 | The Jealous Lovers |  |
SCEN. III.
Ballio, Techmessa.Ball.
There is besides revenge a kinde of sweetnesse
In acting mischief. I could hug my head,
And kisse the brain that hatches such deare rogueries,
Such loving loving rogueries.—Silly Pamphilus,
With thine own sword I'le kill thee, and then trample
On the poore foolish carcase. Techmessa here?
Then fortune wait on my designes, and crown 'um
With a successe as high as they deserve.
Tech.
Me thinks sometimes I view my Pamphilus
Cloth'd Angel-like in white, and spotlesse robes,
And straight upon a sudden my chang'd fancy
Presents him black and horrid, all a stain,
More loathsome then a leper.
Ball.
And that fancy
Presents him in his likenesse. All the sinks
And common shores in Thebes are cleanly to him.
Tech.
Peace, thou foul tongue.
Ball.
Nay, if you be so squeamish,
I ha' no womanish itch to prate.—Farewell.
Tech.
Nay, do not leave me unresolv'd, good Ballio.
Ball.
Why, I did set you out in more vile colours
Then ever cunning pencill us'd to limbe,
Witch, hag, or fury with.
Tech.
Thou couldst not do't,
And live.
Ball.
I am no ghost, flesh and bloud still.
22
And such as might do service to the State,
Made into halters: that you had a brow
Hung o're your eyes like flie-flaps: that your eyes
Were like two powdring-tubs, either running o're,
Or full of standing brine: your cheeks were sunk
So low and hollow, they might serve the boyes
For cherripits.—
Tech.
Could Pamphilus heare all this,
And not his bloud turn choler?
Ball.
This? and more.
I said your nose was like a hunters horn,
And stood so bending up a man might hang
His hat upon't: that I mistook the yeare,
And alwayes thought it Winter, when I saw
Two icicles at your nostrils.
Tech.
Have I lost
All woman, that I can with patience heare
My self thus injur'd?
Ball.
I could beat my self
For speaking it, but 'twas to sound him, Madam.
I said you had no neck: your chin and shoulders
Were so good friends, they would ha' nothing part 'um:
I vow'd your breasts, for colour and proportion,
Were like a writheld pair of o'reworn footballs:
Your waste was slender, but th' ambitious buttock
Climbes up so high about, who sees you naked
Might sweare you had been born with a vardingal.
Tech.
I am e'ne frighted with thy strange description.
Ball.
I left, asham'd and weary: he goes on,
There be more chops and wrinckles in her lips,
Then on the earth in heat of Dog-dayes: and her teeth
Look like an old park-pale: She has a tongue
Would make the deaf man blesse his imperfection
That frees him from the plague of so much noise:
And such a breath (heaven shield us) as out-vies
The shambles and bear-garden for a sent.
Tech.
Was ever such a fury?
Ball.
For your shoulders,
He thinks they were ordain'd to underprop
Some beam o'th' Temple, and that's all the use
Religion can make of you: Then your feet,
23
He vowes they both are cloven.
Tech.
Had all malice
Dwelt in one tongue, it could not scandall more.
Is this the man adores me as his saint?
And payes his morning orisons at my window
Duly as at the Temple? Is there such hypocrisie
In loves religion too? Are Venus doves
But white dissemblers? Is this that Pamphilus
That shakes and trembles at a frown of mine,
More then at thunder? I must have more argument
Of his apostasie, or suspect you false.
Ball.
Whose sword is this?
Tech.
'Tis his. And this I tied
About the hilt, and heard him sweare to fight
Under those colours, the most faithfull souldier
The fields of Mars or tents of Cupid knew.
False men, resigne your arms. Let us go forth
Like bands of Amazons: for your valours be
Not upright fortitude, but treacherie.
Ball.
I urg'd him in a language of that boldnesse,
As would have fir'd the chillest veins in Thebes,
To stand in your defence, or els resigne
The fruitlesse steel he wore. He bid me take it.
He had not so much of Knight errant in him,
To vow himself champion to such a doxie.
Tech.
Then Love, I shoot thy arrows back again,
Return 'um to thy quiver, guide thy arm
To wound a breast will say the dart is welcome,
And kisse the golden pile. I am possest
With a just anger, Pamphilus shall know
My scorn as high as his.
Ball.
Bravely resolv'd.
Madam, report not me to Pamphilus
Authour of this: for valour should not talk,
And fortitude would loose it self in words.
Tech.
I need no other witnesse then his sword.
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