 | The Heire |  |
Pol.
Roscio.
Ro.
My Lord.
Pol.
Hast thou divulg'd the newes
That my sonne dy'd at Athens.
Ros.
Yes my Lord,
With euery circumstance, the time, the place,
And manner of his death; that it is beleeu'd
And told for newes with as much confidence
As if twere writ in Gallobelgicus.
Pol.
That's well, that's very well, now Roscio
Followes my part, I must expresse a griefe
Not vsuall, not like a well left heire
For his dead father, or a lusty Widdow
For her old husband, must I counterfeit,
But in a deeper, a farre deeper straine
Weepe like a Father for his onely sonne,
Is not that hard to doe, ha, Roscio?
Ro.
Oh no my Lord,
Not for your skill, has not your Lordship seene
A player personate Ieronimo?
Pol.
By th'masse tis true, I haue seen the knaue paint griefe
In such a liuely colour, that for false
And acted passion he has drawne true teares
From the spectators eyes, Ladyes in the boxes
Kept time with sighes, and teares to his sad accents
As had he truely bin the new man he seemd.
Well then Ile neere dispaire; but tell me thou
Thou that hast still beene priuy to my bosome,
How will this proiect take?
Rarely my Lord,
Euen now my thinkes, I see your Lordships house
Haunted with suitors of the noblest ranke,
And my yong Lady your supposed Heire
Tir'd more with woing then the Grecian Queene
In the long absence of her wandring Lord.
There's not a ruinous nobility
In all this kingdome, but conceiues a hope
Now to rebuild his fortunes on this match.
Pol.
Those are not they I looke for, no, my nets
Are spread for other game, the rich and greedy
Those that haue wealth enough, yet gape for more
They are for me,
Ros.
Others will come my Lord,
All sorts of fish will presse vpon your nets,
Then in your Lordships wisedome it must lie
To cull the great ones, and reiect the frie.
Pol.
Nay feare not that, there's none shall haue accesse
To see my daughter, or to speake to her,
But such as I approue, and ayme to catch.
Ro.
The iest will be, my Lord, when you shall see
How your aspiring suitors will put on
The face of greatnesse, and bely their fortunes
Consume themselues in shew, wasting like Marchants
Their present wealth in rigging a fayre ship
For some ill venture de voyage, that vndoes vm.
Here comes a youth with letters from the Court,
Bought of some fauourite at such a price
As will for euer sinke him, yet alas
Aall's to no purpose, he must loose the prize.
Pol.
This was a iest well thought of, the conceit
Will feed me fat, with sport that it shall make,
Besides the large aduentures it brings home
Vnto my daughter. How now.
enter seruant
Ser.
My Lord, Count Virro is come to see you.
Pol.
Conduct him in; So, so, it takes already
See Roscio see, this is the very man
My proiect aymd at, the rich Count that knowes
There was no other loadstone could attract
His Iron heart, for could beauty haue mou'd him,
Nature has beene no niggard to my girle,
But I must to my griefe, here comes the Count.
Enter Count Virro.
Vir.
Is your Lord a sleepe?
Ro.
No Sir.
I thinke not, my Lord, Count Virro.
Uir.
How doe you Sir.
Pol.
I do intreat your Lordship pardon, my griefe
and some want of sleepe haue made mee at this time vnmannerly,
not fit to entertaine guests of your worth.
Vir.
Alas Sir I know your griefe.
Ro.
Twas that that fetcht you hither.
aside.
Vir.
Y'haue lost a worthy and a hopefull sonne,
But heauen that alwayes giues, will sometimes take
And that the best, there is no balsome left vs
To cure such wounds as these but patience,
There's no disputing with the acts of heauen,
But if there were, in what could you accuse
Those powers that else haue beene so liberall to you,
And left you yet one comfort in your age:
A faire and vertuous daughter.
Ros.
Now it beginnes.
Vir.
Your blood is not extinct, nor your age childlesse,
from that fayre branch thats left may come much fruite to
glad posteritie, thinke on that my Lord.
Pol.
Nay heauen forbid I should repine at what the
Iustice of those powers ordaine, it has pleasd
Them to confine my care onely to one, and to
See her well bestowd is all the comfort I now
Must looke for, but if it had pleasd heauen that
My sonne, ah my Eugenio.
he weepes.
Vir.
Alas good Gentleman.
Ros.
Fore heauen he does it rarely.
Vir,
But Sir, remember your selfe, remember your
Daughter, let not your griefe for the dead make
Depend vpon your safety.
Pol.
Oh my good Lord, you neuer had a soone.
Ros.
Vnlesse they were bastards, and for them no
Doubt but he has done as other Lords do.
Pol.
And therefore cannot tell what tis to loose
A sonne, a good sonne, and an onely sonne.
Vir.
I would, my Lord, I could as well redresse
A's I can take compassion of your griefe
You should soone finde an ease.
Pol.
Pray Pardon me my Lord, if I forget my selfe toward
you at this time, if it please you visite my house ofter
you shall be welcome.
Vir.
You would faine sleepe my Lord, Ile take my leaue
heauen send you comfort, I shall make bold shortly to
visite you.
Pol.
You shall be wondrous welcome,
Wait on my Lord out there.
exit Virro.
So now he's gone, how thinkst thou Roscio,
Will not this Gudgeon bite?
Ro.
No doubt my Lord,
So faire a bayte would catch a cunning fish.
Po.
And such a one is he, he euer lou'd
The beauty of my girle, but thats not it
Can draw the earth bred thoughts of his grosse soule
Gold is the God of his idolatry,
With hope of which Ile feed him, till at length
I make him fasten, and Ixion like
For his lou'd Iuno graspe an empty clowd.
Ros.
How stands my yong Lady affected to him.
Pol.
There's all the difficulty, we must win her to loue
him, I doubt the peeuish Gyrle will thinke him too
old, he's well neere threescore: in this businesse I must
leaue somewhat to thy wit and care, prayse him beyond
all measure.
Ros.
Your Lordship euer found me trusty.
Pol.
If thou effect it, I will make thee happy.
exeunt
Enter Philocles, Clerimont.
Eugenios sister then is the rich heire
By his decease.
Cler.
Yes, and the faire one too,
She needs no glosse that fortune can set on her,
Her beauty of it selfe were prize enough
To make a king turne begger for.
Phil.
Hoy day,
What in loue Clerimont, I lay my life tis so,
Thou couldst not praise her with such passion else.
Cler.
I know not, but I slept well enough last night,
But if thou sawst her once, I would not giue
A farthing for thy life, I tell thee Philocles
One sight of her would make thee cry, ay me,
Sigh, and looke pale, me thinkes I do imagine
How like an Idolatrous louer thou wouldst looke
Through the eye-lids, know no body.
Phi.
Tis very well, but how did your worship scape
Youe haue seene her.
Cler.
True, but I haue an
Antidote, and I can teach it thee.
Phi.
When
I haue need on't Ile desire it.
Cler.
And twill
Be worth thy learning, when thou shalt see the
Tyranny of that same seuruy boy, and what fooles
He makes of vs; shall I describe the beast?
Phi.
What beast?
Cler.
A louer.
Phi.
Doe.
Cler.
Then to be briefe, I will passe ouer the opinion of
your ancient fathers, as likewise those strange Loues spoken
of in the Authenticke histories of chiualrie Amadis
du Gaule, Parismus, the Knight of the Sunne, or the witty
Knight Don Quixot de la Manca, where those braue men,
neither Enchantments, Gyants, Wind-mils, nor flockes of
sheepe could vanquish, are made the trophyes of tryumphing
loue.
Phi.
Prithee come to the matter.
Cler.
Neither will I mention the complaints of Sir Guy
for the faire Phelis, nor the trauels of Parismus for the loue
of the beautious Laurana, nor lastly, the most sad pennance
of the ingenious knight Don Quixot vpon the mountains
of Scienna Morenna, moou'd by the vniust disdaine of the
Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, as for our moderne Authors, I
treatise of Tullies Loue, written by the Master of Art.
Phi.
I would thou wouldest passe ouer this passing ouer
of Authors, and speake thine owne iudgement.
Cler.
Why then to be briefe, I thinke a Louer lookes
like an Asse.
Phi.
I can describe him better then so my selfe, he lookes
like a man that had sitten vp at Cards all night, or a stale
Drunkard wakened in the middest of his sleepe.
Cler.
But Philocles, I would not haue thee see this Lady,
she has a bewitching looke.
Phi.
How darest thou venture man, what strange medicine
hast thou found, Ouid neere taught it thee, I doubt I
guesse thy remedy, for loue, goe to a bawdy house or so, ist
not?
Cler.
Faith, and that's a good way I can tell you,
we yonger brothers are beholding to it, alas wee must not
fall in loue and choose whom wee like best, wee haue no
Ioyntures for vm, as you blest heires can haue.
Phi.
Well I haue found you Sir, and prithee tell me, how
got'st thou Wenches?
Cler.
Why I can want no Panders, I lye in the Constables
house.
Phi.
And there you may whoore by authority,
That thou so praisest, is some ilfauoured Wench
Whom thou wouldst haue me laugh at for commending.
Cler.
By heauen I spoke in earnest, trust your eyes,
Ile shew you her.
Phi.
How canst thou doe it?
Thou know'st this Ladies father is to mine
A deadly enemy, nor is his house,
Open to any of our kindred.
Cler.
That's no matter,
My lodging's the next doore to this Lords house,
And my backe Window lookes into his Garden,
There euery morning faire Leucothoe,
(For so I heare her nam'd) walking alone,
To please her senses makes Aurora blush,
To see on brighter then her there appeare.
Phi.
Well I will see her then.
Exeunt.
Franc.
Yet for her sake be aduised better Sir,
Frank.
Impudent Rascall, canst looke me i'th face,
And know how thou hast wrong'd me, thou hast
Dishonoured my Daughter, made a whoore on her.
Franc.
Gentle Sir,
The wrong my loue has made to your faire Daughter
Tis now too late to wish vndone againe,
But if you please, it may be yet clos'd vp
Without dishonour, I will marry her.
Frank.
Marry her, she has a hot catch of that, marry a
Begger, what Iointure canst thou make her?
Franc.
Sir I am poore I must confesse,
Fortune has blest you better, but I sweare
By all things that can bind, twas not your wealth
Was the foundation of my true built loue,
It was her single vncompounded selfe,
Her selfe without addition that I lou'd,
Which shall for euer in my sight outweigh
All other womens fortunes, and themselues,
And were I great, as great as I could wish
My selfe for her aduancement, no such barre
As Fortunes inequality should stand
Betwixt our loues.
Luce.
Good Father heare me.
Frank.
Dost thou not blush to call me father, Strumpet
Ile make thee an example.
Luce.
But heare me
Sir, my shame will be your owne.
Frank.
No more I say, Francisco leaue my house, I charge
You come not heere.
Franc.
I must obey and will,
Deare Luce be constant.
Luce.
Till death
Exit Francisco.
Frank.
Here's a fine wedding towards, the
Bridegroome when he comes for his bride,
Passion a me minion, how haue you hid it so long?
Luc.
Fearing your anger Sir, I striu'd to hide it.
Frank.
Hide it one day more then, or be damn'd,
Hide it till Shallow be married to thee,
And then let him do his worst.
Lu.
Sir I should too much wrong him.
Frank.
Wrong him, there bee great Ladies haue done
'the like, tis no newes to see a bride with childe.
Lu.
Good Sir.
Frank.
Then be wise, lay the child to him, he's a rich
man, tother's a beggar.
Lu.
I dare not Sir.
Frank.
Do it I say, and he shall father it.
Lu.
He knowes he neuer touch me Sir.
Frank.
Thats all one, lay it to him, weele out face him
tis his: but harke, he is comming, I heare the Musicke,
sweare thou wilt doe thy best to make him thinke tis his,
sweare quickly.
Lu.
I doe.
Frank.
Go step aside, and come when thy que is, thou
shalt heare vs talke.
Luce aside.
Enter Shallow with Musicke.
Sha.
Morrow Father.
Frank.
Sonne bridegroome
welcome, you haue beene lookt for here.
Sha.
My Tayler a little disappointed me, but is my
Bride ready.
Frank.
Yes long ago, but you and I will talke a little,
send in your Musicke.
Sha.
Go wait within, and tell me father, did she not
Thinke it long till I came.
Frank,
I warrant
Her she did, she loues, you not a little.
Sha.
Nay that I dare sweare, she has giuen me many
Tasts of her affection.
Frank.
What before you
Were marryed.
Sha.
I meane, in the way
Of honesty father.
Fran.
Nay that I doubt,
Yong wits loue to be trying, and to say
Truth, I see not how a woman can deny a man
Of your youth and person vpon those tearmes,
Shal.
I haue kist
Her or so.
Fran.
Come, come, I know you are no
Foole, I should thinke you a very Asse, nay I tell
You plainely, I should be loth to marry my
Daughter to you if I thought you had not tride
Her in so long acquaintance, but you haue tride
Her, and she poore soule could not deny you.
Sha.
Ha ha hæ.
Frank.
Faith tell me sonne, tis but a
Merry question, she's yours.
Sha.
Vpon my
Virginity father.
Frank.
Sweare not by that,
Ile nere beleeue you.
Sha.
Why then as I am
A Gentleman I neuer did it that I remember.
Frank.
That you remember, oh ist thereabouts.
Luc.
Heele take it vpon him presently.
Frank.
You haue beene so familiar with her,
You haue forgot the times, but did you neuer
Come in halfe fudled, and then in a kinde humour,
Cætera quis nescit.
Sha.
Indeed I was wont to serue my mothers maides
so when I came halfe foxt as you sayd, and then next morning
I should laugh to my selfe.
Frank.
Why there it goes, I thought to haue chid
you sonne Shallow, I knew what you had done, tis
too apparant, I would not haue people take notice of
it pray God she hide her great belly as she goes to Church
to day.
Sha.
Why father is she with child?
Frank.
As if you knew not that, fie, fie, leaue your dissembling
now.
Sha.
Sure it cannot be mine.
Frank.
How's this, you would not make my daughter
a whore, would you? this is but to try if you can stirre
my choller, your wits haue strange trickes, do things ouer
night when you are merry, and then deny vm. But stay,
here she comes alone, step aside, she shall not seevs,
they step aside.
Lu.
Ah my deare Shallow, thou needst not haue made
Such hast, my heart thou knowest was firme enough
To thee, but I may blame my owne fond loue,
Shal.
She's with child indeed, it swels,
Fran.
You would not beleeue me, tis a good wench,
She does it handsomely.
Luc.
But yet I know if
Thou hadst bin thy selfe, thou wouldst neere haue
Offered it, twas drinke that made thee.
Shal.
Yes sure, I was drunke when I did it, for I had
Forgot it, I lay my life twill proue a girle
Because twas got in drinke.
Lu.
I am ashamd to see any body.
Frank.
Alas poore wretch, go comfort her, Luce.
Shal.
Sweet heart, nay neuer bee ashamd, I was a little
too hasty, but Ile make thee amends, weele bee marryed
presently.
Fran.
Be cheery Luce, you were man and wife before,
it wanted but the ceremony of the Church, and that shall
be presently done.
Shal.
I I, sweet heart, as soone as may be.
Frank.
But now I thinke ont sonne Shallow, your wedding
must not now be publicke, as we entended it.
Shal.
Why so?
Frank.
Because I would not haue people take notice of
this fault, weele go to Church, onely we three, the Minister
and the Cleark, thats witnesses enough, so the time being
vnknowne, people will thinke you were marryed before.
Shal.
But will it stand with my worship to be married
in priuate.
Frank.
Yes, yes, the greatest do it, when they haue bene
nibling before hand, there is no other way to saue your
brides credite.
Shal.
Come lets about it presently.
Frank.
This is closd vp beyond our wishes.
Exeunt, manet Luce.
Luc.
I am vndone, vnlesse, thy wit Francisco,
Can find some meanes to free me from this foole,
Who would haue thought the sot could be so grosse
To take vpon him what he neuer did,
And I must loose no time, for I am dead,
If not deliuered from this loathed bed.
| The Heire | |