 | The English Moor, or The Mock-Marriage |  |
Scene. 1.
Arthur. Dionysia.Ar.
Dear Sister, bear with me.
Di.
I may not, brother.
What! suffer you to pine, and peak away
In your unnatural melancholy fits;
Which have already turn'd your purer blood
Into a toad-pool dye. I am asham'd
(Upon my life) almost to call you brother
But nature has her swing in me. I must.
Therefore I crave you (as you are my brother)
To shake this dull and muddy humor off,
By visiting the streets, and quit your chamber,
Which is a sickness to you.
Ar.
O my sister!
Di.
I can say, O my brother too, to shew you
How it becomes you. I have the same cause
Equally with your self, to spend my life
In sollitary mourning; and would do it,
Could it make good our loss: My honor'd Father!
2
And more of anger 'gainst his enemy,
And his for ever curs'd posterity,
That rob'd us of a Father, then of sorrow
For what we know is unrecoverable.
But to sit grieving over his Memory
In a resolved silence, as you do;
Killing your own blood while a vein holds any
Proceeding from the flesh, that drew out his,
Is meerly idle. Mingle then your grief
With thought of brave revenge: And do it not
In private Meditation in your Chamber;
But bear it out till it proceed to Action.
Ar.
By powring blood on blood?
Di.
By quenching fire
Of high revenge, with base unmanly blood;
By stopping of our Fathers cureless wounds
(Which still bleed fresh in our vex'd memories)
With the proud flesh of him that butcher'd ours.
Ar.
We know he lives not that has slain our Father:
Or, if he lives, tis where I cannot reach him:
He nere saw English harbour since his sword
Unfortunately had the better of my father.
Di.
But his son lives.
Ar.
Good sister cool thy passion
With reasonable means.
Di.
O where's the spirit
That my slain father had. Have you no part of't?
Must I now play the Man, whilst you inherit
Onely my Mothers puling disposition?
Ar.
I know thy drift, good sister Dionisia,
Is not unto revenge, or blood; but to stir up
Some motion in me, to prevent the danger
A sad retiredness may bring upon me.
Di.
Bee't as you think it, so you will abroad;
And make the house no longer dark with sighing.
Ent. Rafe
3
Ra.
Newes worth your hearing,
Meerly to laugh at: Good for nothing else.
Di.
Is the old Ruffian tane, and hang'd, that slew
My Father; or his son Brain-battered; or
His Daughter made a prostitute to shame?
Ar.
How merciless are your wishes!
Ra.
Lady, no.
But as I was hankring at an ordinary,
In quest of a new Master (for this, here,
Will never last to a new livory
'Less he were merrier) I heard the bravest noise
Of Laughter at a wicked accident
Of Marriage, that was chopt up this Morning.
Di.
What marriage? Quickly.
Ra.
Who do you think
Has married fair Mistris Millicent?
Di.
Theophilus (I can name him, though his father
Was fatal unto mine) was sure to her.
Ra.
Yes, but without a Priest. She has slipt his hold,
And is made fast enough unto another,
For which fine Mr. The. so whines and chafes,
And hangs the head! More then he would do
For's father, were he hanged, as you did wish
For laughing newes eene now. Ther's sport for you.
Di.
It does me good to hear of any cross
That may torment their family. I wish
Joy to the man that did beguile him of her
What ere he be.
Ar.
But who has married her?
Ra.
Thence springs the jest. Old Mr. Quicksands, Sir,
The bottomless devourer of young Gentlemen;
He that has liv'd, till past three-score, a batcheler,
By three-score i'the hundred; he that has
Undone by Mortgages and under-buyings
So many Gentlemen, that they all despair'd
4
Ar.
But where's your Jest?
Ra.
The Jest is, that they now have found that means
(As they suppose) by making of him Cuckold.
They are laying their heads together in every corner,
Contriving of his horns, and drinking healths
To the success. And there were sport for you now,
If you were any body.
Ar.
I'le abroad however.
Di.
That's nobly said. Take courage with you Brother.
Ar.
And yet me thinks I know not how to look
The wide world in the face, thus on the sudden
I would fain get abroad, yet be unknown.
Ra.
For that Sir (look you) I have here, by chance,
A false beard which I borrowed, with a purpose
To ha' worn't and put a jest upon your sadness.
Ar.
Does it do well with me?
Ar. puts on the beard.
Ra.
You'l never have
One of your own so good: you look like Hector.
Ar.
Go fetch my sword and follow me.
Di.
Be sure you carry a strict eye o're his actions,
And bring me a true account.
Ra.
I warrant you Mistriss.
Di.
Do, and I'le love thee everlastingly.
Why, now you are my brother.
Ar.
Farewel Sister.
Exit. Ar. Ra.
Di.
I hope he has some stratagem a foot
In our revenge to make his honour good:
It is not grief can quit a fathers blood.
Exit.
| The English Moor, or The Mock-Marriage | |