University of Virginia Library

Scena tertia

Albertus, Newman.
Newm.
A pox upon her fir, and for her sake,
On all good faces; must you sigh and whine,
And make a face worse then a zealous drunkard
Does o're dead mustie wine, because she is beauteous:
We Souldiers doe not use to ingender with
A phisnomy, nor as the learned terme it,
Co-habit with a handsome nose or lip,
There are some parts beneath the waste I take it,
More usefull for a man of Armes.

Alber.
Good Colonell,
No more of this.

Newm.
Should I aske you
The reason why you love her, you must answer;
'Tis for the sport (as for what other reason
Women were made, unlesse to prick upon
A clout, or starch, transcends my best Philosophy)
And for that purpose, a short coat frister,
That as she milkes each morning,
Bedewes the coole grasse with her Virgin moisture,
As usefull is and active (sounder far
That's certaine granted) pray, my Lord, remember
Shee's but your mothers Gentlewoman, and whom perhaps
The Butler has oftener folded up, then ere
He did his table linne one.

Alber.
No more, you'l anger me.

Newm.
No more, you'l anger me agen then: we Imps of Mars,
Should know no other mistresses, then what the Camp contains,
I nere durst love ith' field, (marry in the Citie.
I've had copulation with all trades) but one poor sutlers wife, &
She as faire too, as was the kettle which she boyl'd her beefe in,
O how the sweet smell of her amber greace
And kitchin-stuffe perfum'd my greedy nostrils,
Yet on this beauty doted I (inspir'd by insurrection of the flesh)
And gave her to cuckol'd the good corporall her husband.

Int. Isabella.

Ten comely dollers, and the divell take her, she
paid me with a pox. But see, here comes the Lady of the Lake,
for whom you good sir Lancelot make these lamentations; be
not you bashfull now, but fall on boldly heart, let me drill her
for you, if her body be under Musket proofe, 'tis ten to one my
morris pike shall enter. to her, to her.

Exit Newm.
Isabel.
Surpriz'd by him alone, O my just feares.

Albert.
Why, cruell faire one, should you shun his sight,
Whose very soule moves in your eyes, of why
Should your blest voyce, speake health to all the world,
Yet threaten death to me: look on my youth,
My hopefull youth, which in the active war,
Has taught old Souldiers discipline: behold it
Nipt by the cold frost of your icie beauty,
As in a feaver languishing to nothing,
Forgetfull of the noble pride and strength,
It has so lately boasted, 'tis injust
To see me still over my foes victorious,
Made by my selfe your captive, to insult
Over your suppliant vassaile, would those eyes,
Which can contract lights orbe into a glance,
Become impoverish'd by a smile, those cheekes
Sully their native tincture, should they blush
At your mindes cruelty, 'twould rather adde
To the illustrious excellence.

Isabel.
My noble Lord.

Albert.
Stay, you must not speake yet,
There's not an accent issuing from your lips,
But has the power, should thunder speak, to charme,
To peacefull quiet the affrighted, the world,
And would strike dumbe my passion: best of Virgins
There is not the disparity 'twixt our births,
As there's inequall difference 'twixt our hearts;
Mine's all on fire, dare combat with the Sun
For heats priority, yours Mountaine snow,
Cold as the north, and cruell as my fortunes:
Yet you may make them equall as your eyes are,
By yeelding up that fort, which will, when time
Has given it ceremonious priviledge, be perhaps
By some unworthy groome, without resistance
Surpriz'd and entred.

Isabel.
My Lord, bad custome is become
In men a second nature to deceive
Poore Virgins by their flatteries; noble youth,
That I doe love you dearely, may these teares,
Shed for your folly testifie: looke backe
Into your princelesse honour, call that up
To assist the fortresse of your minde assail'd
By foule unlawfull passion: thinke how base 'tis,
To rob a silly Orphan of her dowry;
I have no other but my Virgin whitenesse,
Left to uphold my fame, nought but my vertue
To my inheritance; should you dispoile me
Of that faire portion by your lust, my memory,
Would like an early Rose bud by that tempest,
Dye on its owne stalke blasted.

Albert.
I doe dreame sure.

Isabel.
Womens fames sir,
Are like thin Chrystall glasses, by a breath
Blowne into excellent forme, and by a touch,
Crackt or quite broken: say I should consent
To your desires, your appetite once sated,
You would repent the fact, when you should see
Your selfe surrounded in a mist of cares,
View bashfull Virgins point at you, as at
Some hatefull prodigie; heare matrons cry,
There goes the lustfull thiefe, that glories in
The spoyle of innocent Virgins, that foule thiefe,
That has a hundred eyes to let lust in at,
As many tongues to give his wild thoughts utterance.

Albert.
Sure some Angell inhabits here,
This cannot be a Mansion
For mortall frailty: sweet farewell, good night,
I would not have my over-sawcie love,
Commit a rude intrusion on thy peace,
Though parting with thee be more torment to me,
Then to forgoe mine eyes; may all the joyes
Of healthfull slumbers crowne thy bed, thy dreames
Be free from paraphrasing on my memory,
Lest it affright you; once more, Deare, good night,
While you with pleasing happy sleeps are blest,
I'le seeke some way to my eternall rest.

Exeunt.