 | The Spanish Gipsie |  |
Actus Tertius.
Enter Roderigo Disguiz'd like an Italian.Ro.
A thousand stings are in me! oh what vild prisons
Make we our bodies, to our immortall souls!
Brave Tenants to bad houses! 'tis a deare rent
They pay for naughty Lodging: the soule, the Mistresse,
The body, the Caroach that carries her,
Sinnes the swift wheeles that hurry her away;
Our Will the Coachman rashly driving on,
Till Coach and Carriage both are quite o're throwne;
My body yet scapes bruizes, that known thiefe
Is not yet cal'd toth' bar, there's no true sence
Of paine, but what the Law of conscience
A Kingdome for a Cottage? an Estate
Of perpetuity, for a mans Life?
For annuity of that Life (pleasure) a sparke
To those Celestiall fires that burne about us!
A painted Star to that bright Firmament
Of constellations, which each night are set
Lighting our way, yet thither how few get?
How many thousand in Madrill drink off
The cup of lust, (and laughing) in one moneth
Not whining as I doe? should this sad Lady
Now meet me, do I know her? should this Temple
(By me prophan'd) lie in the ruines here,
The pieces would scarce shew her me:—would they did
Shee's Mistris to Don Lewys—by his steps,
And this disguise I'le finde her; to Salamanca
Thy Father thinks th'art gon; no close here stay
Where e're thou travell'st, Scorpions stop thy way: these.
Enter Sancho, and Soto as Gipsies.
San.
Soto, how doe I shew?
Soto.
Like a rusty Armor new scour'd, but Master how shew I?
San.
Like an Asse with a new pibal'd saddle on his back.
Soto.
If the Devil were a Taylor, he would scarce know us in these
gaberdines.
San.
If a Taylor were the Divel, I'de not give a Lowse for him,
if he should bring up this fashion amongst Gentlemen, and make it
common.
Ro.
The freshnesse of the Morning be upon you both.
San.
The saltnesse of the Evening be upon you single.
Ro.
Be not displeas'd, that I abruptly thus
Breake in upon your favors, your strange habits
Invite me with desire, to understand
Both what you are, and whence, because no Country
(And I have measur'd some) shew me your like.
Soto.
Our like! no we should be sorry, we or our cloaths should
be like fish, new, stale, and stinking in three days.
San.
If you aske whence we are, we are Egyptian Spaniards; if
what, we are, ut, re, mi, fa, sol. Juglers, Tumblers, any thing,
any where, every where.
Ro.
A good fate hither leades me by the hand,
Has been my Tutor long in Italy,
(For that's my Country,) there have I put on
Sometimes the shape of a Comedian,
And now and then some other.
San.
A Player! a brother of the tyring house.
Soto.
A Bird of the same feather.
San.
Welcome, wut turne Gipsie?
Ro.
I can nor Dance, nor Sing, but if my Pen
From my invention can strike Musick tunes,
My head and braines are yours.
Soto.
A Calves head and braines were better for my stomack.
San.
A rib of Poetry.
Soto.
A modicum of the Muses, a horse-shooe of Helicon.
San.
A Mag-py of Parnassus, welcome agen, I am a fire-brand of
Phœbus my selfe, wee'l invoke together, so you will not steale my
Plot.
Ro.
'Tis not my fashion.
San.
But now adayes, 'tis all the fashion.
Soto.
What was the last thing you writ, a Comedy?
Ro.
No 'twas a sad, too sad a Tragedy.
Under these eves I'le shelter me.
San.
See here comes our company,
Doe our tops spinne as you would have 'em?
Soto.
If not whip us round.
San.
I sent you a Letter to tell you we were upon a march.
Enter Alvarez, Eugenia, Pretiosa, and the Gipsies.
Al.
And you are welcome—yet these fooles will trouble us.
Eu.
Rich fooles shall buy our trouble.
San.
Hang Lands, it's nothing but Trees, Stones and Durt, old
Father I have Gold to keepe up our stock, pretious Pretiosa, for whose
sake I have thus transform'd my selfe out of a Gentleman into a
Gipsie, thou shalt not want sweete Rimes my little Musk-cat, for
besides my selfe here's an Italian Poet, on whom I pray throw your
welcomes.
Omnes.
Hee's welcome!
Pre.
Sir, y'are most welcome, I love a Poet,
So hee writes chastely, if your Pen can sell me
Any smooth queint Romances, which I may sing,
You shall have Bayes and Silver.
Pretty heart no selling:
What comes from me is free.
San.
And me too.
Al.
We shall be glad to use you sir, our sports
Must be an Orchard bearing severall Trees
And Fruits of severall taste; one pleasure dulls.
A time may come, when we (besides these pastimes)
May from the Grandoes and the Dons of Spaine
Have leave to try our skill even on the Stage,
And then your witts may helpe us.
San.
And mine too.
Ro.
They are your servants.
Pre.
Trip softly through the streets, till we arrive
You know at whose house Father.
Song.
San.
Trip it Gipsies, trip it fine,
Shew tricks and lofty Capers;
At threading Needles we repine,
And leaping over Rapiers.
Pindy Pandy rascall toyes,
We scorne cutting Purses,
Tho we live by making noyse,
For cheating none can curse us.
Shew tricks and lofty Capers;
At threading Needles we repine,
And leaping over Rapiers.
Pindy Pandy rascall toyes,
We scorne cutting Purses,
Tho we live by making noyse,
For cheating none can curse us.
Over High-wayes, over low,
And over Stones and Gravell,
Tho we trip it on the Toe,
And thus for Silver travell.
Tho our Dances waste our backs,
At night fat Capons mend them;
Eggs well brew'd in Butterd'-sack,
Our Wenches say befriend them.
And over Stones and Gravell,
Tho we trip it on the Toe,
And thus for Silver travell.
Tho our Dances waste our backs,
At night fat Capons mend them;
Eggs well brew'd in Butterd'-sack,
Our Wenches say befriend them.
Oh that all the World were mad,
Then should we have fine Dancing,
Hobby horses would be had,
And brave Girles keepe a prancing.
Beggers would on Cock-horse ride,
And Boobies fall a roaring,
And Cuckolds tho no Hornes be spide,
Be one another goring.
Then should we have fine Dancing,
Hobby horses would be had,
And brave Girles keepe a prancing.
Beggers would on Cock-horse ride,
And Boobies fall a roaring,
And Cuckolds tho no Hornes be spide,
Be one another goring.
Welcome Poet to our Ging,
Make Rimes wee'l give thee reason,
Canary Bees thy braines shall sting
Mull-sack did ne're speake Treason.
Peter-see-me shall wash thy nowle,
And Malligo Glasses fox thee,
If Poet thou tosse not bowle for bowle
Thou shalt not kisse a Doxie.
Exit.
Make Rimes wee'l give thee reason,
Canary Bees thy braines shall sting
Mull-sack did ne're speake Treason.
Peter-see-me shall wash thy nowle,
And Malligo Glasses fox thee,
If Poet thou tosse not bowle for bowle
Thou shalt not kisse a Doxie.
Enter Fernando, Francisco de Carcomo, Don Iohn Pedro, Maria, Lewys, and Diego.
Fer.
Lewys de Castro, since you circled are
In such a golden Ring of worthy friends,
Pray let me question you about that business
You and I last conferd on.
Lew.
My Lord I wish it.
Fer.
Then Gentlemen tho you all know this man,
Yet now looke on him well, and you shall finde
Such mines of Spanish honor in his bosome,
As but in few are treasur'd.
Lew.
Oh my good Lord!
Fer.
Hee's Son to that de Castro, o're whose Tombe
Fame stands writing a booke which will take up
The age of time to fill it with the stories
Of his great acts, and that his honor'd Father
Fell in the quarrell of those Families
His own, and Don Alvarez de Castilla.
Fra.
The volume of those Families is too large,
And too wide Printed in our memory.
Lew.
Would it had ne're come forth.
Omnes.
So wish we all.
Fer.
But heer's a Son as matchlesse as the Father,
For hee mindes bravery: he lets blood his Spleene,
Teares out the Leafe in which the Picture stands
Of slaine de Castro, casts a Hill of Sand
On all revenge, and stifles it.
Omnes.
'Tis done nobly.
Fer.
For I by him am courted to sollicite
The King for the repeale of poore Alvarez,
Who lives a banish'd man some say in Naples.
Some say in Arragon.
Lew.
No matter where,
That Paper foulds in it my hand and heart,
Petitioning the royalty of Spaine
To free the good old man, and call him home;
But what hope hath your Lordship that these beames
Of grace shall shine upon me?
Fer.
The word Royall!
Omnes.
And that's enough.
Lew.
Then since this sluce is drawn up to encrease
The streame, with pardon of these honord friends
Let me set ope another, and that's this,
That you my Lord Don Pedro, (and this Lady
Your noble Wife) would in this faire assembly
(If still you hold me Tenant to your favor)
Repeale the promise, you so oft have made me,
Touching the beautious Clara for my Wife.
Pe.
What I possesse in her before these Lords
I freely once more give you.
Al.
And what's mine?
To you (as right heire to it) I resigne.
Omnes.
What would you more?
Lew.
What would I more? the tree bowes down his head
Gently to have me touch it, but when I offer
To pluck the fruite, the top branch growes so high
To mock my reaching hand, up it does flie;
I have the Mothers smile, the Daughters frown.
Omnes.
Oh you must wooe hard!
Fer.
Wooe her well shee's thine own.
Jo.
That Law holds not 'mongst Gipsies, I shoot hard,
And am wide off from the Marke.
Florish.
Enter Soto, with a Cornet in his hand.
Fer.
Is this my Lord your Musick?
Fra.
None of mine.
Soto.
A crew of Gipsies with desire,
To shew their sports are at your Gates afire.
Fra.
How, how, my Gates afire Knave!
Jo.
Art panting? I am a fire I'me sure!
Fer.
What are the things they doe?
Soto.
They Friske, they Caper, Dance and Sing,
They tumble—how? not up and down
As Tumblers doe, but from Towne to Towne.
Anticks they have, and Gipsie-masking,
And toyes which you may have for asking;
They come to devoure, nor Wine, nor good Cheere,
But to earne money, if any be here.
(But being ask'd, as I suppose,
Your answer will be in your tother hose)
For there's not a Gipsie amongst 'em that begs,
But gets his living by his Tongue and Legs.
If therefore you please Dons they shall come in,
Now I have ended, let them begin.
Omnes.
I, I, by any means.
Fra.
But fellow bring you Musick along with you too.
Soto.
Yes my Lord, both lowd Musick, and still Musick, the loud is
that which you have heard, and the still is that which no man can
heare.
Exit.
Fer.
A fine Knave.
Fra.
There is report of a faire Gipsie,
A pretty little toy, whom all our Gallants
In Madrill flock to looke on: this shee trow?
Yes sure 'tis shee—I should be sorry else.
Enter Alvarez, Eugenia, Pretiosa, Roderigo, Sancho, Soto, and all the Gipsies.
Song.
1.
Come follow your Leader follow
Our Convoy be Mars and Apollo,
The Van comes brave up here,
As hotly comes the Reare.
Our Convoy be Mars and Apollo,
The Van comes brave up here,
As hotly comes the Reare.
Our Knackers are the Fifes and Drums,
Sa, sa, the Gipsies Army comes.
Sa, sa, the Gipsies Army comes.
2.
Horsemen we need not feare
There's none but footemen here;
The Horse sure charge without;
Or if they wheele about,
There's none but footemen here;
The Horse sure charge without;
Or if they wheele about,
Our Knackers are the shot that flie
Pit a pat ratling in the Sky.
Pit a pat ratling in the Sky.
3.
If once the great Ordnance play
That's laughing, yet runne not away;
But stand the push of Pike
Scorne can but basely strike.
That's laughing, yet runne not away;
But stand the push of Pike
Scorne can but basely strike.
Then let our Armies joyne and sing
And pit a pat make our Knackers ring.
And pit a pat make our Knackers ring.
4.
Arme, Arme, what Bands are those?
They cannot be sure our foes;
Weele not draw up our force,
Nor muster any Horse,
They cannot be sure our foes;
Weele not draw up our force,
Nor muster any Horse,
For since they pleas'd to view our sight
Let's this way, this way, give delight.
Let's this way, this way, give delight.
5.
A Councell of War lets call,
Looke either to stand or fall;
If our weake Army stands
Thanke all these noble hands;
Whose gates of Love being open throwne
We enter, and then the Town's our owne.
Looke either to stand or fall;
If our weake Army stands
Thanke all these noble hands;
Whose gates of Love being open throwne
We enter, and then the Town's our owne.
A very dainty thing.
Fra.
A handsome Creature.
Ro.
Looke what a pretty pit there's in her chin.
Jo.
Pit! 'tis a Grave to bury Lovers in.
Ro.
My Fathers disguise guard me.
San.
Soto, there's de Cortez my guardian; but he smells not us.
Soto.
Peace brother Gipsie, wud any one here know his fortune?
Omnes.
Good fortunes all of us.
Pe.
'Tis I sir needs a good one, come sir what's mine?
Ma.
Mine and my husbands fortunes keepe together,
Who is't tels mine?
San.
I, I, hold up Madam, feare not your pocket, for I ha but two
Hands.
Hands.
You are sad, or mad, or glad
For a couple of Cockes that cannot be had,
Yet when abroad they have pick'd store of graint
Doodle doo they will cry on your Dunghills againe.
For a couple of Cockes that cannot be had,
Yet when abroad they have pick'd store of graint
Doodle doo they will cry on your Dunghills againe.
Ma.
Indeed I misse an idle Gentleman,
And a thing of his a foole, but neither sad
Nor mad for them, would that were all the Lead
Ped.
What look'st thou on so long?
Soto.
So long! do you thinke good fortunes are fresh Herrings, to
come in sholes? bad fortunes are like Mackerell at Midsummer, you
have had a sore losse of late.
Pe.
I have indeed, what is't?
Soto.
I wonder it makes you not mad; for
Through a gap in your Ground
Thence late hath been stole
A very fine Asse, and a very fine Fole,
Take heede for I speake not by habs and by nabs,
E're long you'l be horribly troubled with scabbs.
Thence late hath been stole
A very fine Asse, and a very fine Fole,
Take heede for I speake not by habs and by nabs,
E're long you'l be horribly troubled with scabbs.
Pe.
I am now so, goe silly foole.
Soto.
Tha gin't him.
San.
Oh Soto, that Asse and Foale fattens me!
Fer.
The Mother of the Gipsies, what can shee do?
I'le have about with her.
Jo.
I with the Gipsie Daughter.
Fra.
To her Boy!
Eu.
From you went a Dove away
Which e're this had been more white,
Then the silver Roabe of, Day,
Her Eyes the Moone has none so bright.
Sate shee now upon your hand
Not the Crowne of Spaine could buy it;
But 'tis flowne to such a Land,
Never more shall you come nie it;
Ha! yes if Palmestrie tell true,
This Dove agen may flie to you.
Fer.
Thou art a lying Witch, I'le heare no more.
San.
If you be so hot sir, we can coole you with a Song.
Soto.
And when that Song's done, wee'l heat you agen with a dance.
Lew.
Stay deare sir, send for Clara, let her know her fortune.
Ma.
'Tis too well known.
Lew.
'Twill make her merry to be in this brave Company.
Pe.
Good Diego fetch her.
Exit Diego.
Fra.
What's that old man! has he cunning too?
Omnes.
More then all we.
Lew.
Has he! I'le try his Spectacles.
Fer.
Ha! Roderigo there! the Scholler
I'th Schoole of Gipsies? let the fish alone,
Give him Line, this is the Dove, the Dove: the Raven
That Beldam mock'd me with.
Lew.
What Wormes pick you out there now?
Al.
This—when this Line the other crosses
Art tells me 'tis a booke of losses,
Bend your hand thus, Oh! here I finde
You have lost a Ship in a great winde.
Lew.
Lying Rogue I ne're had any.
Al.
Harke, as I gather,
That great Ship was de Castro call'd your Father.
Lew.
And I must hew that Rock that split him.
Al.
Nay and you threaten.
Fra.
And what's Don John thy fortune? th'art long fumbling at it?
Jo.
Shee tells me tales of the Moone sir.
Pre.
And now 'tis come to the Sun sir.
Your Sun wud ride, the youth wud runne,
The youth wud sayle, the youth wud flie;
Hee's tying a knot will ne're be done,
He shoots, and yet has ne're be done,
You have two, 'twere good you lent him one,
And a heart too, for he has none.
The youth wud sayle, the youth wud flie;
Hee's tying a knot will ne're be done,
He shoots, and yet has ne're be done,
You have two, 'twere good you lent him one,
And a heart too, for he has none.
Fra.
Hoyday, lend one of mine eyes!
San.
They give us nothing, hee'd best put on a bold face and ask it.
Song.
Now that from the Hive
You gather'd have the Honey,
Our Bees but poorely thrive,
Unlesse the Bankes be sunny.
Then let your Sun and Moone
Your gold and silver shine,
My thanks shall humming fly to you.
Omnes.
You gather'd have the Honey,
Our Bees but poorely thrive,
Unlesse the Bankes be sunny.
Then let your Sun and Moone
Your gold and silver shine,
My thanks shall humming fly to you.
And mine, and mine, and mine,
Al.
See, see, your Gipsie toyes,
You mad Girles, you merry Boyes.
A boone voyage we have made
Loud Peales must then be had,
If I a Gipsie be
A crack rope I am for thee;
Such clappers please a King;
Such clapers please a King: you pleas'd may pass away
Then let your Bell ropes stay,
Now chime 'tis Holy-day,
Now chime 'tis Holy-day.
Pre.
No more of this pray Father, fall to your Dancing.
Dance.
Lew.
Clara will come too late now.
Fer.
'Tis great pitty,
Besides your Songs, Dances and other Pastimes,
You do not as our Spanish Actors doe, make triall of a Stage.
Al.
We are sir about it,
So please your high authority to signe us
Some warrant to confirme us.
Fer.
My hand shall doo't—and bring the best in Spaine to see
your Sports.
Al.
Which to set off this Gentleman a Scholler
Ro.
Pox on you.
Al.
Will write for us.
Fer.
A Spaniard sir?
Ro.
No my Lord an Italian.
Fer.
Denies his Country too—my Son sings Gipsie Ballads,
Keepe as you are, wee'l see your Poets vaine,
And yours for playing; time is not ill spent
That's thus laid out in harmelesse merriment.
Exit Gipsies Dancing.
Pe.
My Lord of Carcomo, for this entertainment,
You shall command our loves.
Fra.
Y'are nobly welcome.
Pe.
The Evening growes upon us, Lords to all
A happy time of day.
Fer.
The like to you Don Pedro.
Lew.
To my hearts sole Lady,
Pray let my service humbly be remembred,
We onely mist her presence.
Ma.
I shall truly
Report your worthy love.
Exit Ped. Ma.
Fer.
You shall no further,
Indeed my Lords you shall not.
Fra.
With your favour
Wee will attend you home.
Die.
Where's Don Pedro? oh sir!
Lew.
Why what's the matter?
Die.
The Lady Clara,
Passing neere to my Lord Corigidors house,
Met with a strange mischance.
Fer.
How, what mischance?
Die.
The Jester that so late arrived at Court,
And there was welcome for his Countries sake,
By importunity of some friends, it seemes
Had borrow'd from the Gentleman of your Horse,
The backing of your mettl'd Barbary:
On which being mounted, whil'st a number gaz'd
To heare what Jests hee could performe on Horse back,
The head strong beast unus'd to such a Rider,
Beares the Presse of People before him;
With which throng, the Lady Clara meeting,
Fainted, and there fell down; not bruis'd I hope;
But frighted and intranc'd.
Lew.
Ill destin'd mischiefe!
Fer.
Where have you left her?
Die.
At your house my Lord,
A servant comming forth, and knowing who
The Lady was, convey'd her to a Chamber,
A Surgeon too is sent for.
Fer.
Had shee been my Daughter,
My care could not be greater, then it shall be
For her recure.
Lew.
But if shee miscarry,
I am the most unhappy Man that lives.
Exit.
Fer.
Diego Coast about the Fields,
And over-take Don Pedro and his Wife,
They newly parted from us.
Die.
I'le runne speedily.
Exit.
Fer.
A strange mischance, but what!
I have my Lord Francisco this day noted,
I may tell you, an accident of merriment and wonder:
Fra.
Indeed my Lord.
Fer.
I have not thoughts enough
About me to imagine what th'event
Hereafter you may counsell me.
Fra.
Most gladly—how fares the Lady?
Enter Lewys.
Lew.
Call'd back to Life, but full of sadnesse.
Fer.
Talkes shee nothing?
Lew.
Nothing for when the women that attend on her
Demanded how shee did, shee turn'd about,
And answered with a sigh, when I came neere,
And by the Love I bore her, begg'd a word
Of hope to comfort mee in her well-doing;
Before shee would reply, from her faire Eyes
Shee greetes me with a Bracelet of her teares;
Then wish'd me not to doubt, shee was too well,
Entreates that shee may sleepe without disturbance,
Or company untill her Father came.
And thus I left her.
Fra.
For shee's past the worst,
Young Maides are oft so troubled.
Enter Pedro and Maria.
Fer.
Here come they
You talke of—sir, your Daughter for your comfort
Is now upon amendment.
Ma.
Oh my Lord!
You speake an Angels voyce.
Fer.
Pray in and visit her,
Exit Ped. Ma.
I'le follow instantly—you shall not part
Without a cup of Wine my Lord.
Fra.
'Tis now too troublesome a time;
Which way take you Don Lewys?
Lew.
No matter which, for till I heare
My Clara be recover'd I am nothing,
My Lord Corigidor, I am your servant
For this free entertainment.
Fer.
You have conquer'd me
In noble courtesie.
Lew.
Oh! that no art
But Love it selfe can cure a Love-sick heart.
Exit.
Clara in a Chaire, Pedro and Maria by her.
Ma.
Clara, hope of mine age!
Soule of my comfort,
Kill us not both at once; why dost thou speede
Thine Eye in such a progresse 'bout these Walls?
Cla.
Yon large Window
Yeilds some faire prospect, good my Lord looke out,
And tell mee what you see there.
Pe.
Easie suite,
Clara it over-viewes a spacious Garden,
Amidst which stands an Alablaster Fountaine,
A goodly one.
Cla.
Indeed my Lord.
Ma.
The griefes grow wide,
And will mislead thy judgement through thy weakenesse
If thou obey thy weakenesse.
Cla.
Who ownes these glorious buildings?
Pe.
Don Fernando
De Azeutda, the Corigidor
Of Mardrill, a true noble Gentleman.
Cla.
May I not see him?
Ma.
See him Clara, why?
Cla.
A truly noble Gentleman you said sir.
Pe.
I did: loe here he comes in person,
We are my Lord your servants.
Enter Fernando.
Fer.
Good no complement,
Young Lady there attends below a Surgeon
Of worthy fame and practice, is't your pleasure
To be his Patient?
Cla.
With your favour sir,
May I impart some few, but needefull words
Of secresie to you, to you your selfe,
None but your selfe.
Fer.
You may.
Pe.
Must I not heare 'em?
Ma.
Nor I.
Cla.
Oh yes, pray sit my Lord.
Fer.
Say on.
Cla.
You have been Married.
Fer.
To a Wife young Lady,
Who whiles the Heavens did lend her me was fruitfull
Cla.
And you had Children by her.
Fer.
Had 'tis true,
Now have but one, a Son, and hee yet lives,
The Daughter, as if in her Birth, the Mother
Had perfected the errand shee was sent for
Into the World, from that houre tooke her Life
In which the other that gave it her, lost hers;
Yet shortly shee unhappily, but fatally
Perish'd at Sea.
Cla.
Sad story!
Fer.
Roderigo,
My Sonne.
Cla.
How is hee call'd sir?
Fer.
Roderigo.
Hee lives at Salamanca, and I feare
That neither Time, Perswasions nor his Fortunes
Can draw him thence.
Cla.
My Lord, d'ee know this Crucifix?
Fer.
You drive me to amazement, 'twas my Sonnes,
A Legacy bequeathed him from his Mother
Upon her Death-bed, deare to him as Life;
On Earth there cannot be another treasure
Hee values at like rate as hee does this.
Cla.
Oh then I am a cast-away!
Ma.
How's that?
Pe.
Alas shee will grow frantick.
Cla.
In my bosome,
Next to my Heart my Lord I have laid up,
In bloody Characters a Tale of horror,
Pray read the Paper, and if there you finde
Ought that concernes a Maide undone, and miserable
Made so by one of yours, call back the piety
Of nature, to the goodnesse of a Judge,
An upright Judge, not of a partiall Father,
For doe not wonder that I live to suffer
Such a full weight of wrongs, but wonder rather
That I have liv'd to speak them; thou great man
Yet read, read on, and as thou read'st consider
What I have suffer'd, what thou ought'st to doe;
Be just as Heaven and fate are, that by miracle
Have in my weakenesse wrought a strange discovery;
Truth copied from my heart is texted there:
Let now my shame be throughly understood,
Sinnes are heard farthest, when they cry in blood.
Fer.
True, true, they doe not cry but hollow here,
This is the Trumpet of a Soule drown'd deepe
In the unfathom'd Seas of matchlesse sorrowes.
I must lock fast the dore.
Exit.
Ma.
I have no words
To call for vengeance.
Pe.
I am lost in marvaile.
Enter Fernando.
Fer.
Sir, pray sit as you sat before: white paper
This should be innocence, these Letters Gules
Should be the honest Oracles of Revenge.
What's Beauty but a perfect white and red?
Both here well mixt, limne truth so beautifull,
That to distrust it as I am a Father;
Speakes mee as foule, as rape hath spoken my Sonne,
'Tis true.
Cla.
'Tis true.
Fer.
Then marke mee how I kneele
Before the high tribunall of your Injuries;
Thou too too much wrong'd Maid scorne not my teares,
For these are teares of Rage, not teares of Love.
Thou Father of this too too much wrong'd Maide,
Thou Mother of her counsells and her cares;
I doe not plead for pitty to a Villaine,
Oh! let him die as hee hath liv'd dishonorably,
Basely and cursedly, I plead for pitty,
To my till now untainted blood and honour,
Teach mee how I may now be just and cruell;
For henceforth I am Childlesse.
Cla.
Pray sit rise,
You wrong your place and age.
Fer.
Point mee my Grave
In some obscure by-path, where never memory
Nor mention of my Name may be found out.
My Lord, I can weep with you, nay weepe for yee
As you for mee, your passions are instructions,
And prompt my faltering Tongue to beg at least
A noble satisfaction, tho not revenge.
Fer.
Speak that agen.
Cla.
Can you procure no Balme
To heale a wounded Name?
Fer.
Oh th'art as faire
In Mercy as in Beauty, wilt thou live,
And I'le be thy Physitian?
Cla.
I'le be yours.
Fer.
Don Pedro, wee'l to counsaile
This Daughter shall be ours, sleepe, sleepe, young Angell,
My care shall wake about thee.
Cla.
Heaven is gracious,
And I am eas'd.
Fer.
Wee will be yet more private,
Might curtaines o're the world, soft dreams rest with thee.
The best revenge is to reforme our crymes,
Then time crowns sorrowes, sorrowes sweeten times.
Ex.
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