 | The Island Princesse |  |
Actus Tertius.
Scæna prima.
Enter Pyniero.Mine uncle haunts me up & down, looks melancholy,
Wondrous proof melancholy, sometimes sweares,
Then whistles, starts, cries, & groans, as if he had the Bots.
As to say truth, I think h'as little better,
And wo'd fain speak; bids me good morrow at midnight,
And good night when 'tis noon, has something hovers
About his braines, that would faine finde an issue,
But cannot out, or dares not: stil he followes;
Enter Ruy Dyas.
How he looks still, and how he beats about,
Like an old Dog at a dead sent? I marry,
There was a sigh wou'd a set a ship a sayling:
These winds of love and honour blow at all ends.
Now speak and't be thy will: good morrow Uncle.
Ru.
Good morrow sir.
Py.
This is a new salute:
Sure h'as forgot me: this is pur-blinde Cupid.
Ru.
My Nephew?
Py.
Yes sir, if I be not chang'd.
Ru.
I wou'd faine speak with you.
Py.
I wou'd faine have ye sir,
For to that end I stay.
Ru.
You know I love yee,
And I have lov'd you long, my deare Pyniero,
Bred and supply'd you.
Py.
Whither walks this Preamble?
Ru.
You may remember, though I am but your Uncle,
I sure had a fathers care, a fathers tendernesse.
Py.
Sure he would wrap me into something now suddenly,
He doubts my nature in, for mine is honest,
He windes about me so.
Ru.
A fathers deligence.
My privat benefits, I have forgot sir,
But those you might lay claime to as my follower;
Yet some men wou'd remember—
Pyn.
I doe dayly.
Ru.
The place which I have put ye in, which is no weak one,
Next to my selfe you stand in all employments,
Your counsells, cares, assignements with me equall,
So is my study still to plant your person;
These are small testimonies I have not forgot ye,
Nor wou'd not be forgotten.
Pyn.
Sure you cannot.
Ru.
O Pyniero—
Pyn.
Sir, what hangs upon you,
What heavy weight oppresses ye, ye have lost,
(I must confesse, in those that understand ye)
Some little of your credit, but time will cure that;
The best may slip sometimes.
Pu.
Oh my best Nephew—
Pyn.
It may be yee feare her too, that disturbs ye,
That she may fall her selfe, or be forc'd from ye.
Ru.
She is ever true, but I undone for ever.
Oh that Armusia, that new thing, that stranger,
That flag stuck up to rob me of mine honor;
That murdring chaine shot at me from my Country;
That goodly plague that I must court to kill me.
Pyn.
Now it comes flowing from him, I feared this,
Knew, he that durst be idle, durst be ill too,
Has he not done a brave thing?
Ru.
I must confesse it nephew, must allow it,
But that brave thing has undone me, has sunke me,
Has trod me like a name in sand to nothing,
Hangs betwixt hope and me, and threatens my ruine:
And if he rise and blaze, farewell my fortune;
And when thats set, where's thy advancement Cozen?
That were a friend, that were a noble kinsman,
That would consider these; that man were gratefull;
And he that durst doe something here durst love me.
Pyn.
You say true, 'tis worth consideration,
Your reasons are of weight, and marke me Unckle,
For I'le be sudden, and to'th' purpose with you.
Say this Armusia then wert taken off,
As it may be easily done
How stands the woman?
Ru.
She is mine for ever;
For she contemnes his deed and him.
Pyn.
Pox on him,
Or if the single pox be not sufficient,
The hogs, the dogs, and devils pox possesse him:
'Faith this Armusia stumbles me, 'is a brave fellow;
And if he could be spared Unckle—
Ru.
I must perish:
Had he set up at any rest but this,
Done any thing but what concern'd my credit,
The everlasting losing of my worth.—
Pyn.
I understand you now, who set you on too;
I had a reasonable good opinion of the devill
Till this houre; and I see he is a knave indeed,
An arrant stinking knave, for now I smell him;
I'le see what may be done then, you shall know
You have a kinsman, but no villaine Unckle,
Nor no betrayer of faire fame, I scorne it;
I love and honour vertue; I must have
Accesse unto the Lady to know her mind too,
A good word from her mouth you know may stir me;
A Ladies looke at setting on—
Ru.
You say well;
Here Cozen, here's a Letter readie for you,
And you shall see how nobly shee'l receive you,
And with what care direct.
Pyn.
Farewell then Unckle,
After I have talked with her, I am your servant,
To make you honest if I can—else hate you.
Pray ye no more complements, my head is busie, heaven blesse me;
What a malicious soule does this man carry?
And to what scurvy things this love converts us?
What stinking things, and how sweetly they become us?
Murther's a morall vertue with these Lovers,
A speciall peece of Divinitie I take it:
I may be mad, or violentlie drunke,
Which is a whelp of that litter; or I may be covetous,
And learne to murther mens estates, thats base too;
Or proud, but thats a Paradise to this;
Or envious, and sit eating of my selfe
At others fortunes; I may lye, and damnably,
Beyond the patience of an honest hearer;
Couzen, Cut purses, sit i'th' stocks for apples.
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These are poore pelting sins, or rather plagues,
Love and Ambition draw the devills Coach.
Enter Quisana, and Panura.
How now! who are these? Oh my great Ladies followers,
Her riddle-founders, and her fortune-tellers,
Her readers of her love-lectures, her inflamers:
These doors I must passe through, I hope they are wide.
Good day to your beauties, how they take it to 'em?
As if they were faire indeed.
Quis.
Good morrow to you sir.
Pin.
That's the old Hen, the brood-bird? how she busses?
How like an Inventory of Lecherie she looks?
Many a good peece of iniquity
Has past her hands, I warrant her—I beseech you,
Is the faire Princesse stirring?
Pan.
Yes marry is she sir,
But somewhat private: have you a businesse with her?
Pin.
Yes forsooth have I, and a serious businesse.
Pan.
May not we know?
Pin.
Yes, when you can keep counsell.
Pan.
How prettily he looks? he's a souldier sure,
His rudenesse sits so handsomly upon him.
Quis.
A good blunt gentleman.
Pin.
Yes marry am I:
Yet for a push or two at sharp, an't please you—
Pan.
My honest friend, you know not who you speak to:
This is the Princesse Aunt.
Pin.
I like her th'better
And she were her Mother, (Lady) or her grandmother,
I am not so bashfull but I can buckle with her.
Pan.
Of what size is your businesse?
Pin.
Of the long sixteens,
And will make way I warrant yee.
Pan.
How fine he talks?
Pin.
Nay in troth I talke but coursely, Lady,
But I hold it comfortable for the understanding:
How faine they wou'd draw me into ribaldry?
These wenches that live easily, live high,
And love these broad discourses, as they love possets;
These dry delights serve for preparatives.
Pan.
Why doe you look so on me?
Pin.
I am ghessing
By the cast of your face, what the property of your place should be,
For I presume you turne a key sweet beauty,
And you another gravity, under the Princesse,
And by my—I warrant ye good places,
Comely commodious feates.
Quisan.
Prethee let him talke still,
For me thinkes he talkes hansomely.
Py.
And truly
As neare as my understanding shall enable me
You look as if you kept my Ladies secrets:
Nay doe not laugh, for I meane honestly,
How these young things tattle, when they get a toy by th'end?
And how their hearts goe pit a pat and look for it?
Wou'd it not dance too, if it had a Fiddle?
Your gravity I ghesse, to take the Petitions,
And heare the lingring suits in love dispos'd,
Their sighes and sorrowes in their proper place,
You keep the ayme office.
Qui.
Prethee suffer him,
For as I live hee's a pretty fellow.
I love to here sometimes what men think of us:
And thus deliver'd freely, 'tis no malice:
Proceed good honest man.
Pin.
I will, good Madam.
According to mens states and dignities,
Moneyes and moveables, you rate their dreames,
And cast the Nativity of their desires,
If he reward well, all he thinks is prosperous:
And if he promise place, his dreams are Oracles;
Your ancient practique Art too in these discoveries,
Who loves at such a length, who a span farther,
And who drawes home, yeeld you no little profit,
For these yee milk by circumstance.
Qui.
Yee are cunning.
Pin.
And as they Oyle ye, and advance your spindle,
So you draw out the lines of love, your doores too,
The doores of destiny, that men must passe through;
These are faire places.
Pan.
He knowes all.
Pin.
Your trap doores,
To pop fooles in it, that have no providence,
Your litle wickets, to work wise men, like wires throgh at,
And draw their states and bodies into Cobwebs,
Your Posterne doores, to catch those that are cautelous,
And would not have the worlds eye finde their knaveries:
Your doores of danger, some men hate a pleasure,
Unlesse that may be full of feares; your hope doores,
And those are fine commodities, where fooles pay
For every new encouragement, a new custome;
You have your doores of honour, and of pleasure;
But those are for great Princes, glorious vanities,
That travell to be famous through diseases;
There be the doores of povertie and death too:
But these you doe the best you can to damme up,
For then your gaine goes out.
Qui.
This is a rare lecture.
Pin.
Read to them that understand.
Pan.
Beshrew me,
I dare not venture on ye, yee cut too keen sir.
Qui.
We thank you sir for your good mirth
Enter Quisara
You are a good Companion.
Here comes the Princesse now, attend your businesse.
Quisar.
Is there no remedy? no hopes can help me?
No wit to set me free? whose there hoe?
Quisan.
Troubled? her looks are almost wilde:
What ailes the Princesse?
I know nothing she wants.
Quisar.
Who's that there with you?
Oh Signeur Piniero? you are most welcome:
How does your noble uncle?
Pin.
Sad as you are Madam:
But he commends his service, and this Letter.
Quisar.
Goe off, attend within—Faire sir, I thank ye,
Pray be no stranger, for indeed you are welcome;
For your owne vertues welcome.
Quis.
We are mistaken,
This is some brave fellow sure.
Pan.
I'me sure hee's a bold fellow:
But if she hold him so, we must beleeve it.
Ex.
Quisar.
Doe you know of this faire sir?
Pin.
I ghesse it Madam,
And whither it intends: I had not brought it else.
Quis.
It is a businesse of no common reckoning.
Pin.
The handsomer for him that goes about it;
Slight actions are rewarded with slight thanks:
Give me a matter of some waight to wade in.
Quis.
And can you love your Uncle so directly,
So seriously, and so full, to undertake this?
Can there be such a faith?
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Dare you say I to it,
And set me on? 'tis no matter for my Uncle,
Or what I owe to him, dare you but wish it.
Quisar.
I wou'd faine—
Pyn.
Have it done; say but so Lady.
Quisan.
Conceive it so.
Pyn.
I will, 'tis that I am bound too:
Your will that must command me, and your pleasure,
The faire aspects of those eyes, that must direct me:
I am no Uncles agent, I am mine owne, Lady;
I scorne my able youth should plough for others,
Or my ambition serve for pay; I ayme,
Although I never hit, as high as any man,
And the reward I reach at shall be equall,
And what love spurs me on to, this desire,
Makes me forget an honest man, a brave man,
A valiant, and a vertuous man, my country-man, Armusia,
The delight of all the Minions,
Is love of you, doting upon your beauty, the admiration of your excellence;
Make me but servant to the poorest smile,
Or the least grace you have bestow'd on others,
And see how suddenly Ile worke your safety,
And set your thoughts at peace; I am no flatterer,
To promise infinitely, and out-dream dangers;
To lye a bed, and sweare men into Feavers,
Like some of your trim suters; when I promise,
The light is not more constant to the world,
Then I am to my word—She turnes for millions.
Quisar.
I have not seen a braver confirm'd courage.
Pyn.
For a tun of Crownes she turns: she is a woman,
And much I feare a worse then I expected.
You are the object Lady, you are the eye
In which all excellence appears, all wonder,
From which all hearts take fire, all hands their valour:
And when he stands disputing, when you bid him,
Or but thinks of his estate, Father, Mother,
Friends, Wife, and Children,
Is a foole, and I scorne him,
And be but to make cleane his sword: coward
Men have forgot their fealty to beauty.
Had I the place in your affections,
My most unworthy uncle is fit to fall from,
Liv'd in those blessed eyes, and read the stories
Of everlasting pleasures figur'd there,
I wou'd finde out your cōmands before you thought 'em,
And bring 'em to you done, ere you dream't of 'em.
Quis.
I admire his boldnesse.
Pyn.
This, or any thing;
Your brothers death, mine uncles, any mans,
No state that stands secure, if you frowne on it.
Look on my youth, I bring no blastings to you,
The first flower of my strength, my faith.
Quis.
No more sir;
I am too willing to believe, rest satisfi'd;
If you dare doe for me, I shall be thankfull:
You are a handsome gentleman, a faire one,
My servant if you please; I seale it thus sir.
No more, till you deserve more.
Exit.
Pyn.
I am rewarded:
This woman's cunning, but she's bloudy too;
Although she pulls her Tallons in, she's mischievous;
Form'd like the face of heaven, cleare and transparent;
I must pretend still, beare 'em both in hopes,
For feare some bloudy slave thrust in indeed,
Fashion'd and flesh'd to what they wish: well uncle,
What will become of this, and what dishonour
Follow this fatall shaft, if shot, let time tell,
I can but only feare, and crosse to crosse it.
Exit.
Enter Armusia, Emanuel, Soza.
Em.
Why are you thus sad? what can grieve or vex you
That have the pleasures of the world, the profits,
The honour, and the loves at your disposes?
Why should a man that wants nothing, want his quiet?
Ar.
I want what beggars are above me in, content:
I want the grace I have merited,
The favour, the due respect.
Soz.
Does not the King allow it?
Ar.
Yes and all honors else, all I can aske,
That he has power to give; but from his sister,
The scornfull crueltie, forgive me beauty,
That I transgresse from her that should looke on me,
That should a little smile upon my service,
And foster my deserts for her owne faiths sake;
That should at least acknowledge me, speake to me.
Soz.
And you goe whining up and downe for this sir,
Lamenting and disputing of your grievances;
Sighing and sobbing like a sullen Schoole-boy,
And cursing good-wife fortune for this favor.
Ar.
What would you have me doe?
Soz.
Doe what you should doe,
What a man would doe in this case, a wise man,
An understanding man that knowes a woman;
Knowes her and all her tricks, her scorns & all her trifles:
Goe to her and take her in your armes and shake her,
Take her and tosse her like a barre.
Em.
But be sure you pitch her upon a feather-bed,
Shake her between a paire of sheets sir,
There shake these sullen fits out of her, spare her not there,
There you may breake her will, and bruise no bone sir.
Soz.
Goe to her.
Em.
Thats the way.
Soz.
And tell her and boldly,
And doe not mince the matter, nor mocke your selfe,
With being too indulgent to her pride:
Let her heare roundly from ye, what ye are,
And what ye haue deserved, and what she must be.
Em.
And be not put off like a common fellow,
With the Princesse would be private,
Or that she has taken phisicke, and admits none,
I would talke to her any where.
Ar.
It makes me smile.
Em.
Now you looke hansomely:
Had I a wench to win, I would so flutter her,
They love a man that crushes 'em to verjuice;
A woman held at hard meat is your spanniel.
Soz.
Pray take our counsell sir.
Ar.
I shall doe something,
But not your way, it shewes too boisterous,
For my affections are as faire and gentle,
As her they serve.
Enter King.
Soz.
The King.
Kin.
Why, how now friend?
Why doe you rob me of the companie
I love so dearly sir, I have bin seeking you;
For when I want you. I want all my pleasure:
Why sad? thus sad still man; I will not have it;
I must not see the face I love thus shadowed.
Em.
And't please your Grace, methinks it ill becomes him,
A souldier should be joviall, high and lustie.
Kin.
He shall be so, come, come, I know your reason,
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Take my word, ('tis a Kings word) ye shall have her,
She shall be yours or nothing, pray be merry.
Arm.
Your grace has given me cause, I shall be sir,
And ever your poore servant.
King.
Me my selfe sir,
My better selfe, I shall finde time, and suddenly,
To gratifie your loves too gentlemen,
And make you know how much I stand bound to you:
Nay 'tis not worth your thanks, no further complement;
Will you goe with me friend?
Arm.
I beseech your grace,
Spare me an houre or two, I shall wait on you,
Some little private businesse with my selfe sir,
For such a time.
King.
Ile hinder no devotion,
For I know you are regular, Ile take you gentlemen,
Because hee shall have nothing to disturbe him,
I shall look for your friend.
Exeunt. Manet Armusia.
Arm.
I dare not faile sir:
Enter Panura.
What shall I doe to make her know my misery,
To make her sensible? This is her woman,
I have a toy come to me suddenly,
It may worke for the best, she can but scorne me,
And lower then I am I cannot tumble,
Ile trye what ere my fate be—Good even faire one,
Pan.
'Tis the brave stranger—A good night to you sir.
Now by my Ladies hand a goodly gentleman!
How happy shall she be in such a husband?
Wou'd I were so provided too.
Arm.
Good pretty one,
Shall I keep you company for an houre or two?
I want employment for this evening.
I am an honest man.
Pan.
I dare beleeve yee:
Or if yee were not sir, that's no great matter,
We take mens promises, wou'd ye stay with me sir?
Arm.
So it please you; pray let's be better acquainted,
I know you are the Princesse gentlewoman,
And wait upon her neere.
Pan.
'Tis like I doe so.
Arm.
And may befriend a man, do him faire courtesies,
If he have businesse your way.
Pan.
I understand yee.
Arm.
So kinde an office, that you may bind a gentleman
Hereafter to be yours, and your way too,
And ye may blesse the houre you did this benefit,
Sweet handsome faces should have courteous mindes,
And ready faculties.
Pan.
Tell me your businesse,
Yet if I thinke it be to her, your selfe sir,
For I know what you are, and what we hold ye,
And in what grace ye stand, without a second
For that but darkens, you wou'd doe it better,
The Princesse must be pleas'd with your accesses,
I'me sure I should.
Arm.
I want a Courtiers boldnesse,
And am yet but a stranger, I wou'd faine speak with her:
Pan.
'Tis very late, and upon her houre of sleep sir.
Ar.
Pray ye weare this, and believe my meaning civil,
My businesse of that faire respect and carriage:
This for our more acquaintance.
Jewell.
Pan.
How close he kisses?
And how sensible the passings of his lips are?
I must do it, and I were to be hang'd now, and I will do it,
He may doe as much for me, that's all I ayme at,
And come what will on't, life or death, I'le do it,
For ten such kisses more, and 'twere high treason.
Arm.
I wou'd be private with her.
Pan.
So you shall,
'Tis not worth thankes else, you must dispatch quick.
Arm.
Suddenly.
Pan.
And I must leave you in my chamber sir,
Where you must locke your selfe that none may see you,
'Tis close to her, you cannot misse the entrance,
When she comes downe to bed.
Arm.
I understand ye, and once more thanke ye Lady.
Pan.
Thanke me but thus.
Arm.
If I faile thee—
Come close then.
Ex.
Enter Quisara, and Quisana.
Quisar.
'Tis late good Aunt, to bed, I am ene unready,
My! woman will not be long away.
Quisan.
I wou'd have you a little merrier first,
Let me sit by ye, and read or discourse
Something that ye fancy, or take my instrument.
Quisar.
No, no I thanke you,
I shall sleep without these, I wrong your age Aunt
To make ye waite thus, pray let me entreat ye,
To morrow I'le see ye, I know y'are sleepy,
And rest will be a welcome guest, you shall not,
Enter Panura.
Indeed you shall not stay; oh here's my woman,
Good night, good night, and good rest Aunt attend you.
Qui.
Sleep dwell upon your eyes, & faire dreams court ye.
Quisar.
Come, where have you been wench? make me unready;
I slept but ill last night.
Pan.
You'l sleep the better
I hope too night Madam.
Quisar.
A little rest contents me,
Thou lovest thy bed Panura.
Pan.
I am not in love Lady,
Nor seldome dreame of devils, I sleep soundly.
Quisar.
I'le sweare thou dost, thy husband wou'd not take it so well
If thou wert married wench.
Pan.
Let him take Madam
The way to waken me, I am no dormouse.
Husbands have larum bels, if they but
Ring once.
Quisar.
Thou art a merry wench.
Pan.
I shall live the longer.
Quisar.
Prethee fetch my booke.
Pan.
I am glad of that.
Quisar.
I'le read a while before I sleep.
Pan.
I will Madam.
Quisar.
And if Ruy Dias meet you and be importunate,
He may come in.
Pan.
I have a better fare for you,
Now least in sight play I.
Exit.
Enter Armusia, lockes the doore.
Quisar.
Why should I love him?
Why should I doat upon a man deserves not,
Nor has no will to worke it? who's there wench?
What are you? or whence come you?
Arm.
Ye may know me,
I bring not such amazement noble Lady.
Quisar.
Who let you in?
Arm.
My restles love that serves ye.
Quisar.
This is an impudence I have not heard of,
A rudenesse that becomes a theefe or russin;
Nor shall my brothers love protect this boldnesse,
109
And with that reverence they that seeke my favours,
And humble feares, shall render their approches.
Arm.
Mine are no lesse.
Quisar.
I am Mistris of my selfe sir.
And will be so, I will not be thus visited;
These feares and dangers thrust into my privacy,
Stand further off, Ile cry out else.
Arm.
Oh deare Lady!
Quisar.
I see dishonour in your eyes.
Arm.
There is none:
By all that beauty they are innocent;
Pray ye tremble not, you have no cause.
Quisar.
I'le dye first;
Before you have your will, be torne in peeces;
The little strength I have left me to resist you,
The gods will give me more, before I am forc'd
To that I hate, or suffer—
Arm.
You wrong my duty.
Quisar.
So base a violation of my liberty?
I know you are bent unnobly; I'le take to me
The spirit of man, borrow his boldnesse,
And force my womans feares into a madnesse,
And ere you arrive at what you aime at—
Arm.
Lady,
If there be in you any womans pitty?
And if your feares have not proclam'd me monstrous?
Looke on me and beleeve me; is this violence?
Is it to fall thus prostrate to your beauty
A ruffins boldnesse? is humility a rudenesse?
The griefes and sorrowes that grow here an impudence?
These forcings, and these feares I bring along with me,
These impudent abuses offered ye;
And thus high has your brothers favour blowne me:
Alas deare Lady of my life, I came not
With any purpose rough, or desperate,
With any thought that was not smooth and gentle
As your faire hand, with any doubt or danger,
Far be it from my heart to fright your quiet;
A heavy curse light on it when I intend it.
Quisar.
Now I dare heare you.
Arm.
If I had been mischievous,
As then I must be mad; or were a monster,
If any such base thought had harbour'd here,
Or violence that became not man,
You have a thousand bulwarkes to assure you,
The holy powers beare shields to defend chastity;
Your honour and your vertues are such armours;
Your cleare thoughts such defences; if you misdoubt still,
And yet retaine a feare I am not honest,
Come with impure thoughts to this place;
Take this, and sheath it heare; be your own safety;
Be wise, and rid your feares, and let me perish;
How willing shall I sleepe to satisfie you.
Quisar.
No, I beleeve now, you speake worthily;
What came you then for?
Arm.
To complaine, me beauty,
But modesty.
Quisar.
Of what?
Arm.
Of your feirce cruelty,
For though I dye, I will not blame the doer:
Humbly to tell your grace, ye had forgot me:
A little to have toucht at, not accused,
For that I dare not do, your scornes, pray pardon me
And be not angry, that I use the liberty
To urge that word, a little to have shew'd you
What I have been, and what done to deserve ye,
If any thing that love commands may reach ye,
To have remembred ye, but I am unworthy,
And to that misery fals all my fortunes,
To have told ye, and by my life ye may beleeve me,
That I am honest, and will only marry
You, or your memory; pray be not angry.
Quisar.
I thanke you sir, and let me tell you seriously,
Ye have taken now the right way to befriend ye,
And to beget a faire and cleare opinion,
Yet to try your obedience—
Arm.
I stand ready Lady,
Without presuming to aske any thing.
Quisar.
Or at this time to hope for further favour;
Or to remember services, or smiles;
Dangers you have past through, and rewards due to 'em;
Loves or dispaires, but leaving all to me:
Quit this place presently.
Arm.
I shall obey ye.
Enter Ruy Dias.
Ru.
Ha?
Arm.
Who's this?
What art thou?
Ru.
A Gentleman.
Arm.
Thou art no more I'm sure: oh 'tis Ruy Dias;
How high he lookes, and harsh?
Ru.
Is there not doore enough,
You take such elbow roome?
Arm.
If I take it, I'le carry it.
Ru.
Does this become you Princesse?
Arm.
The Captain's jealous,
Jealous of that he never durst deserve yet;
Go freely, go I'le give thee leave.
Ru.
Your leave sir?
Arm.
Yes my leave sir, I'le not be troubled neither,
Nor shall my heart ake, or my head be jealous,
Nor strange suspitious thoughts reigne in my memory;
Go on, and do thy worst, I'le smile at thee;
I kisse your faire hand first, then farewell Captaine.
Ex.
Quisar.
What a pure soule inherits here? what innocence?
Sure I was blind when I first lov'd this fellow,
And long to live in that fogg stil: how he blusters!
Ru.
Am I your property? or those your flatteries,
The banquets that ye bid me to, the trust
I build my goodly hopes on?
Quisar.
Be more temperate.
Ru.
Are these the shewes of your respect and favour?
What did he here? what language had he with ye?
Did ye invite? could ye stay no longer?
Is he so gratious in your eye?
Quisar.
You are too forward.
Ru.
Why at these private houres?
Quisar.
You are too saucy,
Too impudent to taske me with those erours:
Do ye know what I am sir, and my prerogative?
Though you be a thing I haue cal'd bith' name of friend,
I never taught you to dispose my liberty;
How durst you touch mine honour? blot my meanings?
And name an action, and of mine but noble?
Thou poore unworthy thing, how have I grac'd thee?
How have I nourisht thee, and raised thee hourely?
Are these the gratitudes you bring Ruy Dias?
The thankes? the services? I am fairely paid;
Was't not enough I saw thou wert a Coward,
And shaddowed thee? no noble sparkle in thee?
Dayly provok'd thee, and still found thee coward?
110
Yet still, still, still a Coward, ever Coward;
And with those taints, dost thou upbraid my vertues?
Ruy.
I was too blame
Lady.
Quisar.
So blindly bold to touch at my behaviour?
Durst thou but looke amisse at my allowance?
If thou hadst been a brave fellow, thou hadst had some licence,
Some liberty I might have then allowed thee
For thy good face, some scope to have argued with me;
But being nothing but a sound, a shape,
The meere signe of a Souldier—of a Lover,
The dregs and drafty part, disgrace and jealousie,
I scorne thee, and contemne thee.
Ru.
Dearest Lady,
If I have been too free—
Quisar.
Thou hast been too foolish,
And goe on still, I'le study to forget thee,
I would I could, and yet I pitty thee.
Exit.
Ru.
I am not worth it, if I were, that's misery,
The next doore is but death, I must aime at it.
Exit.
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