University of Virginia Library

Scæna Prima.

Enter Gondarino flying the Lady.
Gond.
Save me ye better powers, let me not fall
Between the lose embracements of a woman:
Heaven, if my Sins be ripe grown to a head,
And must attend your vengeance: I beg not to divert my fate,
Or to reprive a while thy punishment
Only I crave, and hear me equall heavens,
Let not your furious rod, that must afflict me
Be that imperfect peece of nature,
That art makes up, woman, unsatiate woman.
Had we not knowing souls, at first infus'd
To teach a difference, 'twixt extremes and goods?
Were we not made our selves, free, unconfin'd
Commanders of our own affections?
And can it be, that this most perfect creature,
This image of his maker, well squar'd man,
Should leave the handfast, that he had of grace,
To fall into a womans easie armes.

Enter Oriana.
Orian.

Now Venus, be my speed, inspire me with all the
severall subtil temptations, that thou hast already given,
or hast in store heareafter to bestow upon our Sex: grant
that I may apply that Physick that is most apt to work
upon him: whether he will soonest be mov'd with wantonness,
singing, dancing; or being passionate, with scorn;
or with sad and serious looks, cunningly mingled with sighs,
with smiling, lisping, kissing the hand, and making short
curt'sies, Or with whatsoever other nimble power, he may
be caught, doe thou infuse into me, and when I have him,
I will sacrifice him up to thee.

Gond.
It comes again; New apparitions,
And tempting spirits: Stand and reveal thy self,
Tell why thou followest me? I fear thee
As I fear the place thou cam'st from: Hell.

Orian.
My Lord, I'm a woman, and such a one—

Gond.
That I hate truely, thou hadst better bin a devill,

Orian.
Why my unpatient Lord?

Gond.
Devils were once good, there they excell'd you woman.

Orian.
Can ye be so uneasie, can ye freeze, and
Such a summers heat so ready
To dissolve? nay gentle Lord, turn not away in scorn,
Nor hold me less fair than I am: look on these cheeks,
They have yet enough of nature, true complexion,
If to be red and white, a forehead high,
An easie melting lip, a speaking eye,
And such a tongue, whose language takes the ear
Of strict religion, and men most austere:
If these may hope to please, look here.

Gond.
This woman with entreaty wo'd show all,
Lady there lies your way, I pray ye farewell.

Orian.
Y'are yet too harsh, too dissonant,
There's no true musick in your words, my Lord.

Gond.
What shall I give thee to be gone?

Here's ta, and tha wants lodging, take my house, 'tis big
enough, 'tis thine own, 'twill hold five leacherous Lords,
and their lackies without discovery: there's stoves and bathing
tubs.

Orian.

Dear Lord: y'are too wild.

Gond.

Shalt have a Doctor too, thou shat, 'bout six and
twentie, 'tis a pleasing age; Or I can help thee to a handsome
Vsher: or if thou lack'st a page, I'll give thee one,
preethee keep house, and leave me.

Oria.
I doe confess I'm too easie, too much woman,
Not coy enough to take affection,
Yet I can frown and nip a passion,
Even in the bud: I can say
Men please their present heats; Then please to leave us.
I can hold off, and, by my Chymick power,
Draw Sonnets from the melting lovers brain;
Ayme's, and Elegies: yet to you my Lord
My Love, my better self, I put these off,
Doing that office, not befits our sex,
Entreat a man to love;
Are ye not yet relenting? ha'ye blood and Spirit
In those veins? ye are no image, though ye be as hard
As marble: sure ye have no liver, if ye had,
'Twould send a lively and desiring heat
To every member; Is not this miserable?
A thing so truely form'd, shapt out by Symetry,
Has all the organs that belong to man,
And working too, yet to shew all these
Like dead motions moving upon wyers?
Then good my Lord, leave off what you have been,
And freely be what you were first intended for, a man.

Gond.
Thou art a precious peece of slie damnation,
I will be deaf, I will lock up my ears,
Tempt me not, I will not love; If I doe.

Oria.
Then I'll hate you.

Gond.
Let me be 'nointed with hony, and turn'd into the Sun,
To be stung to death with horse-flies,
Hear'st thou, thou breeder, here I'll sit,
And, in despight of thee, I will say nothing.

Oria.
Let me with your fair patience, sit beside you.

Gond.
Madam, Lady, tempter, tongue, woman, ayr.
Look to me, I shall kick; I say again,
Look to me I shall kick.

Oria.

I cannot think your better knowledg can use a
woman so uncivilly.

Gond.
I cannot think, I shall become a coxcombe,
To ha'my hair curl'd, by an idle finger,
My cheeks turn Tabers, and be plaid upon,
Mine eyes lookt babies in, and my nose blowd to my hand,
I say again I shall kick, sure I shall.

Oria.
'Tis but your outside that you shew, I know your mind
Never was guilty of so great a weakness,
Or could the tongues of all men joyn'd together.
Possess me with a thought of your dislike
My weakness were above a womans, to fall off
From my affection, for one crack of thunder,
O wo'd you could love, my Lord.

Gond.

I wo'd thou wouldst sit still, and say nothing: what
mad-man let thee lose to do more mischief than a dousen
whirlwinds, keep thy hands in thy muff, and warm the
idle worms in thy fingers ends: will ye be doing still? will
no entreating serve ye? no lawfull warning? I must remove
and leave your Ladyship; Nay never hope to stay me,
for I will run, from that Smooth, Smiling, Witching, Cousening,
Tempting, Damning face of thine, as far as I can
find any land, where I will put my self into a daily course
of Curses for thee, and all thy Familie.

Oria,
Nay good my Lord sit still, I'll promise peace
And fold mine Armes up, let but mine eye discourse;
Or let my voyce, set to some pleasing cord, sound out
The sullen strains of my neglected love.

Gond.
Sing till thou crack thy treble-string in peeces,
And when thou hast done, put up thy pipes and walk,
Doe any thing, sit still and tempt me not.

Oria.

I had rather sing at doors for bread, than sing to
this fellow, but for hate: if this should be told in the Court,
that I begin to woe Lords, what a troop of the untrust
nobilitie should I have at my lodging to morrow morning?

SONG.

Gond.

Have you done your wassayl? 'tis a handsome
drowsie dittie I'll assure ye, now I had as leave hear a Cat
cry, when her tail is cut off, as hear these lamentations,
these lowsie love-layes, these bewailements: you think you
have caught me Lady, you think I melt now, like a dish
of May butter, and run, all into brine, and passion? yes,
yes, I'm taken, look how I cross my arms, look pale, and
dwyndle, and wo'd cry, but for spoyling my face; we must
part, nay we'll avoyd all Ceremony, no kissing Lady, I desire
to know your Ladiship no more; death of my soul the Duke!

Oria.
God keep your Lordship.

Gond.
From thee and all thy sex.

Oria.
I'll be the Clark, and crie, Amen,
Your Lordships ever assured enemie Oriana.

Exit. Oriana, Manet Gondarino.