University of Virginia Library

Scena Prima.

Fiducia, Nigretta.
Nig.
Had ever Lady such a sore disaster?
And she, poore soule, how patiently she takes it!
You never heare her storme nor curse, as I
By this good light should doe, were her case mine;
She onely weepes the losse of Bellamour,
Not mentioning what she her selfe's to loose,
Her life; and what she hath already lost,
Her reputation; but gladded seemes
She shall so soone i'th'other world meete with him,
Where whatsoe're the world shall heere thinke of her,
Or he have thought whilst here deluded; he
Meeting her there, shall know her spotlesse soule,
Which that it might the sooner meete with his
Did e're her noontyde d'off her clayye garments.

Fid.
If there remayne one ounce of worth in mankind
So early she will not disrobbe herselfe.
And were I not assur'd that yet some sparkes
Of fire from heaven descended, did remayne
Within our Corsick's breast (which if there be
Any such heate divine 'twill now breath forth,
And burne to ashes that base slaunderer
Whose venemous tongue durst goe about to blast
Our Mistrisse' honour) I say did I not rest
Secure of this I once would weare the breeches
And not despayre, but woman as I am,
Make him doe penance for so fowle a lye.

Nig.
Nay, were it true,—he does deserve
To be with pinnes and needles done to death,
A blabbe! blisters upon his tongue.
Can he not see others fare well, but he
Must crye out rost meate; a pockes upon him.
He should have beene with me that very night,
I long in vayne expected; but he belike
Was plotting this damn'd treachery, for which
May he live long, and loath'd of all looke on him.

Fid.
May people point at him, may the pockes
Cleave to his bones.

Nig.
Nay, may he never
Know so much pleasure as must precede
That curse.

Fid.
May his desires be longing,
His aym'd at happinesse some piece of flesh
Who hath serv'd 'prentiship in Malta Gallyes.

Nig.
And when he comes t'enjoy this hop't for blisse
May he for disabilitye be kick't downe stayres
And wellcom'd with a brok'n necke to th'bottome.

Fid.
May he be buried in some brothell house.

Nig.
Ä ballet be his epitaph, and that
Sung by some pocky flatt-nos'd whore.

Fid.
May—
But see heere's one will interrupt our wishes.
Enter Messenger.
Whether so fast my friend?

Mess.
For you my payre
Of pretty ones, the King commands you both
Straight make your personal appearance
Before him and his Counsell.

Nig.
What's the matter?
I'm sure neither of us deflour'd his daughter.

Mess.
Having once summon'd you, my errand's done.

Fid.
What e're the matter is we had best t'obey.

(Exeunt.