,
But what is in thy breast.
Emil.
Lett's leave this wonder.
21
No, stay and heare me gently; doe not wrong mee;
I cannot think thee wicked. Hath great Nature
Desolu'd the sweet and pleasant harmonie
That chaines the world together? are the spangles
That do imbellish heauen's rich canopie
Dropt from their spheres? hath the sun left the vigor
To animate and cherish with its warmth?
If not, if theise hold due proportion still,
Then why is this disorder? You did loue mee,
And can you now hate, what you once lou'd dearely?
Emil.
I doe not hate thy person, but thy follie.
For can I thinke there can be any worth,
Or vertue in the man, that thus hath pul'd
His father's curse upon him? all the good
I found in thee, I lov'd; and now that's gone,
I'le leaue thee to thy follie, Aramant;
A line drawne out at length, with parting ends,
Shall sooner meet then wee.
Ara.
Teach me to rage
Some earthen power, for I must onely spend
My selfe in anger now; it is a woman,
A wretched woman, wrongs mee. What reuenge
Is left for mee? how shall I beare my selfe?
In this great storme I shal be lost for euer.
But I will argue calmely—Why doe you
Afflict me thus? this triall cutts too deepe;
Recall thy sence agen, and thinke how sleightly
I gaue away my selfe to purchase thee;
Lett mee not loose all; I will not repent yett
22
Looke vpon all my fortunes, and if then
Thou find'st no pittie, make this spectacle
The miserablest obiect, that thine eyes
Can fix vpon.
Emil.
You might ha' learn'd more witt,
And kept your land.
Ara.
Tempt mee no further, fury!
Reason, thou queene of frailty, where is vertue?
Are all your seruants paid with such rewards,
As theise I haue? Then who'le hereafter keepe
A faith or vowe? Who will not tell the world
That to bee good and vertuous is a crime?
And soe invert the precept, that the lawe
Or nature teaches, till man apprehends,
That goodnes onely deserues punishment,
And vice a recompence. And if this holds,
Who will respect an oath, a freind, a teare,
But for a snare or trap? or value woman,
Till his hott lust giues him an appetite
To add to his black legend?
Mille.
I am cruell to suffer this.
Thou art a tirant, Loue.
Ara.
What shall I doe?
Emil.
The best way's to be patient.
Ara.
'Tis the foole's burthen, I will cast it off
And putt on all my rage; it is more easie
In this extremitie to grapple with.
Yett what is man, that euerie litle puff,
23
To shipwrack all his reason? I'le be quiet
In spight of woman's folly.
Emil.
'Tis well done:
Your brother and I will see you shall not want.
Ara.
My brother and you! Why, pray yee, do you couple?
Emil.
Wee may do shortly.
Ara.
Some good angel tell me,
Hath vertue quite forsooke the earth? Is there
An vniuersall ruine of goodnes?
Resolue mee of this ridle. Millecert,
Thy standing mute proclaimes thee guiltie.
Mille.
Oh!
What shall I doe? To which path shall I bend?
Nature commands me not to wrong my brother,
And besids that great tye, his innocence
Drawes pittie for his double iniurie;
But, like a violent torrent, loue breakes forth
And beares downe all before it. Her faire eyes
Armes mee against all oppositions.
Brother, 'tis true I loue her, and shee hath
Assur'd the like to mee. I must not start back.
Ara.
My brother, th'art a villaine; therefore drawe,
That I may leaue no memorie to man
Of such a wretch.
Emil.
Help, help! my lord Pantarbo!
Enter Pantarbo, Servius, and Tonsus.
Pant.
Servius, Tonsus, part 'em.
24
Well, I shall find you out, to loose the rest,
That once had quiet being in my brest.
Exit.
Emil.
Come, you must shun his anger; hee is violent:
And when this storme is past, a glorious sun-shine
Will follow after.
Mille.
Loue, thou art a fire
That consumes all things, but thyne owne desire.
Exit.
Pant.
Ladies, how come this fray?
Emil.
Please you withdraw,
I shall informe you how.
Pant.
With all our harts.
Exeunt omnes.
| The Inconstant Lady | |