University of Virginia Library

Enter Don Frigozo.
Noise within.
Frig.

Away with those bald pated Rascals there,
their wits are bound up in vellam, they
are not currant here. Down with those
City-Gentlemen, &c. Out with those
—I say, and in with their wives
at the back-door. Worship and place,
I am weary of ye, yee lie on my shoulders like a load of
gold on an Asses back. A man in Authoritie is but as a
candle in the winde, sooner wasted or blown out then
under a bushel. How now, what'ts the matter?

Enter Rinaldo.

Who are you, Sir?

Rin.

Who am I, Sir? why, do y' not know me?

Frig.

No by my—do I not.

Rin.

I am sure we din'd together to day.

Frig.

That's all one: as I din'd with you in the City,
and as you paid for my dinner there, I do know you, and
am beholding to you: But as my mind is since transmigrated
into my office, and as you come to Court to have
me pay you again, and be beholding to me, I know you
not, I know you not.

Rin.

Nay, but look ye Sir.

Frig.

Pardon me: If you had been my bed-fellow these
seven yeers, and lent me money to buy my place, I must
not transgresse principles: This very talking with you is
an ill example.

Rin.

Pish, you are too punctual a Courtier, Sir: why,
I am a Courtier too, yet never understood the place or
name to be so infectious to humanitie and manners, as to
cast a man into a burning pride and arrogance, for which
there is no cure. I am a Courtier, and yet I will know
my friends, I tell you.

Frig.

And I tell you, you will thrive accordingly, I
warrant you.

Rin.

But heark ye, Seigniour Frigozo, you shall first
understand, I have no friends with me to trouble you.

Frig.

Humh: That's a good motive.

Rin.

Nor to borrow money of you.

Frig.

That's an excellent motive.

Rin.

No my sweet Don, nor to ask what you owe me.

Frig.

Why, that is the very motive of motives: why
I ought and will know thee: and if I had not wound thee
up to this promise, I would not have known thee these
fifteen yeers, no more then the errantest or most foundered
Castillian that followed our new Qs carriages afoot.

Rin.

Nor for any thing, deer Don, but that you would
place me conveniently to see the Play to night.

Frig.

That shall I, Seignior Rinaldo: but would you
had come sooner: you see how full the Scaffolds are, there
is scant room for a Lovers thought here. Gentlewomen,
sit close for shame: Has none of ye a little corner for
this Gentleman? I'll place ye, fear not. And how did
our brave King of Portugal, Emanuel, bear himself to day?
You saw the solemnitie of the marriage.

Rin.

Why, like a fit Husband for so gracious and excellent
a Princesse, as his worthie mate Isabella, the King
of Castiles Daughter doth in her very external lineaments,
mixture of colours, and joyning Dove-like behaviour
assure her self to be. And I protest (my deer Don) seriously,
I can sing prophetically nothing but blessed hymns,
and happie occasions to this sacred union of Portugal and
Castile, which have so wisely and mutually conjoyned
two such vertuous and beautiful Princes as these are; and
in all opinion like to multiplie to their very last minute.

Frig.

The King is entring: Seignior hover here about,
and as soon as the Train is set, clap into me, wee'll stand
neer the State. If you have any Creditors here, they shall
renew bonds a Twelvemonth on such a sight: but to
to touch the pomell of the Kings chair in the sight of a
Citizen, is better security for 1000 double duckets, then
three of the best Merchants in Lisbon. Besides, Seignior,
wee will censure not onely the King in the Play here, that
reigns his two hours; but the King himself, that is to
rule his life time: Take my counsell: I have one word
to say to this noble assembly, and I am for you.

Rin.
Your method shall govern me.

Frig.
Prologues are Hinshers bare before the wise;
Why may not then an Hinsher Prologize?
Here's a fair sight, and were ye oftner seen
Thus gather'd here, 'twould please our King and Queen.
Upon my conscience, ye are welcome all
To Lisbon, and the Court of Portugall;
Where your fair eyes shall feed on no worse sights
Then preparations made for Kings delights.
We wish to men content, the manliest treasure,
And to the women their own wish'd for pleasure.

Flourish.
Enter King and Queen, Emanuel and Isabella, Lords and attendants.
Em.
Fair fountain of my life, from whose pure streams
the propagation of two Kingdoms flowes,
never contention rise in eithers brest,
but contestation whose love shall be best.

Isab.
Majestick Ocean, that with plenty feeds
me thy poor tributary Rivolet,
Sun of my beauty, that with radiant beams
dost gild, and dance upon these humble streams,
curst be my birth-hour, and my ending day,
when back your love-floods I forget to pay:
or if this brest of mine your crystall brook
ever take other form in, other look
but yours, or ere produce unto your grace
a strange reflection, or anothers face,
but be your love-book clasp'd, open'd to none
but you, nor hold a storie but your own;
a water fix'd, that ebbs nor floods pursue,
frozen to all, onely dissolv'd to you.

Em.
O, who shall tel the sweenesse of our love
to future times, and not be thought to lye?
I look through this hour like a perspective,
and far off see millions of prosperous seeds
that our reciprocall affection breeds.
Thus my white rib, close in my brest with me,
which nought shall tear hence but mortalitie.

Flourish.
Lords.
Be Kingdoms blest in you, you blest in them.

Frig.

Whist, Seignior; my strong imagination shews
me Love (me thinks) bathing in milk, and wine in her
cheeks: O how she clips him like a plant of Ivie.

Rin.

I; Could not you be content to be an owl in such
an ivie-bush, or one of the oaks of the City to be so clipt?

Frig.

Equivocal Don, though I like the clipping well,
I could not be content either to be your owl, or your ox
of the Citie. The Play begins.

Flourish.
Enter a Poet with a garland.
Poet Prologue.
Low at your sacred feet our poor Muse layes
Her, and her thunder fearlesse virdant Bayes.
Four severall Triumphs to your Princely eyes
Of Honour, Love, Death, and Time do rise
From our approaching subject, which we move
Towards you with fear, since that a sweeter Love,
A brighter Honour, purer Chastitie
March in your brests this day triumphantly,
Then our weak Scenes can show: then how dare we
Present like Apes and Zanies, things that be
Exemplifi'd in you, but that we know,
We ne'r crav'd grace, which you did not bestow?

Enter in triumph with Drums, Trumpets, Colours, Martius, Valerius, Sophocles bound, Nicodemus, Cornelius, Captains and Souldiers.
Mar.
What means proud Sophocles?

Soph.
To go even with Martius,
and not to follow him like his Officer:
I never waited yet on any man.

Mar.
Why poor Athenian Duke, thou art my slave,
my blows have conquerd thee.

Soph.
Thy slave? proud Martius,
Cato thy countrey-man (whose constancie
of all the Romans I did honour most)
rip'd himself twice to avoid slavery,
making himself his own Anatomie.
But looke thee Martius, not a veine runs here
from head to foote, but Sophocles would unseame, and
like a spring garden shoote his scornfull blood
itno their eyes durst come to tread on him:
As for thy blowes, they did not conquer me:
Seven Battailes have I met thee face to face,
and given thee blow for blow, and wound for wound,
and till thou taught'st me, knew not to retire;
thy sword was then as bold, thy arm as strong;
thy blows then Martius, cannot conquer me.

Val.
What is it then?

Soph.
Fortune.

Val.
Why, yet in that
thou art the worse man, and must follow him.

Soph.
Young Sir, you erre: If Fortune could be call'd
or his, or yours, or mine, in good or evill
for any certain space, thou hadst spoke truth:
But she but jests with man, and in mischance
abhors all constancie, flowting him still
with some small touch of good, or seeming good
midst of his mischiefe: which vicissitude
makes him strait doff his armour and his fence
he had prepar'd before, to break her strokes.
So from the very Zenith of her wheel,
when she has dandled some choice favorite,
given him his boons in women, honour, wealth,
and all the various delicies of earth.
that the fool scorns the gods in his excesse,
she whirls, and leaves him at th'Antipodes.

Mar.
Art sure we have taken him? Is this Sophocles?
his fettred arms say no; his free soul, I.
This Athens nurseth Arts, as well as Arms.

Soph.
Nor glory Martius, in this day of thine,
'tis behind yesterday, but before to morrow:
Who knows what Fortune then will do with thee?
She never yet could make the better man
the better chance she has: the man that's best
she still contends with, and doth favour least.

Mar.
Me thinks a graver thunder then the skies
breaks from his lips; I am amaz'd to hear,
and Athens words more then her swords doe fear.

Soph.
Martius, slave Sophocles, couldst thou acquire
(and did thy Roman gods so love thy prayers,
and solemn sacrifice, to grant thy suit)
to gather all the valour of the Cesars
thy Predecessors, and what is to come,
and by their influence fling it on thee now,
thou couldst not make my mind go lesse, not pare
with all their swords one vertue from my soul:
how am I vassall'd then? Make such thy slaves
as dare not keep their goodnesse past their graves.
Know Generall, we two are chances on
the die of Fate; now thrown, thy six is up,
and my poor one beneath thee; next thy throw
may set me upmost, and cast thee below.

Mar.
Yet will I trie thee more: Calamitie
is mans true touchstone: Listen insolent Prince,
that dar'st contemn the Master of thy life,
which I will force here 'fore thy City walls
with barbarous crueltie, and call thy wife
to see it, and then after send her—

Soph.
Ha, ha, ha.

Mar.
And then demolish Athens to the ground,
depopulate her, fright away her fame,
and leave succession neither stone nor name.

Soph.
Ha, ha, ha.

Mar.
Dost thou deride me?

Val.
Kneel, ask Martius
for mercy, Sophocles, and live happie still.

Soph.
Kneel and ask mercie? (Roman) art a god?
I never kneel'd, or begg'd of any else.
Thou art a foole, and I will loose no more
instructions on thee: now I finde thy eares
Solemn Musick.
Enter Dorigen, Ladies bearing a sword.
are foolish, like thy tongue. My Dorigen?
oh, must shee see me bound?

1. Cap.
There's the first sigh
he breath'd since he was born, I think.

2. Cap.
Forbear,
all but the Ladie his wife.

Soph.
How my heart chides
the manacles of my hands, that let them not
embrace my Dorigen.

Val.
Turn but thy face,
and ask thy life of Martius thus, and thou
(with thy fair wife) shalt live; Athens shall stand,
and all her priviledges augmented be.

Soph.
'Twere better Athens perish'd, and my wife
which (Romans) I do know a worthie one,
then Sophocles should shrink of Sophocles,
commit profane Idolatry, by giving
the reverence due to gods to thee blown man.

Mar.
Rough, stubborn Cynick.

Soph.
Thou art rougher far,
and of a couser wale, fuller of pride,
lesse temperate to bear prosperity.
Thou seest my meer neglect hath rais'd in thee
a storm more boystrous then the Oceans,
my vertue Patience makes thee vitious.

Mar.
Why, fair-ey'd Ladie, do you kneel?

Dor.
Great Generall,
victorious, godlike Martius, your poor handmaid
kneels, for her husband will not, cannot: speaks
thus humbly, that he may not. Listen Roman,
thou whose advanced front doth speak thee Roman
to every Nation, and whose deeds assure't;
Behold a Princesse (whose declining head
like to a drooping lily after storms
bowes to thy feet) and playing here the slave,
to keep her husbands greatnesse unabated:
all which doth make thy Conquest greater: For,
if he be base in ought whom thou hast taken,
then Martius hath but taken a base prize.
But if this Jewell hold lustre and value,
Martius is richer then in that he hath won.
O make him such a Captive as thy self
unto another wouldst, great Captain, be;
till then; he is no prisoner fit for thee.

Mar.
Valerius, here is harmonie would have brought
old crabbed Saturn to sweet sleep when Jove
did first incense him with Rebellion:
Athens doth make women Philosophers,
and sure their children chat the talk of gods.

Val.
Rise beauteous Dorigen.

Dor.
Not untill I know
the Generals resolution,

Val.
One soft word
from Sophocles would calm him into tears,
like gentle showrs after tempestuous winds.

Dor.
To buy the world, he will not give a word,
a look, a tear, a knee, 'gainst his own judgement,
and the divine composure of his minde:
all which I therefore doe, and here present
this Victors wreathe, this rich Athenian sword,
Trophies of Conquest, which, great Martius, wear,
and be appeas'd: Let Sophocles still live.

Mar.
He would not live.

Dor.
He would not beg to live.
When he shall so forget, then I begin
to command, Martius; and when he kneels,
Dorigen stands; when he lets fall a tear,
I dry mine eyes, and scorn him.

Mar.
Scorn him now then,
here in the face of Athens, and thy friends.
Self-will'd, stiffe Sophocles, prepare to die,
and by that sword thy Lady honour'd me,
with which her self shall follow. Romans, Friends,
who dares but strike this stroke, shall part with me
half Athens, and my half of Victorie.

Cap.
By—not we.

Nic., Cor.
We two will do it, Sir.

Soph.
Away, ye fish-fac'd Rascals.

Val.
Martius,
to eclipse this great Eclipse labours thy fame;
Valerius thy Brother shall for once
turn Executioner: Give me the sword.
Now Sophocles, I'll strike as suddenly
as thou dar'st die.

Soph.
Thou canst not. And Valerius,
'tis lesse dishonour to thee thus to kill me,
then bid me kneel to Martius: 'tis to murther
the fame of living men, which great ones do;
their studies strangle, poyson makes away,
the wretched hangman only ends the Play.

Val.
Art thou prepar'd?

Soph.
Yes.

Val.
Bid thy wife farewell.

Soph.
No, I will take no leave: My Dorigen,
yonder above, 'bout Ariadnes Crown
my spirit shall hover for thee; prethee haste.

Dor.
Stay Sophocles, with this tie up my sight,
let not soft nature so transformed be
(and lose her gentler sex'd humanitie)
to make me see my lord bleed. So, 'tis well:
never one object underneath the Sun
will I behold before my Sophocles.
Farewell: now teach the Romans how to die.

Mar.
Dost know what 'tis to die?

Soph.
Thou dost not, Martius,
and therefore not what 'tis to live; to die
is to begin to live: It is to end
an old stale weary work, and to commence
a newer and a better. 'Tis to leave
deceitfull knaves for the societie
of gods and goodnesse. Thou thy self must part
at last from all thy garlands, pleasures, Triumphs,
and prove thy fortitude, what then 'twill do.

Val.
But art not griev'd nor vex'd to leave life thus?

Soph.
Why should I grieve, or vex for being sent
to them I ever lov'd best? now I'll kneel,
but with my back toward thee; 'tis the last duty
this trunk can doe the gods.

Mar.
Strike, strike, Valerius,
or Martius heart will leap out at his mouth.
This is a man, a woman! Kisse thy lord,
and live with all the freedome you were wont.
O Love, thou doubly hast afflicted me,
with vertue, and with beauty. Treacherous heart,
my hand shall cast thee quick into my urne,
ere thou transgresse this knot of pietie.

Val.
What ails my Brother?

Soph.
Martius, oh Martius,
thou now hast found a way to conquer me.

Dor.
O star of Rome, what gratitude can speak
fit words to follow such a deed as this?

Mar.
Doth Juno talk, or Dorigen?

Val.
You are observ'd.

Mar.
This admirable Duke (Valerius)
with his disdain of Fortune, and of Death,
captiv'd himself, hath captivated me:
and though my arm hath ta'ne his body here,
his soul hath subjugated Martius soul:
By Romulus, he is all soul, I think;
he hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyv'd;
then we have vanqush'd nothing; he is free,
and Martius walks now in captivitie.

Soph.
How fares the noble Roman?

Mar.
Why?

Dor.
Your blood
is sunk down to your heart, and your bright eyes
have lost their splendor.

Mar.
Baser fires go out
when the Sun shines on 'em: I am not well,
an Apoplectick fit I use to have
after my heats in war carelesly coold.

Soph.
Martius shall rest in Athens with his friends,
till this distemper leave him: O, great Roman,
see Sophocles doe that for thee, he could not
do for himself, weep. Martius, by the—
it grieves me that so brave a soul should suffer
under the bodies weak infirmitie.
Sweet Ladie, take him to thy loving charge,
and let thy care be tender.

Dor.
Kingly Sir,
I am your Nurse and Servant.

Mar.
Oh deer Ladie,
my Mistris, nay my Deity; guide me heaven,
ten wreathes triumphant Martius will give
to change a Martius for a Sophocles:
Can't not be done (Valerius) with this boot?
Inseparable affection, ever thus
colleague with Athens Rome.

Dor.
Beat warlike tunes,
whilest Dorigen thus honours Martius brow
with one victorious wreath more.

Soph.
And Sophocles
thus girds his Sword of Conquest to his thigh,
which ne'r be drawn, but cut out Victorie.

Lords.
For ever be it thus.

Exeunt.
Corn.
Corporall Nichodemus, a word with you.

Nic.

My worthie Sutler Cornelius, it befits not Nichodemus
the Roman Officer to parley with a fellow
of thy rank: the affairs of the Empire are to be occupied.

Corn.

Let the affaires of the Empire lie a while
unoccupied, sweet Nichodemus; I doe require the money
at thy hands, which thou doest owe mee; and if
faire means cannot attain, force of Armes shall accomplish.

Nic.

Put up and live.

Corn.

I have put up too much already, thou Corporall
of Concupiscence, for I suspect thou hast dishonoured
my flock-bed, and with thy foolish Eloquence,
and that bewitching face of thine drawn my
Wife, the young harlotrie baggage to prosecute her self
unto thee. Draw therefore, for thou shalt find thy self a
mortall Corporall.

Nichod.

Stay thy dead-doing hand, and heare: I
will rather descend from my honour, and argue these
contumelies with thee, then clutch thee (poor flye)
in these eaglet—of mine, or draw my sword of
Fate on a Pesant, a Besognio, a Cocoloch, as thou art.
Thou shalt first understand this foolish eloquence, and
intolerable beauty of mine (both which, I protest, are
meerly naturall) are the gifts of the gods, with which
I have neither sent bawdy Sonnet, nor amorous glance,
or (as the vulgar call it) sheeps eye to thy betrothed
Florence.

Corin.

Thou lyest.

Nich.

O gods of rome, was Nichodemus born
to bear these braveries from a poor provant?
yet when dogs bark, or when the asses bray,
the lion laughs, not roars, but goes his way.

Cornel.

A—o' your poeticall veine: This
versifying my wife has hornified me. Sweet Corporall
codshead, no more standing on your punctilio's and punketto's
of honour, they are not worth a lowse: the
truth is, thou art the Generals Bygamie, that is, his fool,
and his knave; thou art miscreant and recreant, not an
horse-boy in the Legions but has beaten thee; thy beginning
was knap-sack, and thy ending will be halter-sack.

Nich.

Me thinks I an now Sophocles the wise, and thou
art Martius the mad.

Cornel.

No more of your tricks good Corporall
Letherchops: I say, thou hast dishonour'd mee, and
since honour now adaies is onely repaired by money,
pay mee, and I am satisfied; Even reckoning keeps long
friends.

Nic.

Let us continue friends then, for I have been even
with thee a long time; and though I have not paid thee, I
have paid thy wife.

Corn.

Flow forth my tears, thou hast deflowred her
Tarquin, the Garden of my delight, hedg'd about, in
which there was but one bowling-Alley for mine owne
private procreation, thou hast, like a thief in the night,
leap'd the hedge, entred my Alley, and without my privitie,
plaid thine owne rubbers.

Nic.
How long shall patience thus securely snore?
Is it my fault, if these attractive eyes,
this budding chin, or rosie-colour'd cheek,
this comely body, and this waxen leg,
have drawn her into a fools paradise?
By Cupids—I do swear (no other)
she's chaster far then Lucrece, her grand-mother;
pure as glasse-window, ere the rider dash it,
whiter then Ladies smock, when she did wash it:
for well thou worst (though now my hearts Commandresse)
I once was free, and she but the Camps Landresse.

Corn.

I, she then came sweet to me; no part about her
but smelt of Soap-suds, like a Dryad out of a wash-bowl.
Pray, or pay.

Nich.
Hold.

Corn.
Was thy cheese mouldy, or thy peny-worths small?
was not thy Ale the mightiest of the earth in Malt,
and thy stope fill'd like a tide? was not thy bed soft, and
thy Bacon fatter then a dropsie? Come, Sir.

Nich.
Mars then inspire me with the fencing skill
of our Tragedian Actors. Honour pricks;
and Sutler, now I come with thwacks and thwicks.
Grant us one crush, one passe, and now a high, Cavalto fall:
then up again, now down again, yet do no harm at all.

Enter Wife.
Wife.
O that ever I was born: why Gent.

Corn.

Messaline of Rome, away, disloyal Concubine:
I will be deafer to thee, then thou art to others: I will
have my hundred drachma's he owes me, thou arrant
whore.

Wife.

I know he is an hundred drachmaes o'the score;
but what o' that? no bloodshed, sweet Cornelius. O my
heart; o' my conscience 't is faln thorow the bottom of
my bellie. O my sweet Didimus, if either of ye miskil
one another, what will become of poor Florence? Pacifie
your selves, I pray.

Corn.

Go to, my heart is not stone; I am not marble:
drie your eyes, Florence; the scurvie apes-face knows
my blinde side well enough: leave your puling; will this
content ye? let him taste thy nether lip, which in signe
of amitie I thus take off again: go thy ways, and provide
the Cows udder.

Nich.

Lilie of Concord. And now, honest Sutler,
since I have had proof as well of thy good nature, as of
thy wives before, I will acquaint thee with a project
shall fully satisfie thee for thy debt. Thou shalt understand
I am shortly to be knighted.

Corn.

The devil thou art.

Nich.

Renounce me else: for the sustenance of which
Worship (which Worship many times wants sustenance)
I have here the Generals grant to have the leading of
two hundred men.

Corn.

You jest, you jest.

Nich.

Refuse me else to the pit.

Corn.

Mercie on us: ha' you not forgot your self? by
your swearing you should be knighted already.

Nich.

Damn me, Sir, here's his hand, read it.

Corn.

Alas, I cannot.

Nich.
I know that.

It has pleas'd the General to look upon my service. Now,
Sir, shall you joyn with me in petitioning for fifty men
more, in regard of my arrearages to you; which if granted,
I will bestow the whole profit of those fifty men on
thee and thine heirs for ever, till Atropes do cut this simple
thred.

Corn.

No more, dear Corporal, Sir Nichodemus that
shall be, I cry your wishes mercie: I am your servant, body
and goods, moveables and immoveables; use my house,
use my wife, use me, abuse me, do what you list.

Nich.

A figment is a candid lye: this is an old Passe.
Mark what follows.

Exeunt.
Enter Martius, and two Captains.
Mar.
Pray leave me: you are Romanes, honest men,
keep me not company, I am turn'd knave,
have lost my fame and nature. Athens, Athens,
this Dorigen is thy Palladium:
he that will sack thee, must betray her first,
whose words wound deeper then her husbands sword;
her eyes make captive still the Conqueror,
and here they keep her onely to that end.
O subtil devil, what a golden ball
did tempt when thou didst cast her in my way
Why, foolish Sophocles, broughtst thou not to field
thy Lady, that thou mightst have overcome?
Martius had kneel'd, and yeelded all his wreathes
that hang like Jewels on the seven fold hill,
and bid Rome send him out to fight with men,
(for that she knew he durst) and not 'gainst Fate
or Deities, what mortal conquers them?
Insatiate Julius, when his Victories
had run ore half the world, had he met her,
there he had stopt the legend of his deeds,
laid by his Arms, been overcome himself,
and let her vanquish th'other half. And fame
made beauteous Dorigen the greater name.
Shall I thus fall? I will not; no, my tears
cast on my heart, shall quench these lawlesse fires:
he conquers best, conquers his lewd desires.

Enter Dorigen with Ladies.
Dor.
Great Sir, my Lord commands me visit you,
and thinks your retir'd melancholy proceeds
from some distate of worthlesse entertainment.
Will 't please you take your chamber? how d' ye do, Sir?

Mar.
Lost, lost again; the wilde rage of my blood
doth Ocean-like oreflow the shallow shore
of my weak vertue: my desire's a vane
that the least breath from her turns every way.

Dor.
What says my Lord?

Mar.
Dismisse your women, pray,
and I'll reveal my grief.

Dor.
Leave me.

Mar.
Long tales of love (whilst love it self
might be enjoyed) are languishing delays.
There is a secret strange lies in my brest
I will partake wi' you, which much concerns
your Lord, yourself, and me. Oh!

Dor.
Strange secrets, Sir,
should not be made so cheap to strangers: yet
if your strange secret do no lower lie
then in your brest, discover it.

Mar.
I will.
Oh: can you not see it, Lady, in my sighs?

Dor.
Sighs none can paint, and therefore who can see?

Mar.
Scorn me not, Dorigen, with mocks: Alcides,
that master'd monsters, was by beautie tam'd,
Omphale smil'd his club out of his hand,
and made him spin her smocks. O sweet, I love you,
and I love Sophocles: I must enjoy you,
and yet I would not injure him.

Dor.
Let go;
you hurt me, Sir: fare well. Stay, is this Martius?
I will not tell my Lord; he'll swear I lye.
doubt my fidelitie, before thy honour.
How hast thou vex'd the gods, that they would let thee
thus violate friendship, hospitalitie,
and all the bounds of sacred pietie?
Sure thou but tri'st me out of love to him,
and wouldst reject me, if I did consent.
O Martius, Martius, wouldst thou in one minute,
blast all thy Laurels, which so many yeers
thou hast been purchasing with blood and sweat?
Hath Dorigen never been written, read,
without the epithet of chaste, chaste Dorigen?
and wouldst thou fall upon her chastitie,
like a black drop of ink, to blot it out?
When men shall read the records of thy valour,
thy hitherto-brave vertue, and approach
(highly content yet) to this foul assault
includedin this leaf, this ominous leaf,
they shall throw down the Book, and read no more,
though the best deeds ensue, and all conclude,
that ravell'd the whole story, whose sound heart
(which should have been) prov'd the most leprous part.

Mar.
O thou confut'st divinely, and thy words
do fall like rods upon me; but they have
such silken lines, and silver hooks, that I
am faster snar'd: my love, h'as ta'en such hold,
that (like two wrestlers) though thou stronger be,
and hast cast me, I hope to pull thee after.
I must, or perish.

Dor.
Perish, Martius, then;
for I here vow unto the gods, These rocks,
these rocks we see so fix'd, shall be removed,
made champion field, ere I so impious prove,
to stain my Lords bed with adulterous love.

Enter Valerius.
Val.
The gods protect fair Dorigen.

Dor.
Amen,
from all you wolvish Romanes.

Exit.
Val.
Ha? what's this?
still, brother, in your moods? O then my doubts
are truths. Have at it: I must try a way
to be resolv'd.

Mar.
How strangely dost thou look? what ailst thou?

Val.
What ailst thou?

Mar.
Why, I am mad?

Val.
Why, I am madder. Martius, draw thy sword,
and lop a villain from the earth; for if
thou wilt not, on some tree about this place
I'll hang my self: Valerius shall not live
to wound his brothers honour, stain his Countrey,
and branded with ingratitude to all times.

Mar.
For what can all this be?

Val.
I am in love.

Mar.
Why so am I. With whom? ha?

Val.
Dorigen.

Mar.
With Dorigen? how dost thou love her? speak.

Val.
Even to the height of lust; and I must have her,
or else I die.

Mar.
Thou shalt, thou daring Traitor.
On all the confines I have rid my horse,
was there no other woman for thy choice
but Dorigen? Why, villain, she is mine;
she makes me pine thus, sullen, mad, and sool;
't is I must have her, or I die.

Val.
O all ye gods,
with mercy look on this declining rock
of valour, and of vertue; breed not up
(from infancie) in honour, to full man
as you have done him, to destroy: here, strike;
for I have onely search'd thy wound: dispatch:
far, far be such love from Valerius,
fo far he scorns to live to be call'd brother
by him that dares own such folly and such vice.

Mar.
'Tis truth thou speak'st; but I do hate it: peace,
if heaven will snatch my sword out of my hand,
and put a rattle in it, what can I do?
He that is destin'd to be odious
in his old age, must undergo his fate.

Enter Cornelius and Nichodemus.
Corn.
If you do not back me, I shall never do't.

Nich.
I warrant you.

Corn.
Humh, humh: Sir; my Lord, my Lord.

Mart.
Hah? what's the matter?

Corn.

Humh; concerning the odde fifty, my Lord, and
't please your Generality, his Worship, Sir Nichodemus.

Mar.

What's here? a Passe? you would for Rome?
you lubbers, doth one days lazinesse make ye covet home?
away, ye boarish rogues; ye dogs, away.

Enter wife.
Wife.
Oh, oh, oh:
how now man, are you satisfi'd?

Corn.
I, I, I: a—o' your Corporal; I am paid soundly,
I was never better paid in all my life.

Wife.

Marry the gods blessing on his honours heart: you
have done a charitable deed, Sir, many more such may you
live to do, Sir: the gods keep you, Sir, the gods protect
you.

Exit.
Mar.
These peasants mock me sure (Valerius)
forgive my dotage, see my ashes urn'd,
and tell fair Dorigen (she that but now
left me with this harsh vow, Sooner these rocks
should be remov'd, then she would yeeld) that I
was yet so loving, on her gift to die.

Val.
O Jupiter forbid it, Sir, and grant
this my device may certifie thy minde:
you are my brother, nor must perish thus:
be comforted: think you fair Dorigen
would yeeld your wishes, if these envious rocks
by skill could be remov'd, or fallacie
she made believe so?

Mar.
Why, she could not chuse;
the Athenians are religious in their vows,
above all nations.

Val.
Soft, down yonder hill
the Lady comes this way, once more to trie her,
if she persist in obstinacie: by my skill
learn'd from the old Caldean was my Tutor,
who train'd me in the Mathematicks, I will
so dazzle and delude her sight, that she
shall think this great impossibilitie
effected by some supernatural means.
Be confident, this engine shall at least,
till the gods better order, still this brest.
Exit Valerius.

Mar.
O my best brother, go; and for reward,
chuse any part o' th'world, I'll give it thee.
O, little Rome, men say thou art a god;
Thou mightst have got a fitter fool then I.

Enter Dorigen.
Dor.
Art thou there, Basilisk? remove thine eyes,
for I am sick to death with thy infection.

Mar.
Yet, yet have mercy on me; save him, Lady,
whose single arm defends all Rome, whose mercie
hath sav'd thy husband's and thy life.

Dor.
To spoil
our fame and honours? no, my vow is fixt,
and stands as constant as these stones do, still.

Mar.
Then pitie me, ye gods; you onely may
move her, by tearing these firm stones away.

Solemn musick.
A mist ariseth, the rocks remove.
Enter Valerius like Mercury, singing.
Val.
Martius rejoyce, Jove sends me from above,
his Messenger, to cure thy desperate love;
to shew rash vows cannot binde destinie:
Lady, behold, the rocks transplanted be.
Hard-hearted Dorigen, yeeld, left for contempt,
They fix thee here a rock, whence they're exempt.

Dor.
What strange delusion's this? what Sorcery
affrights me with these apparitions?
my colder Chastity's nigh turn'd to death.
Hence, lewd Magician; dar'st thou make the gods
bawds to thy lust? will they do miracles
to further evil? or do they love it now?
know, if they dare do so, I dare hate them,
and will no longer serve 'em. Jupiter,
thy golden showr, nor thy snow-white Swan,
had I been Lada, or bright Danae,
had bought mine honour. Turn me into stone
for being good, and blush when thou hast done.

Exit Dorigen.
Enter Valerius.
Mar.
O my Valerius, all yet will not do;
unlesse I could so draw mine honestie
down to the lees to be a ravisher;
she calls me witch, and villain.

Val.
Patience, Sir,
the gods will punish perjury. Let her breathe
and ruminate on this strange sight. Time decays
the strongest fairest buildings we can finde;
but still Diana fortifie her minde.

Exeunt.
Enter Sophocles and Dorigen.
Soph.
Weep not bright Dorigen; for thou hast stood
constant and chaste (it seems 'gainst gods and men)
when rocks and mountains were remov'd. These wonders
do stupifie my senses. Martius,
this is inhumane: was thy sicknesse lust?
yet were this truth, why weeps she? Jealous soul,
what dost thou thus suggest? Vows, Magick, Rocks?
fine tales, and tears. She ne'er complain'd before.
I bade her visit him; she often did,
had many opportunities. Humh, 'tis naught: O,
no way but this. Come, weep no more, I have ponder'd
this miracle: the anger of the gods,
thy vow, my love to thee, and Martius:
he must not perish, nor thou be forsworn,
lest worse fates follow us, Go, keep thy oath:
for chaste, and whore, are words of equal length:
but let not Martius know that I consent.
O, I am pull'd in pieces.

Dor.
I? say you so?
I'll meet you in your path. O wretched men,
with all your valour and your learning, bubbles.
Forgive me, Sophocles. Yet why kneel I
for pardon, having been but over-diligent,
like an obedient servant, antedating
my Lords command? Sir, I have often and already given
this bosom up to his embraces, and
am proud that my dear Lord is pleas'd with it;
whose gentle honourable minde I see
participates even all, his wife and all,
unto his friend. You are sad, Sir. Martius loves me,
and I love Martius, with such ardencie
as never married couple could: I must
attend him now. My Lord, when you have need
to use your own wife, pray Sir send for me;
till then, make use of your Philosophie.

Exit.
Soph.
Stay, Dorigen: O me, inquisitive fool!
thou that didst order this congested heap
when it was Chaos, 'twixt thy spacious palme
forming it to this vast rotundie;
dissolve it now; shuffle the elements,
that no one proper by it self may stand:
let the sea quench the sun, and in that instant
the sun drink up the sea: day, ne'er come down,
to light me to those deeds that must be done.

Exit.
Drums and Colours. Enter Martius, Valerius, Captains and souldiers, at one door, and Dorigen with Ladies, at another.
Dor.
Hail, General of Rome; from Sophocles
that honours Martius, Dorigen presents
her self to be dishonour'd: do thy will;
for Sophocles commands me to obey.
Come, violate all rules of holinesse,
and rend the consecrated knot of love.

Mar.
Never, Valerius, was I blest till now:
behold the end of all my weary steps,
the prize of all my Battels: leave us, all;
leave us as quick as thought. Thus joy begin,
in zealous love a minutes losse is sin.

Val.
Can Martius be so vile? or Dorigen?

Dor.
Stay, stay: and monster, keep thou further off;
I thought thy brave soul would have much, much loath'd
to have gone on still on such terms as this,
See, thou ungrateful, since thy desperate lust
nothing can cure but death, I'll die for thee,
whilst my chaste name lives to posterity.

Mar.
Live, live, thou Angel of thy sex: forgive,
till by those golden tresses thou be'st snatch'd
alive to heaven: for thy corruption's
so little, that it cannot suffer death.
Was ever such a woman? O my Mirror,
how perfectly thou shew'st me all my faults,
which now I hate! and when I next attempt thee,
let all the fires in the Zodiak
drop on this cursed head.

All.
O blest event!

Dor.
Rise like the sun again in all his glory,
after a dark Eclipse.

Mar.
Never without a pardon.

Enter Sophocles, and two or three with him.
Dor.
Sir, you have forgiven your self.

Soph.
Behold their impudence: are my words just?
Unthankful man, viper to Arms, and Rome
thy natural mother: have I warm'd thee here
to corrode ev'n my heart? Martius, prepare
to kill me, or be kill'd.

Mar.
Why, Sophocles,
then prethee kill me; I deserve it highly;
for I have both transgress'd 'gainst men, and gods;
but am repentant now, and in best case
to uncase my soul of this oppressing flesh;
which, though (Gods witnesse) nev'r was actually
injurious to thy wife and thee, yet 't was
her goodnesse that restrain'd and held me now:
but take my life, dear friend, for my intent,
or else forgive it.

Val.
By the gods of Athens,
these words are true, and all direct again.

Soph.
Pardon me, Dorigen.

Mar.
Forgive me, Sophocles,
and Dorigen too, and every one that's good.

Dor.
Rise, noble Romane, belov'd Sophocles,
take to thy brest thy friend.

Mar.
And to thy heart
thy matchlesse wife: heaven has not stuff enough
to make another such: for if it could,
Martius would marry too. For thy blest sake
(O thou infinitie of excellence)
henceforth in mens discourse Rome shall not take
the wall of Athens, as 'tofore. But when
in their fair honours we to speak do come,
we'll say 'T was so in Athens, and in Rome.

Exeunt in pomp.
Diana descends.
Diana.
Honour set ope thy gates, and with thee bring
my servant and thy friend, fair Dorigen:
Let her triumph, with her, her Lord, and friend,
who, though misled, still honour was their end.

Flourish
Enter the Shew of Honours Triumph; a great flourish of Trumpets and Drums within Then, enter a noise of Trumpets sounding cheerfully. Then follows an armed Knight bearing a Crimson Banneret in hand, with the inscription Valour: by his side a Lady, bearing a Watchet Banneret, the inscription Clemencie: next Martius and Sophocles with Coronets. Next, two Ladies, one bearing a white Banneret, the inscription Chastity; the other a black, the inscription Constancie. Then Dorigen crown'd. Last, a Chariot drawn by two Moors, in it a Person crown'd, with a Scepter: on the top, in an antick Scutcheon, is written Honour. As they passe over, Diana ascends.
Rinald.
How like you it?

Frig.

Rarely; so well, I would they would do it again.
How many of our wives now adays would deserve to
triumph in such a Chariot?

Rinald.

That's all one; you see they triumph in Caroches.

Frig.

That they do, by the masse; but not all neither;
many of them are content with Carts. But Seignior, I
have now found out a great absurditie ifaith.

Rinald.

What was't?

Frig.

The Prologue presenting four Triumphs, made
but three legs to the King: a three legg'd Prologue, 'twas
monstrous.

Rinald.

'T had been more monstrous to have had a four-legg'd
one. Peace, the King speaks.

Em.
Here was a woman, Isabel.

Isa.
I, my Lord,
but that she told a lye to vex her husband;
therein she fail'd.

Em.
She serv'd him well enough;
he that was so much man, yet would be cast
to jealousie for her integrity.
This teacheth us, the passion of love
can fight with Souldiers, and with Scholars too.

Isa.
In Martius, clemencie and valour shown,
in the other, courage and humanitie;
and therefore in the Triumph they were usher'd
by clemencie and valour.

Em.
Rightly observ'd,
as she by chastitie and constancie;
what hurt's now in a Play, against which some rail
so vehemently? thou and I, my Love,
make excellent use methinks: I learn to be
a lawful lover void of jealousie,
and thou a constant wife. Sweet Poetry's
a flower, where men, like Bees and Spiders, may
bear poison, or else sweets and Wax away.
Be venom-drawing Spiders they that will;
I'll be the Bee, and suck the honey still.

Flourish.
Cupid descends.
Cupid.
Stay, clouds, ye rack too fast: bright Phœbus see,
Honour has triumph'd with fair Chastity:
Give Love now leave, in purity to shew
Unchaste affections flie not from his bowe.
Produce the sweet example of your youth.
Whilst I provide a Triumph for your Truth.

Flourish.
Enter Violane (with childe) and Gerrard.
Viol.
Why does my Gerrard grieve?

Ger.
O my sweet Mistris,
't is not life (which by our Milain law
my fact hath forfeited) makes me thus pensive;
that I would lose to save the little finger
of this your noble burthen, from least hurt,
because your blood is in't. But since your love
made poor incompatible me the parent,
(being we are not married) your dear blood
falls under the same cruel penalty;
and can heaven think fit ye die for me?
for heavens sake say I ravisht you, I'll swear it,
to keep your life safe, and repute unstain'd.

Viol.
O Gerrard, th'art my life and faculties;
and if I lose thee, I'll not keep mine own;
the thought of whom, sweetens all miseries.
Wouldst have me murder thee beyond thy death?
unjustly scandal thee with ravishment?
It was so far from rape, that heaven doth know,
if ever the first Lovers, ere they fell,
knew simply in the state of innocence,
such was this act, this, that doth ask no blush.

Ger.
O, but my rarest Violane, when
my Lord Randulpho brother to your father,
shall understand this, how will he exclaim,
that my poor Aunt, and me, which his free alms
hath nurs'd, since Millain by the Duke of Mantua
(who now usurps it) was supriz'd? that time
my father and my mother were both slain,
with my Aunts husband, as she says, their states
despoil'd and seiz'd; 'tis past my memory,
but thus she told me: onely this I know,
since I could understand, your honour'd Uncle
hath given me all the liberal education
that his own son might look for, had he one;
now will he say, Dost thou requite me thus?
O the thought kills me.

Viol.
Gentle, gentle Gerrard,
be cheer'd, and hope the best. My mother, father,
and uncle love me most indulgently,
being the onely branch of all their stocks:
but neither they, nor he thou wouldst not grieve
with this unwelcom news, shall ever hear
Violane's tongue reveal, much lesse accuse
Gerrard to be the father of his own;
I'll rather silent die, that thou maist live
to see thy little off-spring grow and thrive.

Enter Dorothea.
Dor.
Mistris, away, your Lord and father seeks you;
I'll convey Gerrard out at the back door;
he has found a husband for you, and insults
in his invention, little thinking you
have made your own choice, and possest him too.

Viol.
A husband? 't must be Gerrard, or my death.
Fare well; be onely true unto thy self,
and know heavens goodnesse shall prevented be,
ere worthiest Gerrard suffer harm for me.

Ger.
Fare well, my life and soul. Aunt, to your counsel
I flee for aid. O unexpressible love! thou art
an undigested heap of mixt extremes,
whose pangs are wakings, and whose pleasures dreams.

Exeunt.
Enter Benvoglio, Angelina, Ferdinand.
Ben.
My Angelina, never didst thou yet
so please me, as in this consent; and yet
thou hast pleas'd me well, I swear, old wench: ha, ah.
Ferdinand, she's thine own; thou'st have her, boy,
ask thy good Ladie else.

Ferd.
Whom shall I have, Sir?

Ben.
Whom d'ye think, ifaith?

Angel.
Ghesse.

Ferd.
Noble Madam,
I may hope (prompted by shallow merit)
through your profound grace, for your chamber-maid.

Ben.
How's that? how's that?

Ferd.
Her chamber-maid, my Lord.

Ben.
Her chambe-pot, my Lord. You modest asse,
thou never shew'dst thy self an asse till now.
'Fore heaven I am angrie with thee. Sirha, sirha,
this whitmeat-spirit's not yours, legitimate,
advance your hope, and 't please you: ghesse again.

Ang.
And let your thoughts flee higher: aim them right;
Sir, you may hit, you have the fairest white.

Ferd.
If I may be so bold then, my good Lord.
your favour doth encourage me to aspire
to catch my Ladies Gentlewoman.

Ben.
Where?
where would you catch her?
do you know my daughter Violanta, Sir?

Ang.
Well said: no more about the bush.

Ferd.
My good Lord,
I have gaz'd on Violanta, and the stars,
whose heavenly influence I admir'd, not knew,
nor ever was so sinful to believe
I might attain't.

Ben.
Now you are an asse again;
for if thou ne'er attain'st, 't is onely long
of that faint heart of thine, which never did it.
She is your Lords heir, mine, Benvoglio's heir,
my brothers too, Randulpho's; her descent
not behinde any of the Millanois.
And Ferdinand, although thy parentage
be unknown, thou know'st that I have bred thee up
from five yeers old, and (do not blush to hear it)
have found thy wisdom, trust, and fair successe
so full in all my affairs, that I am fitter
to call thee Master, then thou me thy Lord.
Thou canst not be but sprung of gentlest blood;
thy minde shines thorow thee, like the radiant sun,
although thy bodie be a beauteous cloud.
Come, seriously this is no flatterie,
and well thou know'st it, though thy modest blood
rise like the morning in thy cheek to hear't.
Sir, I can speak in earnest: Vertuous service,
so meritorious, Ferdinand, as yours,
(yet bashful still, and silent?) should extract
a fuller price then imprudence exict:
and this is now the wages it must have;
my daughter is thy wife, my wealth thy slave.

Ferd.
Good Madam pinch; I sleep: does my Lord mock,
and you assist? Custom's inverted quite;
for old men now adays do flout the young.

Ben.
Fetch Violanta. As I intend this
religiously, let my soul finde joy or pain.

Exit Angelina.
Ferd.
My honour'd Lord and Master, if I hold
that worth could merit such felicitie,
you bred it in me, and first purchas'd it;
it is your own: and what productions
in all my faculties my soul begets,
your very mark is on: you need not adde
rewards to him that is in debt to you:
you sav'd my life, Sir, in the Massacre;
there you begot me new, since foster'd me.
O, can I serve too much, or pray for you?
alas, 'tis slender paiment to your bountie.
Your daughter is a paradice, and I
unworthie to be set there; you may chuse
the royalst seeds of Milain.

Ben.
Prethee peace,
thy goodnesse makes me weep; I am resolv'd:
I am no Lord o'th' time, to tie my blood
to sordid muck; I have enough: my name,
my state and honours I will store in thee,
whose wisedom will rule well, keep and increase:
a knave or fool that could confer the like,
would bate each hour, diminish every day.
Thou art her price-lot then, drawn out by fate;
an honest wise man is a Princes mate.

Ferd.
Sir, heaven and you have over-charg'd my brest
with grace beyond my continence; I shall burst:
the blessing you have given me (witnesse Saints)
I would not change for Millain. But, my Lord,
is she prepard?

Ben.
What needs Preparative,
where such a Cordial is prescrib'd as thou?
thy person and thy vertues in one scale,
shall poize hers, with her beautie and her wealth;
if not, I adde my will unto thy weight;
thy mother's with her now. Son, take my keys,
and let this preparation for this Marriage,
(this welcom Marriage) long determin'd here,
be quick, and gorgeous.—Gerrard.

Enter Gerrard.
Ger.
My good Lord,
my Lord your brother craves your conference
instantly, on affairs of high import.

Ben.
Why, what news?

Ger.
The Tyrant, my good Lord,
is sick to death of his old Apoplexie,
whereon the States advise that Letters missive
be straight dispatcht to all the neighbour-Countreys,
and Schedules too divulg'd on every post,
to enquire the lost Duke forth: their purpose is
to re-instate him.

Ben.
'Tis a pious deed.
Ferdinand, to my daughter: this delay
(though to so good a purpose) angers me;
but I'll recover it. Be secret, son.
Go woo with truth and expedition.

Exit.
Ferd.
O my unsounded joy! how fares my Gerrard,
my noble twin-friend? fie, thy look is heavie,
sullen, and sowre; blanch it: didst thou know
my cause of joy, thou'ldst never sorrow more,
I know thou lov'st me so. How dost thou?

Ger.
Well,
too well: my fraught of health my sicknesse is;
in life, I am dead; by living dying still.

Ferd.
What sublunary mischief can predominate
a wise man thus? or doth thy friendship play
(in this antipathous extreme) with mine,
lest gladnesse suffocate me? I, I, I do feel
my spirit's turn'd to fire, my blood to air,
and I am like a purifi'd essence
tri'd from all drossie parts.

Ger.
Were't but my life,
the losse were sacrific'd; but vertue
must for me slain, and innocence made dust.

Ferd.
Fare well, good Gerrard.

Ger.
Dearest friend, stay.

Ferd.
Sad thoughts are no companions for me now,
much lesse sad words: thy bosom bindes some secret,
which do not trust me with; for mine retains
another, which I must conceal from thee.

Ger.
I would reveal it: 't is a heavie tale:
canst thou be true and secret still?

Ferd.
Why, friend,
if you continue true unto your self,
I have no means of falshood. Lock this door:
come, yet your prisoner's sure.

Ger.
Stay, Ferdinand.

Ferd.
What is this trouble? Love?
why thou art capable of any woman.
Doth want oppresse thee? I will lighten thee:
hast thou offended law? my Lord and thine,
and I, will save thy life. Does servitude
upbraid thy freedom, that she suffers it?
have patience but three days, and I will make thee
thy Lords companion. Can a friend do more?

Ger.
Lend me the means. How can this be?

Ferd.
First, let this Cabinet keep your pawn, and I will trust:
yet for the form of satisfaction,
take this my Oath to boot. By my presum'd
Gentrie, and sacred known Christianitie,
I'll die ere I reveal thy trust.

Ger.
Then hear it.
Your Lords fair daughter Violanta is
my betrothed wife, goes great with childe by me;
and by this deed both made a prey to Law.
How may I save her life? advise me, friend.

Ferd.
What did he say? Gerrard, whose voice was that?
O death unto my heart, bane to my soul!
my wealth is vanish'd like the rich mans store:
in one poor minute all my daintie fare
but jugling dishes; my fat hope, despair.

Ger.
Is this so odious? whate's your mirth?

Ferd.
Why thou
hast robb'd me of it. Gerrard, draw thy sword;
and if thou lov'st my Mistris chastitie,
defend it, else I'll cut it from thy heart,
thy theevish heart that stale it, and restore't:
do miracles to gain her.

Ger.
Was she thine?

Ferd.
Never, but in my wish, and her fathers vow,
which now he left with me, on such sure terms;
he call'd me son, and will'd me to provide
my Wedding-preparation.

Ger.
Strange.

Ferd.
Come, let's
kill one another quickly.

Ger.
Ferdinand, my love is old to her, thine new begot:
I have not wrong'd thee; think upon thine Oath.

Ferd.
It manacles me, Gerrard, else this hand
should bear thee to the Law. Fare well for ever:
since friendship is so fatal, never more
will I have friend: thou hast put so sure a plea,
that all my weal's litigious made by thee.

Ger.
I did no crime to you. His love transports him;
and yet I mourn, that cruel destinie
should make us two thus one anothers crosse:
we have lov'd since, boys; for the same time cast him
on Lord Benvoglio, that my Aunt and I
were succour'd by Randulpho: men have call'd us
the parallels of Millain; and some said
we were not much unlike. O heaven divert
that we should (ever since that time) be breeding
mutual destruction.

Enter Dorothea.
Dor.

O where are you? you have made a fair hand. By
—yonder is your Aunt with my Ladie; she came in just
as she was wooing your Mistris for another; and what
did me she, but out with her purse, and shew'd all the naked
truth, ifaith. Fie upon you, you should never trust
an old woman with a secret; they cannot hold; they cannot
hold so well as we, and you'ld hang 'em. First, there
was swearing and staring, then there was howling and
weeping, and O my daughter, and O my mother.

Ger.

The effect, the effect.

Dor.

Marry no way but one with you.

Ger.

Why welcom. Shall she scape?

Dor.

Nay, she has made her scape already.

Ger.

Why, is she gone?

Dor.

The scape of her virginitie, I mean.
You men are as dull; you can conceive nothing;
you think it is enough to beget.

Ger.

I; but surely, Dorothea, that scap'd not;
her maidenhead suffer'd.

Dor.

And you were the Executioner.

Ger.

But what's the event? lord, how thou starv'st me, Doll?

Dor.

Lord how thou starv'st me, Doll? By—I
would fain see you crie a little. Do you stand now as if
you could get a childe? Come, I'll rack you no more: This
is the heart of the businesse: always provided, Seignior,
that if it please the Fates to make you a Lord, you be not
proud, nor forget your poor handmaid Doll, who was
partly accessary to the incision of this Holofernian maidenhead.

Ger.

I will forget my name first. Speak.

Dor.

Then thus: my Ladie knows all; her sorrow is
reasonably well digested; has vow'd to conceal it from
my Lord, till delay ripen things better; wills you to attend
her this evening at the back gate; I'll let you in; where
her own Confessor shall put you together lawfully ere the
childe be born; which birth is very neer, I can assure you:
all your charge is your vigilance; and to bring with you
some trustie Nurse to convey the infant out of the house.

Ger.
O beam of comfort, take! go, tell my Ladie
I pray for her as I walk: my joys so flow,
that what I speak, or do, I do not know.

Exeunt.
Enter Violanta at one door, weeping, supported by Cornelia and a Frier; at another door, Angelina weeping, attended by Dorothea. Violanta kneels down for pardon. Angelina shewing remorse, takes her up, and cheers her; so doth Cornelia. Angelina sends Dorothea for Gerrard. Enter Gerrard with Dorothea: Angelina and Cornelia seem to chide him, shewing Violanta's heavie plight: Violanta rejoyceth in him: he makes signes of sorrow, intreating pardon: Angelina brings Gerrard and Violanta to the Frier; he joyns them hand in hand, takes a Ring from Gerrard, puts it on Violanta's finger; blesseth them; Gerrard kisseth her: the Frier takes his leave. Violanta makes shew of great pain, is instantly conveyed in by the women. Gerrard is bid stay; he walks in meditation, seeming to pray. Enter Dorothea, whispers him, sends him out. Enter Gerrard with a Nurse blindfold; gives her a purse. To them enter Angelina and Cornelia with an infant; they present it to Gerrard; he kisseth and blesseth it; puts it into the Nurses arms, kneels, and takes his leave. Exeunt all severally.
Enter Benvoglio and Randulpho.
Ben.
He's dead, you say then.

Rand.
Certainly: and to hear
the people now dissect him now he's gone,
makes my ears burn, that lov'd him not: such Libels,
such Elegies and Epigrams they have made,
more odious then he was. Brother, great men
had need to live by love, meting their deeds
with vertues rule; sound, with the weight of judgement,
their privat'st action: for though while they live
their power and policie mask their villanies,
their bribes, their lust, pride, and ambition,
and make a many slaves to worship 'em,
that are their flatterers, and their bawds in these:
these very slaves shall when these great beasts die,
publish their bowels to the vulgar eye.

Ben.

Fore heaven, 't is true. But is Rinaldo (brother)
our good Duke, heard of living?

Rand.
Living, Sir, and will be shortly with the Senate: has
been close conceal'd at Mantua, and reliev'd:
but what's become of his? no tidings yet?
But brother, till our good Duke shall arrive,
carry this news, here. Where's your Ferdinand?

Ben.
O busie, Sir, abut this Marriage:
and yet my girl o'th' sudden is faln sick:
you'll see her ere you go?

Rand.
Yes; well I love her:
and yet I wish I had another daughter
to gratifie my Gerrard, who (by—)
is all the glory of my family,
but has too much worth to live so obscure;
I'll have him Secretary of Estate
upon the Dukes return: for credit me,
the value of that Gentleman's not known;
his strong abilities are fit to guide
the whole Republike: he hath learning, youth,
valour, discretion, honestie of a Saint;
his aunt is wondrous good too.

Enter Violanta in a bed; Angelina and Dorothea sitting by her.
Ben.
You have spoke
the very character of Ferdinand:
one is the others mirror. How now, daughter?

Rand.
How fares my Neece?

Viol.
A little better, Uncle, then I was,
I thank you.

Rand.
Brother, a meer cold.

Angel.
It was a cold and heat, I think: but heaven be thanked
we have broken that a way.

Ben.
And yet, Violanta,
you'll lie above still, and you see what's got.

Dor.
Sure, Sir, when this was got, she had a bed-fellow.

Rand.
What, has her Collick left her in her belly?

Dor.
'T has left her, but she has had a sore fit.

Rand.

I, that same Collick and Stone's inherent to us
o'th' womans side: our mothers had them both.

Dor.
So has she had, Sir. How these old fornicators talk? she had more
need of Mace-ale, and Renish-wine Candles, heaven knows,
then your aged discipline.

Ben.
Say?

Enter Ferdinand.
Ang.
She will have the man; and on recovery
will wholly be dispos'd by you.

Ben.
That's my wench:
how now? what change is this? why Ferdinand,
are these your robes of joy should be indn'd?
doth Hymen wear black? I did send for you
to have my honourable brother witnesse
the Contract I will make 'twixt you and her.
Put off all doubt; she loves ye? what d'ye say?

Rand.
Speak, man. Why look you so distractedly?

Ferd.
There are your keys, Sir: I'll no Contracts, I.
Divinest Violanta, I will serve you
thus on my knees, and pray for you: Juno Lucina fer opem:
my inequalitie ascends no higher:
I dare not marry you.

Ben.
How's this?

Ferd.
Good night.
I have a friend has almost made me mad:
I weep sometimes, and instantly can laugh:
nay, I do dance, and sing, and suddenly
roar like a storm. Strange tricks these, are they not?
and wherefore all this? shall I tell you? no,
thorow mine ears, my heart a plague hath caught,
and I have vow'd to keep it close, not shew
my grief to any; for it has no cure.
On, wandring steps, to some remote place move:
I'll keep my vow, though I have lost my Love.

Exit.
Ben.
'Fore heaven, distracted for her! fare you well:
I'll watch his steps; for I no joy shall finde,
till I have found his cause, and calm'd his minde.

Exit.
Rand.
He's overcome with joy.

Angel.
'T is very strange.

Rand.
Well, sister, I must leave you; the time's busie.
Violanta, cheer you up: and I pray heaven
restore each to their love, and health again.

Exit.
Viol.
Amen, great Uncle. Mother, what a chance
unluckily is added to my wo,
in this young Gentleman?

Angel.
True, Violanta:
it grieves me much. Doll, go you instantly,
and finde out Gerrard; tell him his friends hap,
and let him use best means to comfort him;
but as his life preserve this secret still.

Viol.
Mother, I'ld not offend you: might not Gerrard
steal in, and see me in the evening?

Angel.
Well,
bid him do so.

Viol.
Heavens blessing o'your heart.
Do ye not call Childbearing Travel, mother?

Angel.
Yes.

Viol.
It well may be. The bare-foot traveller
that's born a Prince, and walks his pilgrimage,
whose tender feet kisse the remorselesse stones
onely, ne'er felt a travel like to it.
Alas, dear mother, you groan'd thus for me,
and yet how disobedient have I been?

Angel.
Peace, Violanta, thou hast always been
gentle and good.

Viol.
Gerrard is better, mother:
O if you knew the implicite innocencie
dwells in his brest, you'ld love him like your prayers.
I see no reason but my father might
be told the truth, being pleas'd for Ferdinand
to woo himself: and Gerrard ever was
his full comparative: my Uncle loves him,
as he loves Ferdinand.

Angel.
No, not for the world,
since his intent is cross'd: lov'd Ferdinand
thus ruin'd, and a childe got out of Wedlock!
his madnesse would pursue ye both to death.

Viol.
As you please (mother): I am now, methinks,
even in the land of ease; I'll sleep.

Angel.
Draw in
the bed neerer the fire: silken rest,
tie all thy cares up.

Exeunt.
Enter Ferdinand and Benvoglio, privately after him.
Ferd.
O blessed solitude! here my griefs may speak;
and Sorrow, I will argue with thee now:
Nothing will keep me company: the flowers
die at my moan; the gliding silver streams
hasten to flee my lamentations;
the air rolls from 'em; and the golden sun
is smother'd pale as Phœbe with my sighs:
onely the earth is kinde, that stays. Then earth,
to thee will I complain. Why do the heavens
impose upon me love, what I can ne'er enjoy?
before fruition was impossible,
I did not thirst it. Gerrard, she is thine,
seal'd and deliver'd; but 't was ill to stain
her virgin state ere ye were married.
Poor instant, what's become of thee? thou know'st not
the wo thy parents brought thee to. Dear earth,
bury this close in thy sterilitie;
be barren to this seed, let it not grow;
for if it do, 't will bud no Violet
nor Gilly-flower, but wilde Brier, or rank Rue,
unsavoury and hurtful.

Ben.
Ferdinand,
thy steel hath digg'd the earth, thy words my heart.

Ferd.
O, I have violated faith, betraid,
my friend and innocencie.

Ben.
Desperate youth,
violate not thy soul too: I have showres
for thee, young man; but Gerrard flames for thee.
Was thy base pen made to dash out mine honour,
and prostitute my daughter? Bastard, whore,
come, turn thy female tears into revenge,
which I will quench my thirst with, ere I see
daughter, or wife, or branded family.
By—both die: and for amends,
Ferd'nando be my heir. I'll to my brother,
first tell him all; then to the Duke for justice:
this morning he's receiv'd. Mountains nor seas
shall bar my flight to vengeance: the foul stain
printed on me, thy blood shall rinse again.

Exit.
Ferd.
have transgress'd all goodnesse, witlesly
rais'd mine own curses from posteritie:
I'll follow, to redresse in what I may;
if not, your heir can die as well as they.

Exit.
Enter Duke Rinaldo with attendants, at one door; States, Randulpho, and Gerrard, at another: they kneel to the Duke; he accepts their obedience, and raises them up: they prefer Gerrard to the Duke, who entertains him: they seat the Duke in State. Enter Benvoglio and Ferdinand: Benvoglio kneels for justice; Ferd. seems to restrain him. Benvog. gives the Duke a paper; Duke reads, frowns on Gerr. shews the paper to the States, they seem sorry, consult, cause the Guard to apprehend him; they go off with him. Then Rand. and Ben. seem to crave justice; Duke vows it, and exit with his attendants. Rand. Ben. and Ferd. confer. Enter to them Cornelia with two servants; she seems to expostulate. Rand. in scorn causeth her to be thrust out poorly. Exit Rand. Benvog. beckens Ferd. to him (with much seeming passion) swears him; then stamps with his foot. Enter Dorothea with a Cup: weeping, she delivers it to Ferd. who with discontent exit; and exeunt Benvoglio and Dorothea.
Enter Violanta.
Viol.
Gerrard not come? nor Dorothie return'd?
what averse star rul'd my Nativitie?
the time to night hath been as dilatory
as languishing Consumptions. But till now
I never durst say my Gerrard was unkinde.
Heaven grant all things go well; and nothing does,
if he be ill, which I much fear: my dreams
have been portentous. I did think I saw
my Love araid for battel with a beast,
a hideous monster, arm'd with teeth and claws,
grinning, and venomous, that sought to make
both us a prey: on's tail was lash'd in blood
Law: and his forehead I did plainly see
held Characters that spell'd Authoritie.
This rent my slumbers; and my fearful soul
ran searching up and down my dismaid brest,
to finde a port t'escape. Good faith, I am cold;
but Gerrad's love is colder: here I'll sit,
and think my self away.

Enter Ferdinand with a Cup and a Letter.
Ferd.
The peace of love
attend the sweet Violanta: Read,
for the sad newes I bring I do not know;
onely I am sworn to give you that, and this.

Viol.
Is it from Gerrard? gentle Ferdinand,
how glad am I to see you thus well restor'd?
in troth he never wrong'd you in his life,
nor I, but alwayes held fair thoughts of you,
knew not my Fathers meaning, till of late;
could never have known it soon enough: For Sir,
Gerrard's and my affection began
in infancie: My Uncle brought him oft
in long coats hither; you were such another;
the little boy would kisse me being a childe,
and say, he lov'd me; give me all his toyes,
bracelets, rings, sweet-meats, all his rosie smiles:
I then would stand and stare upon his eyes,
play with his locks, and swear I lov'd him too;
For sure, me thought, he was a little Love,
he woo'd so prettily in innocence,
that then he warm'd my fancie; for I felt
a glimmering beam of love kindle my blood,
both which time since hath made a flame and flood.

Fer.
O gentle innocent! me thinks it talks
like a child still, whose white simplicitie
never arriv'd at sin. Forgive me, Lady,
I have destroyd Gerrard, and thee; rebell'd
against heavens ordinance; dis-pair'd two doves,
made 'em sit mourning; slaughter'd love, and cleft
the heart of all integritie. This brest
was trusted with the secret of your vow
by Gerrard, and reveal'd it to your father.

Viol.
Hah.

Ferd.
Read, and curse me.

Viol.
Neither: I will never
nor write, nor read again.

Ferd.
My penance be it.
Reads,
Your labyrinth is found, your lust proclaim'd

Viol.
Lust? humh:
my mother sure felt none when I was got.

Fer.
I, and the law implacably offended.
Gerrard's imprison'd, and to die.

Viol.
O heaven!

Ferd.
and you to suffer with reproach and scoffs,
a publick execution; I have sent you
an Antidote 'gainst shame, poyson; by him
you have most wrong'd: give him your penitent tears.

Viol.
Humh: 'tis not truth.

Ferd.
Drink, and farewell for ever:
And though thy whoredome blemish thy whole line,
Prevent the Hangmans stroak, and die like mine.

Viol.
Oh wo is me for Gerrard: I have brought
confusion on the noblest Gentleman
that ever truely lov'd. But we shall meet
where our condemners shall not, and enjoy
a more refin'd affection then here;
no law, nor father hinders marriage there
'twixt souls divinely affi'd, as (sure) ours were:
there we will multiplie, and generate joyes
like fruitfull parents. Lucklesse Ferdinand,
Where's the good old Gentlewoman, my husbands Aunt?

Ferd.
Thrust from you Uncle to all povertie.

Viol.
Alas the pitie: Reach me, Sir, the cup;
I'll say my prayers, and take my fathers physick.

Ferd.
O villain that I was, I had forgot
to spill the rest, and am unable now
to stir to hinder her.

Viol.
What aile you, Sir?

Ferd.
Your father is a monster, I a villain,
this tongue has kill'd you: pardon, Violanta,
oh pardon, Gerrard; and for sacrifice,
accept my life, to expiate my fault.
I have drunk up the poyson.

Viol.
Thou art not so
uncharitable: a better fellow far,
thou'st left me half. Sure death is now adrie,
and calls for more blood still to quench his thirst.
I pledge thee Ferdinand, to Gerrards health:
Deer Gerrard, poor Aunt, and unfortunate friend,
Ay me, that love should breed true Lovers end.

Fer.
Stay Madam, stay; help hoa, for heavens sake help;
Improvident man, that good I did intend
for satisfaction, saving of her life,
my equall cruell starres made me forget.

Enter Angelina with two servants.
Ang.
What spectacle of death assaults me? oh.

Viol.
My deerest mother, I am dead, I leave
father, and friends, and life, to follow love.
Good mother, love my child, that did no ill.
Fie, how men lie, that say, death is a pain:
or has he chang'd his nature? like soft sleep
he seizes me. Your blessing. Last, I crave,
that I may rest by Gerrard in his grave.

Ferd.
There lay me too: O noble Mistris, I
have caus'd all this; and thesefore justly die.
That key will open all.

Ang.
O viperous father!
For heavens sake bear 'em in: run for Physicians,
and medicines quickly: Heaven, thou shalt not have her
yet; 'tis too soon: Alas, I have no more,
and taking her away, thou robb'st the poor.

Exeunt.
Flourish.
Enter Duke, States, Randulpho, Benvoglio, Gerrard, Executioner, Guard.
Duke.
The Law, as greedy as your red desire
Benvoglio, hath cast this man: 'Tis pitie
so many excellent parts are swallo'wd up
in one fowle wave. Is Violanta sent for?
Our Justice must not lop a branch, and let
the body grow still.

Ben.
Sir, she will be here
alive or dead, I am sure.

Ger.
How cheerfully my countenance comments death?
that which makes men seem horrid, I will wear
like to an ornament. O Violanta,
might my life onely satisfie the Law,
how jocundly my soule would enter heaven?
Why? shouldst thou die, thou wither'st in thy bud,
as I have seen a Rose, ere it was blown.
I doe beseech your Grace, the Statute may
(in this case made) be read: not that I hope
t'extenuate my offence or penaltie,
but to see whether it lay hold on her.
And since my death is more exemplary
then just, this publick reading will advise
caution to others.

Duke.
Read it.

Ran.
Brother, does not
your soul groan under this severity?

States
read.

A Statute provided in case of unequal
Matches, Marriages against parents consent,
stealing of heirs, Rapes, Prostitutions,
and such like: That if any person
meanly descended, or ignorant of his
own Parentage, which implies as much,
shall with a foul intent unlawfully sollicite
the daughter of any Peer of the
Dukedom, he shall for the same offence
forfeit his right hand: but if he further
prostitute her to his lust, he shall first
have his right hand cut off, and then suffer
death by the common Executioner.
After whom, the Lady so offending shall
likewise the next day in the same manner,
die for the fact.

Ger.
This Statute has more cruelty then sense:
I see no ray of mercie. Must the Lady
suffer death too? suppose she were inforc'd,
by some confederates born away, and ravisht;
is she not guiltlesse?

Duke.
Yes, if it be prov'd.

Ger.
This case is so: I ravisht Violanta.

State.
Who ever knew a rape produce a childe?

Ben.
Pish, these are idle. Will your grace command
the Executioner proceed?

Duke.
Your Office.

Ger.
Fare well to thy inticing vanitie,
thou round gilt Box, that dost deceive mans eye:
the wise man knows, when open thou art broke,
the treasure thou includ'st is dust and smoke,
even thus I cast thee by. My Lords, the Law
is but the great mans mule; he rides on it,
and tramples poorer men under his feet;
yet when they come to knock at yond' bright gate,
ones rags shall enter, 'fore the others state.
Peace to ye all: here, sirha, strike; this hand
hath Violanta kiss'd a thousand times;
it smells sweet ever since: this was the hand
plighted my faith to her: do not think thou canst
cut that in sunder with my hand. My Lord,
as free from speck as this arm is, my heart
is of foul lust; and every vein glides here
as full of truth. Why does thy hand shake so?
't is mine must be cut off, and that is firm;
for it was ever constant.

Enter Cornelia.
Cor.
Hold; your Sentence
unjustly is pronounced, my Lord: this blowe
cuts your hand off; for his is none of yours:
but Violanta's given in holy Marriage
before she was delivered, consummated
with the free will of her mother, by her Confessor,
in Lord Benvoglio's house.

Ger.
Alas, good Aunt,
that helps us nothing; else I had reveal'd it.

Duke.
What woman's this?

Ben.
A base confederate
in this proceeding, kept of alms long time
by him; who now expos'd to misery,
talks thus distractedly. Attach her, Guard.

Ran.
Your cruelty (brother) will have end.

Cor.
You'd best
let them attach my tongue.

Duke.
Good woman, peace:
for were this truth, it doth not help thy nephew;
the Law's infring'd by their disparitie,
that forfeits both their lives.

Cor.
Sir, with your pardon,
had your Grace ever children?

Duke.
Thou hast put
a question whose sharp point toucheth my heart:
I had two little sons, twins, who were both
(with my good Dutchesse) slain, as I did hear,
at that time when my Dukedom was surpris'd.

Cor.
I have heard many say (my gracious Lord)
that I was wondrous like her.

All.
Ha?

Duke.
By all mans joy, it is Cornelia,
my dearest wife.

Cor.
To ratifie me her,
come down, Alphonso, one of those two twins,
and take thy fathers blessing: thou hast broke
no Law, thy birth being above thy wives:
Ascanio is the other, nam'd Fernando,
who by remote means, to my Lord Benvoglio
I got prefer'd; and in poor habits clad,
(you fled, and th'innovation laid again)
I wrought my self into Randulpho's service,
with my eldest boy; yet never durst reveal
what they and I were, no, not to themselves,
until the Tyrants death.

Duke.
My joy has filled me
like a full-winded sail: I cannot speak.

Ger.
Fetch Violanta, and my brother.

Ben.
Run,
run like a spout, you rogue: a—o' poison,
that little whore I trusted, will betray me.
Stay, hang-man, I have work for you; there's gold;
cut off my head, or hang me presently.

Soft Musick. Enter Angelina with the bodies of Ferdinand and Violanta on a bier; Dorothea carrying the cup and letter, which she gives to the Duke: he reads, seems sorrowful; shews it to Cornelia and Gerrard: they lament over the bier. Randulpho and Benvoglio seem fearful, and seem to report to Angelina and Dorothea what hath passed before.
Ran.
This is your rashnesse, brother.

Duke.
O joy, thou wert too great to last;
this was a cruel turning to our hopes,
unnatural father: poor Ascanio.

Ger.
O mother, let me be Gerrard again,
and follow Violanta.

Cor.
O my son—

Duke.
Your lives yet, bloodie men, shall answer this,

Dor.
I must not see 'em longer grieve. My Lord,
be comforted; let sadnesse generally
forsake each eye and bosom; they both live:
for poison, I infus'd meer Opium;
holding compulsive perjury lesse sin
then such a loathed murther would have bin.

All.
oh blessed Maiden.

Dor.
Musick, gently creep
into their ears, and fright hence lazie sleep.
Morpheus, command thy servant Sleep
in leaden chains no longer keep
this Prince and Lady: Rise, wake, rise,
and round about convey your eyes:
Rise Prince, go greet thy Father and thy Mother;
Rise thou t'imbrace thy Husband and thy Brother.

Du., Cor.
Son, Daughter.

Ferd.
Father, Mother, Brother.

Ger.
Wife,

Viol.
Are we not all in heaven?

Ger.
'Faith, very neer it.

Ferd.
How can this be?

Duke.
Hear it.

Dor.
If I had ser'vd you right, I should have seen
your old pate off, ere I had reveal'd.

Ben.
O wench,
oh honest wench; if my wife die, I'll marry thee:
There's my reward.

Ferd.
'Tis true.

Duke.
'Tis very strange.

Ger.
Why kneel you, honest Master?

Ferd.
My good Lord.

Ger.
Deer Mother.

Duke.
Rise, rise, all are friends: I owe ye
for all their boards: And wench, take thou the man
whose life thou sav'dst; lesse cannot pay thy merit.
How shall I part my kisse? I cannot: Let
one generally therefore join our cheeks.
A pen of iron, and a lease of brasse,
to keep this Storie to eternitie:
and a Promethean wit. O sacred Love,
nor chance, nor death can thy firme truth remove.

Exeunt.
King.
Now Isabella.

Flourish.
Isab.
This can true love doe.
I joy they all so happily are pleas'd:
the Ladies and the brothers must triumph.

King.
They doe:
for Cupid scorns but t'have his triumph too.

Flourish.
The Triumph.
Enter Divers Musicians, Then certaine Singers bearing Bannerets inscribed, Truth, Loyaltie, Patience, Concord: Next Gerrard and Ferdinand with garlands of Roses: Then Violanta: Last a Chariot drawn by two Cupids, and a Cupid sitting in it.
Flourish.
Enter Prologue.
Love, and the strength of fair affection
(Most royall Sir) what long seem'd lost have won
Their perfect ends, and crown'd those constant hearts
With lasting Triumph, whose most vertuous parts,
Worthie desires, and love, shall never end.
Now turn we round the Scene, and (Great Sir) lend
A sad and serious eye to this of Death,
This black and dismall Triumph; where mans breath,
Desert, and guilty blood ascend the Stage,
And view the Tyrant ruin'd in his rage.
Exit.

Flourish.
Enter L'avall, Gabriella and Maria.
Gab.
No, good my Lord, I am not now to finde
your long neglect of me; All those affections
you came first clad in to my love, like Summer,
lustie and full of life: all those desires
that like the painted Spring bloom'd round about ye,
giving the happie promise of an harvest,
how have I seen drop off, and fall forgotten?
With the least lustre of anothers beauty,
how oft (forgetfull Lord) have I been blasted?
Was I so eas'ly won? or did this bodie
yeeld to your false embraces with lesse labour
then if you had carried some strong towne?

Lav.
Good Gabriell.

Gab.
Could all your subtilties and sighs betray me.
the vows ye shook me with, the tears ye drown'd me,
till I came fairly off with honour'd marriage?
O fie, my Lord.

Lav.
Prethee, good Gabriella.

Gab.
Would I had never known ye, nor your honours,
they are stuck too full of griefs: oh happy women,
that plant your love in equall honest bosoms,
whose sweet desires, like roses set together,
make one another happie in their blushes,
growing and dying without sense of greatnesse,
to which I am a slave! and that blest Sacrament
that daily makes millions of happie mothers,
link'd me to this mans last alone, there left me.
I dare not say I am his wife, 'tis dangerous:
his Love, I cannot say: alas, how many?

Lav.
Enter Gentill.

Gent.
Fie, my noble Lord,
can you be now a stranger to the Court,
when your most vertuous Bride, the beauteous Hellena
stands ready like a star to gild your happinesse,
when Hymen's lustie fires are now a lighting,
and all the flowre of Anjoy?

Lav.
Some few trifles,
for matter of adornment, have a little
made me so slow, Gentille, which now in readinesse,
I am for Court immediately.

Gent.
Take heed, Sir,
this is no time for trifling, nor she no Ladie
to be now entertain'd with toyes: 'twill cost ye—

Lav.
Y'are an old Cock, Gentille.

Gent.
By your Lordships favour.

Lav.
Prethee away; 'twill lose time.

Gent.
O my Lord,
pardon me that by all means.

Lav.
We have businesse
afoot man of more moment.

Gen.
Then my manners?
I know none, nor I seek none.

Lav.
Take to morrow.

Gent.
Even now, by your Lordships leave. Excellent Beautie,
my ever service here I dedicate,
in honour of my best friend, your dead Father,
to you his living vertue, and wish heartily,
that firm affection that made us two happie,
may take as deep undying root, and flourish
betwixt my daughter Casta, and your goodnesse,
who shall be still your servant.

Gab.
I much thank ye.

Lav.
—o' this dreaming puppie. Will ye go, Sir?

Gent.
A little more, Good Lord.

Lav.
Not now, by—
Come, I must use ye.

Gent.
Goodnesse dwell still with you.

Exeunt Gentille & Lavall.
Gab.
The sight of this old Gentleman, Maria,
puls to mine eyes again the living picture
of Perolot his vertuous son, my first Love,
that dy'd at Orleance.

Mar.
You have felt both fortunes,
and in extreams, poor Lady: for young Perolot,
being every way unable to maintain you,
durst not make known his love to friend or father:
My Lord Lavall, being powerfull, and you poor,
will not acknowledge you.

Gab.
No more: Lets in wench:
there let my Lute speak my laments; they have tired me.

Exeunt.
Enter two Courtiers.
1. Court.
I grant, the Duke is wondrous provident
in his now planting for succession,
I know his care as honourable in the choice too,
Marines fair vertuous daughter: but what's all this?
to what end excellent arrives this travell,
when he that bears the main roof is so rotten?

2. Cou.
You have hit it now indeed: For if fame lye not,
he is untemperate.

1. Court.
You expresse him poorly,
too gentle Sir: the most deboist and barbarous;
beleeve it, the most void of all humanitie,
howere his cunning cloake it to his Uncle,
and those his pride depends upon.

2. Cour.
I have heard too,
given excessively to drink.

1. Court.
Most certain,
and in that drink most dangerous: I speak these things
to one I know loves truth, and dares not wrong her.

2. Cour.
You may speak on.

1. Cour.
Uncertain as the sea, Sir,
proud and deceitfull as his sins great Master;
his appetite to women, for there he carries
his main sail spread so boundlesse and abominably,
that but to have her name by that tongue spoken,
poysons the vertue of the purest Virgin.

2. Cour.
I am sorry for young Gabriella then,
a maid reputed ever of faire carriage,
for he has been noted visiting.

1. Cour.
Shee is gone then,
or any else, that promises or power,
gifts, or his guilfull vows can work upon;
but these are but poor parcels.

2. Cour.
'Tis great pitie.

1. Cour.
Nor want these sins a chief saint to befriend 'em,
the Divell follows him; and for a truth Sir,
appears in visible figure often to him,
at which time he's possest with sudden trances,
cold deadly sweats, and griping of the conscience,
tormented strangely as they say.

2. Cour.
Heaven turn him:
This marriage day maist thou well curse, fair Hellen.
But le'ts go view the Ceremony.

1. Cour.
I'll walk with you.

Exeunt.
Musick.
Enter Gabriella and Maria above. And Lavall, Bride, States in solemnitie as to marriage; and passe over; viz. Duke, Marine, Longavile.
Mar.
I hear 'em come.

Gad.
Would I might never hear more.

Mar.
I told you still: but you were so incredulous.
See, there they kisse.

Gab.
Adders be your embarces.
The poyson of a rotten heart, O Hellen,
blast thee as I have been; just such a flattery,
with that same cunning face, that smile upon't,
O mark it Marie, mark it seriously,
that master smile caught me.

Mar.
There's the old Duke, and
Marine her father.

Gab.
Oh.

Mar.
There Longavile—
the Ladies now.

Gab.
Oh, I am murderd, Marie.
Beast, most inconstant beast.

Mar.
There.

Gab.
There I am not;
no more I am not there: Hear me oh heaven,
and all you powers of justice bow down to me;
but you of pitie die. I am abus'd,
she that depended on your Providence,
she is abus'd: your honour is abus'd,
that noble peece ye made, and call'd it man,
is turn'd to divell: all the world's abus'd:
Give me a womans will provok'd to mischiefe,
a two edg'd heart; my suffring thoughts to wild-fires,
and my embraces to a timelesse grave turne.

Mar.
Here I'll step in, for 'tis an act of merit.

Gab.
I am too big to utter more.

Mar.
Take time then.

Enter Gentille and Casta.
Gent.
This solitary life at home undoes thee,
obscures thy beautie first, which should prefer thee;
next fils thee full of sad thoughts, which thy yeers
must not arrive at yet, they choak thy sweetnesse:
Follow the time, my girl, and it will bring thee
even to the fellowship of the noblest women,
Hellen her self, to whom I would prefer thee,
and under whom this poor and private carriage
which I am onely able yet to reach at,
being cast off, and all thy sweets at lustre,
will take thee as a fair friend, and preferre thee.

Casta.
Good Sir, be not so cruell as to seek
to kill that sweet content y' have bred me to:
Have I not here enough to thank heaven for?
the free air uncorrupted with new flattery,
the water that I touch unbrib'd with odours
to make me sweet to others: the pure fire
not smotherd up, and choak'd with lustfull incense
to make my blood sweat; but burning cleer and high,
tels me my minde must flame up so to heaven.
What should I do at Court, wear rich apparell?
me thinks these are as warm: And for your state, Sir,
wealthie enough; Is it you would have me proud,
and like a pageant, stuck up for amazements?
Teach not your child to tread that path, for fear (Sir)
your drie bones after death, groan in your grave
the miseries that follow.

Gent.
Excellent Casta.

Casta.
When shall I pray again (a Courtier)?
or when I doe, to what God? what new body
and new face must I make me, with new manners?
for I must be no more my self. Whose Mistris
must I be first? with whose sin-offring season'd?
and when I am grown so great and glorious
with prostitution of my burning beauties.
that great Lords kneel, and Princes beg for favours,
do you think I'll be your daughter, a poor Gentlemans,
or know you for my Father?

Gent.
My best Casta.
Enter Lavall.
O my most vertuous childe, heaven reigns within thee;
take thine own choice, sweet child, and live a saint still.
The Lord Lavall; stand by, wench.

Lav.
Gabriella,
she cannot, nor she dares not make it known,
my greatnesse crushes her, when-ere she offers:
why should I fear her then?

Gent.
Come, let's passe on wench.

Lav.
Gentille, come hither: Who's that Gentlewoman?

Gent.
A child of mine, Sir, who observing custome,
is going to the Monasterie to her prayers.

Lav.
A fair one, a most sweet one; fitter far
to beautifie a Court, then make a Votarist.
Go on, fair Beautie, and in your Orizons
remember me: Will ye, fair sweet?

Casta.
Most humbly.

Exeunt.
Lav.
An admirable Beautie: how it fires me I
Enter a Spirit.
But shee's too full of grace and I too wicked.
I feel my wonted fit: Defend mee, goodnesse.
O, it growes colder still, and stiffer on me,
my hair stands up, my sinews shake and shrink:
Help me good heaven, and good thoughts dwel within me.
O get thee gone, thou evill evill spirit;
haunt me no more, I charge thee.

Spir.
Yes Lavall:
thou art my vassall, and the slave to mischiefe,
I blast thee with new sin: pursue thy pleasure;
Casta is rare and sweet, a blowing Beautie;
set thy desires afire, and never quench 'em
till thou enjoy'st her; make her all thy heaven,
and all thy joy, for shee is all true happinesse:
Thou art powerfull, use command; if that prevail not,
force her; I'll be thy friend.

Lav.
O help me, help me.

Spir.
Her vertue, like a spel, sinks me to darkness.

Exit.
Enter Gentille and Casta.
Gent.
He's here still. How is't, noble Lord? me thinks, Sir,
you look a little wildly. Is it that way?
is't her you stare on so? I have spi'd your fire, Sir,
but dare not stay the flaming. Come.

Lav.
Sweet creature,
excellent Beautie, do me but the happinesse
to be your humblest servant. O fair eyes,
O blessed, blessed sweetnesse, divine virgin.

Casta.
O good my Lord, retire into your honour:
you're spoken good and vertuous, plac'd at helme
to govern others from mischances: from example
of such fair Chronicles as great ones are,
we do, or sure we should direct our lives,
I know y'are full of worth, a school of vertue
daily instructing us that live below ye,
I make no doubt, dwels there.

Lav.
I cannot answer,
she has struck me dumb with wonder.

Casta.
Goodnesse guide ye.

Exeunt.
Lav.
She's gone, and with her all light, and has left me
dark as my black desires. O divell lust,
how dost thou hug my blood, and whisper to me,
there is no day again, no time, no living,
without this lustie Beautie break upon me?
Let me collect my self, I strive like billows,
beaten against a rock, and fall a fool still.
I must enjoy her, and I will: from this hour
my thoughts and all my bus'nesse shall be nothing,
Enter Maria.
my eating, and my sleeping, but her beautie,
and how to work it.

Mar.
Health to my Lord Lavall.
Nay good Sir, do not turn with such displeasure;
I come not to afflict your new born pleasures;
my honour'd Mistris, neither let that vex ye,
for nothing is intended but safe to you.

Lav.
What of your Mistris? I am full of bus'nesse.

Mar.
I will be short, my Lord; she, loving Lady,
considring the unequall tie between ye,
and how your ruine with the Duke lay on it,
as also the most noble match now made,
by me sends back all links of marriage,
all holy vows, and rights of Ceremonie,
all promises, oathes, tears, and all such pawnes
you left in hostage: onely her love shee cannot,
for that still follows ye, but not to hurt ye;
and still beholds ye Sir, but not to shame ye:
In recompence of which, this is her suit, Sir,
her poor and last petition, but to grant her,
when weary nights have cloy'd ye up with kisses,
(as such must come) the honour of a Mistris,
the honour but to let her see those eyes,
(those eyes she doats on more then gods do goodnesse)
and but to kisse ye onely: with this prayer,
(a prayer onely to awake your pitie)
and on her knees she made it; that this night
you'ld blesse her with your company at supper.

Lav.
I like this well, and now I think on't better,
I'll make a present use from this occasion:

Mar.
Nay, good my Lord, be not so cruell to her
because she has been yours.

Lav.
and to mine own end
a rare way I will work.

Mar.
Can love for ever,
the love for her (my Lord) so perish in ye?
as ye desire in your desires to prosper.
What gallant under heaven, but Anjou's heire then
can brag so fait a wife, and sweet a Mistris?
good noble Lord.

Lav.
Ye mis-apply me, Mary,
nor do I want true pitie to your Ladie:
Pitie and love tell me, too much I have wrong'd her
to dare to see her more: yet if her sweetnesse
can entertain a mediation,
and it must be a great one that can cure me;
my love again, as far as honour bids me,
my service and my self.

Mar.
That's nobly spoken.

Lav.
Shall hourly see her; want shall never know her;
nor where she has bestow'd her love, repent her:

Mar.
Now whither drives he?

Lav.
I have heard, Maria,
that no two women in the world more lov'd,
then thy good Mistris, and Gentilles fair daughter.

Mar.
What may this mean? You have heard a truth, my Lord:
but since the secret love betwixt you two,
my Mistris durst not entertain such friendship;
Casta is quick, and of a piercing judgement,
and quickly will finde out a flaw.

Lav.
Hold Marie:
shrink not, 'tis good gold, wench: prepare a Banquet,
and get that Casta thither; for she's a creature
so full of forcible divine perswasion,
and so unwearied ever with good office,
and she shall cure my ill cause to my Mistris,
and make all errours up.

Mar.
I'll doe my best Sir:
but shee's too fearfull, coy, and scrupulous,
to leave her fathers house so late; and bashfull
at any mans appearance, that I fear Sir,
'twill prove impossible.

Lav.
There's more gold, Marie,
and fain thy Mistris wondrous sick to death, wench.

Mar.
I have ye in the wind now, and I'll pay ye.

Lav.
Shee cannot chuse but come; 'tis charitie,
the chief of her profession: undertake this,
and I am there at night; if not, I leave ye.

Mar.
I will not loose this offer, though it fall out
clean crosse to that we cast. I'll undertake it,
I will, my Lord; she shall be there.

Lav.
By—?

Mar.
By—she shall.

Lav.
Let it be something late then,
for being seen. Now force or favour wins her.
My spirits are grown dull, strong wine, and store,
shall set 'em up again, and make mee fit
to draw home at the enterprise I aime at.

Exit.
Ma.
Go thy waies, false Lord, if thou hold'st, thou pai'st
the price of all thy lusts. Thou shalt be three,
thou modest maid, if I have any working,
and yet thy honour safe; for which this thief
I know has set this meeting: but I'll watch him.

Enter Perolot.
Per.
Maria.

Mar.
Are mine eyes mine own? or blesse me,
am I deluded with a flying shadow?

Per.
Why do your start so from me?

Mar.
It speaks sensibly,
and shews a living body: yet I am fearfull.

Per.
Give me your hand, good Maria.

Mar.
He feels warm too.

Per.
And next your lips.

Mar.
He kisses perfectly.
Nay, and the divell be no worse: you are Perolot.

Per.
I was, and sure I should be: Can a small distance,
and ten short months take from your memory
the figure of your friend, that you stand wondring?
Be not amaz'd, I am the self-same Perolot,
living, and well; Son to Gentille, and Brother
to vertuous Casta; to your beauteous Mistris,
the long since poor betroth'd, and still vow'd servant.

Mar.
Nay, sure he lives. My Lord Lavall, your Master,
brought news long since to your much mourning Mistris,
ye dy'd at Orleance; bound her with an oath too,
to keep it secret from your aged Father,
lest it should rack' his heart.

Per.
A pretty secret
to trie my Mistris love, and make my welcome
from travel of more worth; from whence, heaven thanked,
my businesse for the Duke dispatch'd to th'purpose,
and all my money spent, I am come home, wench.
How does my Mistris? for I have not yet seen
any, nor will I, till I doe her service.

Mar.
But did the Lord Lavall know of your love, Sir,
before ye went?

Per.
Yes: by much force he go it,
but none else knew; upon his promise too
and honour to conceal it faithfully
till my return; to further which, he told me,
my businesse being ended, from the Duke
he would procure a pension for my service,
able to make my Mistris a fit husband.

Mar.
But are you sure of this?

Per.
Sure as my sight, wench.

Mar.
Then is your Lord a base dissembling villain,
a divell Lord, the damn'd Lord of all lewdnesse,
and has betraid ye' and undone my Mistris,
my poor sweet Mistris: Oh that leacher Lord,
who, poor soul, since was married.

Per.
To whom, Maria?

Maria.
To that unluckie Lord, a—upon him;
whose hot horse-appetite being allaid once
with her chaste joyes, married again, scarce cool'd,
the torches yet not out the yellow Hymen
lighted about the bed, the songs yet sounding,
Marine's young noble daughter Helena,
whose mischief stands at door next. O that Recreant!

Perolot.
O villain! O most unmanly falshood!
nay then I see, my letters were betraid too.
O, I am full of this, great with his mischiefs,
loaden and burst: Come lead me to my Lady.

Mar.
I cannot, Sir, Lavall keeps her conceal'd.
Besides, her griefs are such, shee will see no man.

Per.
I must and will goe to her: I will see her:
there be my friend, or this shall be thy furthest.

Mar.
Hold, and I'll help ye: But first ye shall swear to me,
as you are true and gentle, as ye hate
this beastly and base Lord, where I shall place ye,
(which shall be within sight) till I discharge ye,
what-ere you see or hear, to make no motion.

Per.
I doe by—

Mar.
Stay here about the house then,
till it be later; yet the time's not perfect:
there at the back-door I'll attend you truly.

Per.
O monstrous, monstrous, beastly villain.

Exit.
Mar.
How crosse this falls, and from all expectation?
and what the end shall be, heaven onely yet knows:
onely I wish, and hope. But I forget still,
Casta must be the bait, or all miscarries.

Exeunt.
Enter Gentille with a torch: Shaloon above.
Gent.
Holla, Shaloon.

Shal.
Who's there?

Gen.
A word from the Duke, Sir.

Sha.
Your pleasure.

Gen.
Tell your Lord he must to Court strait.

Sha.
He is ill at ease, and prayes he may be pardon'd
the occasions of this night.

Gen.
Belike, he is drunk then:
he must away; the Duke, and his fair Ladie,
the beauteous Helena, are now at Cent;
of whom she has such fortune in her carding,
the Duke has lost a thousand Crowns, and swears,
hee will not goe to bed, till by Lavall
the tide of losse be turn'd again. Awake him,
for 'tis the pleasure of the Duke he must rise.

Sha.
Having so strict command (Sir) to the contrary,
I dare not do it: I beseech your pardon.

Gent.
Are you sure he is there?

Sha.
Yes.

Gen.
And asleep?

Sha.
I think so.

Gen.
And are you sure you wil no tell him, Shalon?

Sha.
Yes, very sure.

Gent.
Then I am sure, I will.
Open, or I must force.

Sha.
Pray ye stay: he is not,
nor will not be this night. You may excuse it.

Gent.
I knew he was gone about some womans labour.
As good a neighbour, though I say it, and as comfortable:
many such more we need Shaloon. Alas, poor Ladie,
thou art like to lie crosse legg'd to night. Good Monsieur,
I will excuse your Master for this once, Sir,
because sometimes I have lov'd a wench my self too.

Sha.
'Tis a good hearing Sir.

Gent.
But for your lye, Shaloon,
if I had you here, it should be no good hearing,
for your pate I would pummell.

Sha.
A fair good night, Sir.

Gent.
Good night, thou noble Knight, Sir Pandarus.
My heart is cold o'th sudden, and a strange dulnesse
possesses all my bodie: thy will be done heaven.

Exit.
Enter Gabriella and Casta: and Maria with a Taper.
Casta.
Faith friend, I was even going to my bed,
when your maid told me of your sudden sicknesse:
but from my grave (so truly I loue you)
I think your name would raise me: ye looke ill
since last I saw ye, much decai'd in colour:
yet I thanck heaven, I finde no such great danger
as your maid frighted me withall: take courage
and give your sicknesse-course: some griefe you have got
that feeds within upon your tender spirits,
and wanting open way to vent it selfe
murders your mind, and choakes up all your sweetnesse.

Gab.
It was my maids fault; worthy friend to trouble ye,
so late, upon so light a cause: yet sure I have ye
O my deare Casta.

Casta.
Out with it Gods name.

Gab.
The closset of my heart, I will lock here, wench,
Lavall knocks within.
and things shal make ye tremble. Who's that knocks there?

Mar.
'Tis Lavall.

Gab.
Sit you still. Let him in.
In am resolv'd, and all you wronged women,
you noble spirits, that as I have sufferd
under this glorious beast-insulting man,
lend me your causes, then your cruelties,
for I must put on madnesse above women.

Casta.
Why do you look so ghastly?

Gab.
Peace; no harm, Deer.

Enter Lavall.
Lav.
There, take my cloak and sword: Where is this Banquet?

Mar.
In the next room,

Casta.
How came he here? Heaven blesse me.

La.
Give me some wine wench; fill it ful, and sprightly.

Gab.
Sit still, and be not fearfull.

Lav.
Till my veins swell,
and my strong sinews stretch like that brave Centour
that at the table snatch'd the Bride away
in spight of Hercules.

Casta.
I am betraid.

Lav.
Nay start not Ladie; 'tis for you that I come,
and for your beautie: 'tis for you, Lavall
honours this night; to you, the sacred shrine
I humbly bow, offring my vows and prayers;
to you I live.

Gab.
In with the powder quickly:
so, that and the wine will rock ye.

Lav.
Here, to the health
of the most beauteous and divine, fair Casta,
the star of sweetnesse.

Gab.
Fear him not, I'll die first.
And who shall pledge ye?

Lav.
Thou shalt, thou tann'd Gipsey:
and worship to that brightnesse give, cold Tartar.
By—ye shall not stir; ye are my Mistris,
the glory of my love, the great adventure,
the Mistris of my heart, and shee my whore.

Gab.
Thou ly'st, base, beastly Lord; drunker then anger,
thou sowsed Lord, got by a surfeit, thou lyest basely.
Nay, stir not; I dare tell thee so. Sit you still.
If I be whore, it is in marrying thee,
that art so absolute and full a villain,
no Sacrament can save that piece tied to thee.
How often hast thou woo'd in those flatteries,
almost those very words, my constancie?
what goddesse have I not been, or what goodnesse?
what star that is of any name in heaven,
or brightnesse? which of all the vertues
(but drunkennesse, and drabbing, thy two morals)
have not I reach'd to? what Spring was ever sweeter?
what Scythian snow so white? what crystal chaster?
Is not thy new wife now the same too? Hang thee,
base Bigamist, thou honour of ill women.

Casta.
How's this? O heaven defend me.

Gab.
Thou salt-itch,
for whom no cure but ever burning brimstone
can be imagin'd.

Lav.
Ha, ha, ha.

Gab.
Dost thou laugh, thou breaker
of all law, all religion, of all faith
thou soul contemner?

Lav.
Peace, thou paltry woman:
and sit by me, Sweet.

Gab.
By the Divell?

Lav.
Come,
and lull me with delights.

Gab.
It works amain now.

Lav.
Give me such kisses as the Queen of shadows
gave to the sleeping boy she stole on Latmus;
lock round about in snakie wreathes close folded,
those rosie arms about my neck, O Venus.

Gab.
Fear not, I say.

Lav.
Thou admirable sweetnesse,
distill thy blessings like those silver drops,
that falling on fair grounds, rise all in roses:
Shoot me a thousand darts from those fair eyes,
and through my heart transfix'em all, I'll stand 'em.
Send me a thousand smiles, and presently
I'll catch 'em in mine eyes, and by Love's power
turn 'em to Cupids all, and fling 'em on thee.
How high she looks, and heavenly! More wine for me.

Ga.
Give him more wine, and good friend be not fearful.

Lav.
Here on my knee, thou goddesse of delights,
this lustie grape I offer to thy Beauties;
see how it leaps to view that perfect rednesse
that dwels upon thy lips: now, how it blushes
to be outblush'd. Oh let me feed my fancie,
and as I hold the purple god in one hand
dancing about the brim' and proudly swelling,
deck'd in the pride of nature young, and blowing;
so let me take fair Semele in the other,
and sing the loves of gods, then drink, their Nectar's
not yet desir'd.

Casta.
Oh.

Lav.
Then like lustie Tarquin
turn'd into flames with Lucrece coy denyals.
his blood and spirit equally ambitious,
I force thee for mine own.

Casta.
O help me, Justice:
help me, my Chastitie.

Lav.
Now I am bravely quarried.

Perolot above.
Per.
'Tis my Sister.

Gab.
No, bawdy slave, no Treacher, she is not carried.

Per.
She's loose again, and gone. I'll keep my place still.

Mar.
Now it works bravely: stand, he cannot hurt ye.

Lav.
O my sweet Love, my life.

Hee falls downe, and sleeps.
Mar.
He sinks.

Lav.
My blessing.

Mar.
So, now he is safe a while.

Gab.
Lock all the doors, wench,
then for my wrongs.

Per.
Now I'll appear to know all.

Gab.
Be quick, quick, good Marie, sure and sudden.

Per.
Stay, I must in first.

Gab.
O' my conscience
it is young Perolet: O my stung conscience!
it is my first and noblest Love.

Mar.
Leave wondring,
and recollect your self: the man is living,
equally wrong'd as you, and by that divell.

Per.
'Tis most true, Ladie: your unhappie fortune
I grieve for as mine own, your fault forgive too,
if it be one. This is no time for kisses:
I have heard all, and known all, which mine eares
are crack'd a pieces with, and my heart perish'd.
I saw him in your chamber, saw his fury,
and am afire till I have found his heart out.
What do you mean to doe? for I'll make one.

Gab.
To make his death more horrid (for he shall die)

Per.
He must, he must.

Gab.
wee'll watch him till he wakes,
then bind him, and then torture him.

Per.
'Tis nothing.
No, take him dead drunk now without repentance,
his leacherie inseam'd upon him.

Gab.
Excellent.

Per.
I'll do it my self; and when 'tis done, provide ye,
for wee'll away for Italie this night.

Gab.
Wee'll follow thorow all hazzards.

Per.
O false Lord,
unmanly, mischievous; how I could curse thee.
But that but blasts thy fame; have at thy heart, fool:
loop-holes I'll make enough to let thy life out.

Lav.
Oh, does the divell ride me?

Per.
Nay then.

Lav.
Murder.
Nay, then take my share too.

Per.
Help; Oh, he has slain me.
Bloody intentions must have blood.

Lav.
Hah?

Per.
Heaven.

Gab.
He sinks, he sinks, for ever sinks: O fortune!
O sorrow, how like seas thou flowest upon me!
Here will I dwell for ever. Weep, Maria,
weep this young mans misfortune: O thou truest.

Enter Spirit.
Lav.
What have I done?

Spir.
That that has mark'd thy soul man.

Lav.
And art thou come again, thou dismall spirit?

Spir.
Yes, to devour thy last.

Lav.
Mercie upon me.

Spir.
Thy hour is come: Succession, honour, pleasure,
and all the lustre thou so long hast look'd for
must here have end: Summon thy sins before thee.

Lav.
O my affrighted soul!

Spir.
There lies a black one;
thy owne best servant by thy own hand slain,
thy drunkennesse procur'd it: There's another,
think of fair Gabriella, there she weeps;
and such tears are not lost.

Lav.
O miserable!

Spir.
Thy foul intention to the vertuous Casta.

Lav.
No more, no more, thou wild-fire.

Spir.
Last, thy last wife,
think on the wrong she suffers.

Lav.
O my miserie,
oh, whither shall I flie?

Spir.
Thou hast no faith, fool.
Heark to thy knell.

Sings, and vanishes.
Lav.
Millions of sins muster about mine eyes now:
murders, ambitions, lust, false faiths; O horror,
in what a stormie form of death thou rid'st now
Me thinks I see all tortures, fires, and frosts,
deep sinking caves, where nothing but despair dwels,
the balefull birds of night hovering about 'em;
a grave, me thinks, now opens, and a herse
hung with my Arms tumbles into it: oh,
oh, my afflicted soule: I cannot pray;
and the least childe that has but gooddesse in him
may strike my head off; so stupid are my powers:
I'll lift mine eyes up though.

Mar.
Cease these laments,
they are too poor for vengeance: Lavall lives yet.

Gab.
Then thus I drie all sorrows from these eyes,
fury and rage possesse 'em now: damn'd divell.

Lav.
Hah?

Gab.
This for young Perolot.

Lav.
O mercy, mercy.

Gab.
This for my wrongs.

Lav.
But one short hour to cure mee.
Knock within.
oh be not cruell: Oh, oh.

Mar.
Heark, they knock.
make haste for heavens sake, Mistris.

Gab.
This for Casta.

Lav.
Oh, O, O, O.

He dies.
Mar.
He's dead: come quickly, let's away with him,
't will be too late else.

Gab.
Help, help up to th'chamber.

Exeunt with Lavalls body.
Enter Duke, Hellena, Gentile, Casta, and attendants, with lights.
Duke.
What frights are these?

Gent.
I am sure here's one past frighting.
Bring the lights neerer: I have enough alreadie.
Out, out, mine eyes. Look, Casta.

Lord.
'T is your Perolot.

Duke.
When came he over? Hold the Gentlewoman,
she sinks; and bear her off.

Cast.
O my dear brother!

Exit.
Gent.
There is a time for all; for me, I hope, too,
and very shortly. Murdred?

Gabriella, Maria, with Lavalls body, above.
Duke.
Who's above there?

Gab.
Look up, and see.

Duke.
What may this mean?

Gab.
Behold it;
behold the drunken murderer
of that young Gentleman; behold the rankest,
the vilest, basest slave that ever flourish'd.

Duke.
Who kill'd him?

Gab.
I; and there's the cause I did it:
read, if your eyes will give you leave.

Hell.
Oh monstrous.

Gab.
Nay, out it shall: there, take this false heart to ye,
the base dishonour of a thousand women:
keep it in gold, Duke, 't is a precious jewel.
Now to my self; for I have liv'd a fair age,
longer by some moneths then I had a minde to.

Duke.
Hold.

Gab.
Here, young Perolot; my first contracted
true love shall never go alone.

Duke.
Hold, Gabriella,
I do forgive all.

Gab.
I shall die the better.
Thus let me seek my grave, and my shames with me.

Mar.
Nor shalt thou go alone, my noble Mistris:
why should I live, and thou dead?

Lord.
Save the wench there.

Mar.
She is, I hope; and all my sins here written.

Duke.
This was a fatal night.

Gent.
Heaven has his working.
which we cannot contend against.

Duke.
Alas.

Gent.
Your Grace has your alas too.

Duke.
Would't were equal;
for thou hast lost an honest noble childe.

Gent.
'T is heir enough has lost a good remembrance.

Duke.
See all their bodies buried decently,
though some deserv'd it not. How do you, Ladie?

Hell.
Even with your Graces leave, ripe for a Monasterie;
there will I wed my life to tears and prayers,
and never know what man is more.

Duke.
Your pleasure;
how does the maid within?

Lord.
She is gone before, Sir,
the same course that my Ladie takes.

Gent.
And my course shall be my Beads at home; so
please your Grace to give me leave to leave the Court.

Duke.
In peace, Sir,
and take my love along.

Gent.
I shall pray for ye.

Duke.
Now to our selves retire we, and begin
by this example to correct each sin.

Exeunt.
Flourish.
King. Em.
By this we plainly view the two imposthumes
that choke a kingdoms welfare; Ease, and Wantonnesse;
in both of which Lavall was capital:
for first, Ease stole away his minde from honour,
that active noble thoughts had kept still working,
and then deliver'd him to drink and women,
lust and outragious riot; and what their ends are,
how infamous and foul, we see example.
Therefore, that great man that will keep his name,
and gain his merit out of Vertues schools,
must make the pleasures of the world his fools.

Flourish.
The Triumph.
Enter Musicians: next them, Perolot with the wound he died with. Then Gabriella and Maria, with their wounds: after them, four Furies with Bannerets inscrib'd Revenge, Murder, Lust and Drunkennesse, singing. Next them, Lavall wounded. Then a Chariot with Death, drawn by the Destinies.
Flourish.
Enter Prologue.
From this sad sight ascend your noble eye,
And see old Time helping triumphantly
helping his Master Man: view here his vanities,
and see his false friends like those glutted flyes,
that when they've suckt their fill, fall off, and fade
from all remembrance of him, like a shade.
And last, view who relieves him; and that gone,
We hope your favour, and our Play is done.

Flourish.
Enter Anthropos, Desire, and Vain Delight; Bounty.
Ant.
What hast thou done, Desire, and how imploy'd
the charge I gave thee, about levying wealth
for our supplies?

Desire.
I have done all, yet nothing:
tri'd all, and all my ways, yet all miscarried;
there dwells a sordid dulnesse in their mindes.
Thou son of earth, colder then that thou art made of,
I came to Craft, found all his hooks about him,
and all his nets baited and set; his slie self
and greedie Lucre at a serious conference
which way to tie the world within their statutes:
businesse of all sides and of all sorts swarming
like Bees broke loose in summer: I declared
your will and want together, both inforcing
with all the power and pains I had, to reach him;
yet all fell short.

Anth.
His answer.

Desire.
This he gave me.
Your wants are never ending; and those supplies
that came to stop those breaches, are ever lavisht
before they reach the main, in toys and trifles,
gaw-gaws, and gilded puppets: Vain delight
he says has ruin'd ye, with clapping all
that comes in for support, on clothes, and Coaches.
perfumes, and powder'd pates; and that your Mistris,
the Ladie Pleasure, like a sea devours
at length both you and him too. If you have houses,
or land, or jewels, for good pawn, he'll hear you,
and will be readie to supplie occasions;
if not, he locks his ears up, and grows stupid.
From him, I went to Vanity, whom I found
attended by an endlesse troop of Tailors,
Mercers, Embroiderers, Feather-makers, Fumers,
all Occupations opening like a Mart,
that serve to rig the bodie out with braverie;
and th'row the room new fashions flew like flyes,
in thousand gaudie shapes; Pride waiting on her,
and busily surveying all the breaches
Time and delaying Nature had wrought in her,
which still with art she piec'd again, and strengthened:
I told your wants; she shew'd me gowns and head-tires,
imbroider'd wastcoats, smocks seam'd thorow with cutworks,
scarfs, mantles, petticoats, muffs, powders, paintings,
dogs, monkeys parrots, which all seemed to shew me
the way her money went. From her to Pleasure
I took my journey.

Anth.
And what says ours best Misris?

Desire.
She danc'd me out this answer presently:
Revels and Masques had drawn her drie alreadie.
I met old Time too, mowing mankinde down,
who says you are too hot, and he must purge ye.

Anth.
A cold quietus. Miserable creatures,
born to support and beautifie your master,
the godlike man, set here to do me service,
the children of my will; why, or how dare ye,
created to my use alone, disgrace me?
Beasts have more courtesie; they live about me,
offering their warm wooll to the shearers hand,
to clothe me with their bodies to my labours;
nay, even their lives they daily sacrifice,
and proudly presse with garlands to the altars,
to fill the gods oblations. Birds bow to me,
striking their downie sails to do me service,
their sweet airs ever ecchoing to mine honour,
and to my rest their plumie softs they send me.
Fishes, and plants, and all where life inhabits,
but mine own cursed kinde, obey their ruler;
mine have forgot me, miserable mine,
into whose stonie hearts, neglect of dutie,
squint-ey'd deceit, and self-love, are crept closely:
none fell my wants, not one mend with me.

Desire.
None, Sir?

Ant.
Thou hast forgot (Desire) thy best friend, Flatterie;
he cannot fail me.

Delight.
Fail? he will sell himself,
and all within his power, close to his skin first.

Desire.
I thought so too, and made him my first venture,
but found him in a young Lords ear so busie,
so like a smiling showr pouring his soul
in at his portals, his face in thousand figures
catching the vain minde of the man: I pull'd him,
but still he hung like birdlime; spoke unto him,
his answer still was, By the Lord, sweet Lord,
and By my soul, thou master-piece of honour;
nothing could stave him off: he has heard your flood's gone;
and on decaying things he seldom smiles, Sir.

Anth.
Then here I break up state, and free my followers,
putting my fortune now to Time, and Justice:
go seek new masters now; for Anthropos
neglected by his friends, must seek new fortunes,
Desire, to Avarice I here commend thee,
where thou may'st live at full bent of thy wishes:
and Vain Delight, thou feeder of my follies
with light fantasticknesse, be thou in favour.
To leave thee, Bountie, my most worthie servant,
troubles me more then mine own misery;
but we must part: go plant thy self, my best friend,
in honourable hearts that truely know thee,
and there live ever like thy self, a vertue:
but leave this place, and seek the Countrey
for Law; and lust like fire lick all up here.
Now one but Poverty, must follow me,
despis'd patch'd Poverty; and we two married,
will seek Simplicity, Content and Peace out,
Enter Poverty.
and live with them in exile. How uncall'd on
my true friend comes!

Poverty.
Here, hold thee, Anthropos,
thou art almost arm'd at rest; put this on,
a penitential robe, to purge thy pleasures:
off with that vanitie.

Anth.
Here, Vain Delight,
and with this all my part, to thee again
of thee I freely render.

Pov.
Take this staff now,
and be more constant to your steps hereafter:
the staff is Staidnesse of affections.
Away, you painted flyes, that with mans summer
take life and heat buzzing about his blossoms;
when growing full, ye turn to Caterpillers,
gnawing the root that gave you life. Fly shadows.
Exeunt Desire and Delight.
Now to Content I'll give thee, Anthropos,
to Rest and Peace: no vanitie dwells there;
Desire nor Pleasure, to delude thy minde more;
no Flatteries smooth-fil'd tongue shall poison thee.

Anth.
O Jupiter, if I have ever offer'd
upon thy burning Altars but one Sacrifice
thou and thy fair-ey'd Juno smil'd upon;
if ever, to thine honour, bounteous feasts,
where all thy statues sweat with wine and incense,
have by the son of earth been celebrated:
hear me (the childe of shame now) hear, thou helper,
and take my wrongs into thy hands, thou justice,
done by unmindful man, unmerciful,
against his master done, against thy order;
and raise again, thou father of all honour,
the poor despis'd, but yet thy noblest creature.
Raise from his ruines once more this sunk Cedar,
that all may fear thy power, and I proclaim it.

Exeunt.
Jupiter and Mercury descend severally. Trumpets small above.
Jup.
Hoa; Mercury, my winged son.

Mer.
Your servant.

Jup.
Whose powerful prayers were those that reach'd our ears,
arm'd in such spells of pitie now?

Mer.
The sad petitions
of the scorn'd son of earth, the godlike Anthropos,
he that has swell'd your sacred fires with incense,
and pil'd upon your altars thousand heifers;
he that (beguil'd by Vanity and Pleasure,
Desire, Craft, Flattery, and smooth Hypocrisie)
stands now despis'd and ruin'd, left to Poverty.

Jup.
It must not be; he was not rais'd for ruine;
nor shall those hands heav'd at mine altars perish:
he is our noblest creature. Flee to Time,
and charge him presently release the bands
of Poverty and Want this suiter sinks in:
tell him, among the sun-burnt Indians,
that know no other wealth but peace and pleasure,
she shall finde golden Plutus, god of riches,
who idly is ador'd, the innocent people
not knowing yet what power and weight he carries:
bid him compel him to his right use, honour,
and presently to live with Anthropos.
It is our will. Away.

Mer.
I do obey it.

Jupiter and Mercury ascend again.
Musick. Enter Plutus, with a troop of Indians singing and dancing wildly about him, and bowing to him: which ended, enter Time.
Time.
Rise, and away; 't is Joves command.

Plut.
I will not:
ye have some fool to furnish now; some Midas
that to no purpose I must choke with riches.
Who must I go to?

Time.
To the son of earth;
he wants the god of wealth.

Plut.
Let him want still:
I was too lately with him, almost torn
into ten thousand pieces by his followers:
I could not sleep, but Craft or Vanity
were filing off my fingers; not eat, for fear
Pleasure would cast her self into my bellie,
and there surprise my heart.

Time.
These have forsaken him:
make haste then; thou must with me: be not angrie,
for fear a greater anger light upon thee.

Plut.
I do obey then: but change my figure;
for when I willingly befriend a creature,
goodly and full of glory I shew to him;
but when I am compell'd, old, and decrepit,
I halt, and hang upon my staff. Fare well, friends,
I will not be long from ye; all my servants
I leave among ye still, and my chief riches.
Exeunt Indians with a dance.
O Time, what innocence dwells here, what goodnesse!
they know me not, nor hurt me not, yet hug me.
Away, I'll follow thee: but not too fast, Time.

Exeunt Plutus and Time.
Enter Anthropos, Honestie, Simplicitie, Humilitie, Povertie.
Humil.
Man, be not sad, nor let this divorce
from Mundus, and his many ways of pleasure,
afflict thy spirits; which consider'd rightly
with inward eyes, makes thee arrive at happie.

Pov.
For now what danger or deceit can reach thee?
what matter left for Craft or Covetize
to plot against thee? what Desire to burn thee?

Honest.
O son of earth, let Honestie possesse thee;
be as thou wast intended, like thy Maker;
see thorow those gawdie shadows, that like dreams
have dwelt upon thee long: call up thy goodnesse,
thy minde and man within thee, that lie shipwrack'd,
and then how thin and vain these fond affections,
how lame this worldly love, how lumplike raw
and ill-digested all these vanities
will shew, let Reason tell thee,

Simpl.
Crown thy minde
with that above the worlds wealth, joyful suffring,
and truely be the master of thy self,
which is the noblest Empire; and there stand
the thing thou wert ordain'd, and set to govern.

Pov.
Come, let us sing the worlds shame: hear us, Anthropos.

Song: and then enter Time and Plutus.
Hon.
Away; we are betray'd.

Exeunt all but Poverty.
Time.
Get thou too after,
thou needie bare companion; go for ever,
for ever, I conjure thee: make no answer.

Exit Poverty.
Anth.
What mak'st thou here, Time? thou that to this
minute never stood'st still by me?

Time.
I have brought thee succour;
and nowl catch hold, I am thine: The god of riches
(compell'd by him that saw thy miseries,
the ever just and wakeful Jove, at length)
is come unto thee: use him as thine own;
for 't is the doom of heaven: he must obey thee.

Anth.
Have I found pitie then?

Time.
Thou hast; and Justice
against those false seducers of thine honour:
Come, give him present helps.
Exit Time.

Industry and the Arts discovered.
Plut.
Come, Industrie,
thou friend of life: and next to thee, rise Labour;
Plutus stamps. Labour rises.
rise presently: and now to your employments;
but first conduct this mortal to the rock.
They carry Anthropos to a rock, and fall a digging.
What seest thou now?

Plutus strikes the rock, and flames flie out.
Anth.
A glorious mine of metal.
O Jupiter, my thanks.

Plut.
To me a little.

Anth.
And to the god of wealth my Sacrifice.

Plut.
Nay, then I am rewarded. Take heed now, son,
you are afloat again, lest Mundus catch ye.

Anth.
Never betray me more.

Plut.
I must to India,
from whence I came, where my main wealth lies buried,
and these must with me. Take that book and mattock,
and by those know to live again.

Exeunt Plutus, Indians, Labout, &c.
Anth.
I shall do.

Enter Fame sounding.
Fame.
Thorow all the world the fortune of great Anthr.
be known and wonder'd at; his riches envi'd
as far as Sun or Time is; his power fear'd too.

Exeunt.
Musick. Enter Delight, Pleasure, Craft, Lucre, Vanitie, &c. dancing (and mask'd) towards the Rock, offering service to Anthropos. Mercury from above. Musick heard. One half of a cloud drawn. Singers are discovered: then the other half drawn. Jupiter seen in glory.
Mer.
Take heed, weak man, those are the sins that sunk thee;
trust 'em no more: kneel, and give thanks to Jupiter.

Anth.
O mighty power!

Jup.
Unmask, ye gilded poisons:
now look upon 'em, son of earth, and shame 'em;
now see the faces of thy evil angels,
lead 'em to Time, and let 'em fill his Triumph:
their memories be here forgot for ever.

Anth.
O just great god! how many lives of service,
what ages onely given to thine honour,
what infinites of vows and holy prayers,
can pay my thanks?

Jup.
Rise up; and to assure thee
that never more thou shalt feel want, strike, Mercury,
strike him; and by that stroke he shall for ever
live in that rock of gold, and still enjoy it.
Be done, I say. Now sing in honour of him.

Song.
Enter the Triumph.
First the Musicians: Then Vain Delight, Pleasure, Craft, Lucre, Vanitie, and other of the Vices: Then a Chariot with the person of Time sitting in it; drawn by four persons representing Hours, singing.
Exeunt.
Flourish.
King. Em.
By this we note (sweet heart) in Kings and Princes
a weaknesse, even in spite of all their wisedoms,
and often to be master'd by abuses:
Our natures here describ'd too, and what humours
prevail above our Reasons to undo us.
But this the last and best, When no friend stands,
The gods are merciful, and lend their hands.

Flourish.