 | The Tragedy of Thierry and Theodoret |  |
Actus Primus.
Scæna Prima.
Enter Theodoret, Brunhalt, Bawdber.BRVNHALT.
Taxe me with these hot tainters?
Theodoret.
You are too sudain;
I doe but gently tell you what becomes you
And what may bend your honor! how these courses
Of loose and lazie pleasures; not suspected
But done and known, your mind that grants no limit
And all your Actions follows, which loose people
That see but through a mist of circumstance
Dare term ambitious; all your wayes hide sores
Opening in the end to nothing but ulcers.
Your instruments like these may call the world
And with a fearfull clamor, to examine
Why, and to what we govern. From example
If not for vertues sake ye may be honest:
There have been great ones, good ones, and 'tis necessary
Because you are your self, and by your self
A self-peece from the touch of power and Justice,
You should command your self, you may imagine
(Which cozens all the world, but chiefly women)
The name of greatness glorifies your actions,
And strong power like a pent-house, promise,
To shade you from opinion; Take heed mother,
And let us all take heed these most abuse us,
The sins we doe, people behold through opticks,
Which shews them ten times more than common vices,
And often multiplys them: Then what justice
Dare we inflict upon the weak offenders
When we are theeves our selves?
Brun.
This is Martell;
Studied and pen'd unto you, whose base person
I charge you by the love you owe a mother
And as you hope for blessings from her prayers,
Neither to give belief to, nor allowance,
Next I tell you Sir, you from whom obedience
Is so far fled, that you dare taxe a mother;
Nay further, brand her honor with your slanders,
And break into the treasures of her credit,
Your easiness is abused, your faith fraited
With lyes, malitious lyes, your merchant mischief,
He that never knew more trade then Tales, and tumbling
Suspitious into honest hearts, What you or he,
Or all the world dare lay upon my worth,
This for your poor opinions; I am shee,
And so will bear my self, whose truth and whiteness
Shall ever stand as far from these detections
As you from dutie, get you better servants
People of honest actions without ends,
And whip these knaves away, they eat your favours,
And turn 'em unto poysons: my known credit
Whom all the Courts o' this side Nile, have envied,
And happy she could site me, brought in question
Now in my hours of age and reverence,
When rather superstition should be rendred
And by a Rush that one days warmth
Hath shot up to this swelling; Give me justice,
Which is his life.
Theod.
This is an impudence, and he must tell you, that till
now mother brought ye a sons obedience, and now breaks it
Above the sufferance of a Son.
Bawd.
Bless us?
For I doe now begin to feel my self
Turning into a halter, and the ladder
Turning from me, one pulling at my legs too.
Theod.
These truths are no mans tales, but all mens troubles,
They are, though your strange greatness would out-stare u'm:
Witness the daily Libels, almost Ballads
In every place, almost in every Province,
Are made upon your lust, Tavern discourses,
Crowds cram'd with whispers; Nay, the holy Temples,
Are not without your curses: Now you would blush,
But your black tainted blood dare not appear
For fear I should fright that too.
Brun.
O ye gods!
Theod.
Do not abuse their names: They see your actions
And your conceal'd sins, though you work like Moles,
Lies level to their justice.
Brun.
Art thou a Son?
Theod.
The more my shame is of so bad a mother,
And more your wretchedness you let me be so;
But womam, for a mothers name hath left me
Since you have left your honor; Mend these ruins,
And build again that broken same, and fairly;
Your most intemperate fires have burnt, and quickly
Within these ten days take a Monasterie,
A most strickt house; a house where none may whisper,
Where no more light is known but what may make ye
Believe there is a day where no hope dwells,
Nor comfort but in tears.
Brun.
O miserie!
Theod.
And there to cold repentance, and starv'd penance
Tye your succeeding days; Or curse me heaven
If all your guilded knaves, brokers, and bedders.
Even he you built from nothing, strong Protalyde,
Be not made ambling Geldings, All your maids,
If that name doe not shame 'em, fed with spunges
To suck away their ranckness; And your self
Onely to empty Pictures and dead Arras
Offer your old desires.
Brun.
I will not curse you,
Nor lay a prophesie upon your pride,
Though heaven might grant me both: unthankfull, no,
451
'Twas I felt what you suffer'd, I lamented
When sickness or sad hours held back your swetness;
'Twas I pay'd for your sleeps, I watchd your wakings:
My daily cares and fears, that rid, plaid, walk'd,
Discours'd, discover'd, fed and fashion'd you
To what you are, and I am thus rewarded,
Theod.
But that I know these tears I could dote on 'em,
And kneell to catch 'em as they fall, then knit 'em
Into an Armlet, ever to be honor'd;
But woman they are dangerous drops, deceitfull,
Full of the weeper, anger and ill nature.
Brun.
In my last hours despis'd.
Theod.
That Text should tell
How ugly it becomes you to err thus;
Your flames are spent, nothing but smoke maintains ye;
And those your savour and your bounty suffers
Lye not with you, they do but lay lust on you
And then imbrace you as they caught a palsie;
Your power they may love, and like spanish Jennetts
Commit with such a gust.
Bawd.
I would take whipping,
And pay a fine now.
Exit Bawdber.
Theod.
But were ye once disgraced,
Or fallen in wealth, like leaves they would flie from you,
And become browse for every beast; You will'd me
To stock my self with better friends, and servants,
With what face dare you see me, or any mankind,
That keep a race of such unheard of relicks,
Bawds, Leachers, Letches, female fornications,
And children in their rudiments to vices,
Old men to shew examples: and lest Art
Should loose her self in act, to call back custome,
Leave these, and live like Niobe. I told you how
And when your eyes have dropt away remembrance
Of what you were. I'm your Son! performe it.
Brun.
Am I a woman, and no more power in me,
To tye this Tyger up, a soul to no end,
Have I got shame and lost my will? Brunhalt
From this accursed hour, forget thou bor'st him,
Or any part of thy blood gave him living,
Let him be to thee an Antipathy,
A thing thy nature sweats at, and turns backward:
Throw all the mischiefs on him that thy self,
Or woman worse than thou art, have invented,
And kill him drunk, or doubtfull.
Enter Bawdber, Protaldie, Lecure.
Bawd.
Such a sweat,
I never was in yet, clipt of my minstrels,
My toyes to prick up wenches withall; Uphold me,
It runs like snow-balls through me.
Brun.
Now my varlets,
My slaves, my running thoughts, my executions.
Baw.
Lord how she looks!
Brun.
Hell take ye all.
Baw.
We shall be gelt.
Brun.
Your Mistress,
Your old and honor'd Mistress, you tyr'd curtal's
Suffers for your base sins; I must be cloyster'd,
Mew'd up to make me virtuous who can help this?
Now you stand still like Statues; Come Protaldye,
One kiss before I perish, kiss me strongly,
Another, and a third.
Lecure.
I fear not gelding
As long she holds this way.
Brun.
The young courser
That unlikt lumpe of mine, will win thy Mistriss;
Must I be chast Protaldye?
Pro.
Thus and thus Lady.
Brun.
It shall be so, let him seek fools for Vestalls,
Here is my Cloyster.
Lecure.
But what safety Madam
Find you in staying here?
Brun.
Thou hast hit my meaning,
I will to Thierry Son of my blessings,
And there complain me, tell my tale so subtilly,
That the cold stones shall sweat; And Statues mourn,
And thou shalt weep Protaldye in my witness,
And there forswear.
Bawd.
Yes, any thing but gelding,
I'm not yet in quiet Noble Lady,
Let it be done to night, for without doubt
To morrow we are capons,
Brun.
Sleep shall not seize me,
Nor any food befriend me but thy kisses.
E're I forsake this desart, I live honest;
He may as well bid dead men walk, I humbled,
Or bent below my power; let night-dogs tear me,
And goblins ride me in my sleep to jelly,
Ere I forsake my sphear.
Lecure.
This place you will.
Brun.
What's that to you, or any,
Ye doss, you powder'd pigsbones, rubarbe glister:
Must you know my designs? a colledge on you,
The proverbe makes but fools.
Prota.
But Noble Lady.
Brun.
You a sawcie ass too, off I will not,
If you but anger me, till a sow-gelder
Have cut you all like colts, hold me and kiss me,
For I 'm too much troubled; Make up my treasure,
And get me horses private, come about it.
Exeunt.
| The Tragedy of Thierry and Theodoret | |