 | Mortimer his Fall |  |
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Act I.
MORTIMER.This Rise is made, yet! and we now stand, ranck'd,
To view about us, all that were above us!
Nought hinders now our prospect, all are even,
We walke upon a Levell. Mortimer
Is a great Lord of late, and a new thing!—
At what a divers price, doe divers men
Act the same things! Another might have had
Perhaps the Hurdle, or at least the Axe,
For what I have this Crownet, Robes, and Waxe.
There is a Fate, that flies with towring spirits
Home to the marke, and never checks at conscience.
Poore plodding Priests, and preaching Friars may make
Their hollow Pulpits, and the empty Iles
Of Churches ring with that round word: But wee
That draw the subtile, and more piercing ayre,
In that sublimed region of Court,
Know all is good, we make so, and goe on
Secur'd by the prosperity of our crimes.
To day, is Mortimer made Earle of March.
For what? For that, the very thinking it
Would make a Citizen start! some politique Tradesman
Curle with the Caution of a Constable!
But I, who am no common Councell man,
Knew, injuries of that darke nature done
Were to be throughly done, and not be left
To feare of a revenge. They'are light offences
Which admit that. The great ones get above it.
Man doth not nurse a deadlier peece of follie
To his high temper, and brave soule, then that
Of fancying goodnesse, and a seale to live by
So differing from mans life. As if with Lyons,
Beares, Tigers, Wolves, and all those beasts of Prey,
He would affect to be a Sheepe! Can man
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As rather he will call on his owne ruine,
Then worke t'assure his safetie? I should thinke
When 'mongst a world of bad, none can be good,
(I meane so absolutely good, and perfect,
As our religious Confessors would have us)
It is enough, we doe decline the rumour
Of doing monstrous things: And, yet, if those
Were of emolument, unto our ends,
Even of those, the wiseman will make friends
For all the brand, and safely doe the ill,
As Usurers rob, or our Physicians kill.
ISABEL. MORTIMER.
[Isa.]
My Lord! sweet Mortimer!
Mor.
My Q. my Mistresse!
My Soveraigne! nay, my Goddesse! and my Juno!
What name, or title, as a marke of Power
Upon me, should I give you?
Isa.
Isabel,
Your Isabel, and you my Mortimer:
Which are the markes of Paritie, not power
And these are titles, best become our love.
Mor.
Can you fall under those?
Isa.
Yes, and be happie.
Walke forth, my lov'd, and gentle Mortimer,
And let my longing eyes enjoy their feast,
And fill of thee; my faire-shap'd, God-like man:
Thou art a banquet unto all my Senses;
Thy forme doth feast mine eye, thy voyce mine eare,
Thy breath, my smell, thy every kisse my taste;
And softnesse of thy skin, my very touch:
As if I felt it dactile through my blood.
I ne're was reconciled to these robes,
This garbe of England, till I saw thee in them.
Thou mak'st, they seeme not boistrous, nor rude,
Like my rough haughty Lords de Engle-terre,
With whom I have so many yeares beene troubled.
Mor.
But now redeem'd, and set at libertie,
Queene of your selfe, and them.
Hee dy'd, and left it unfinished.
| Mortimer his Fall | |