 | The Jealous Lovers |  |
SCEN. X.
Tyndarus, Evadne.Tyn.
Lady be safe.
Evad.
Sir, may this favour done
An injur'd maid call blessings on your head
In plenteous showres!
Tyn.
This courtesie deserves
Some fair requitall.
Evad.
May plum'd victory
Wait on your sword: and if you have a mistresse,
May she be fair as lilies, and as chaste
As the sweet morning dew that loads the heads
Of drooping flowres: may you have fair children
To propagate your vertues to posterity
And blesse succeeding times.—
Tyn.
Heaven be not deaf!
Evad.
May you and plenty never live asunder.
Peace make your bed,—and—
Tyn.
Prayer is cheap reward.
And nothing now bought at a rate so easie
As that same highway ware.—Heaven blesse your worship.
In plain words Lady (I can use no language
But what is blunt) I must do what they would ha' done.
Evad.
Call back your words, and lose not that reward
Heaven is ingag'd to pay you.
Tyn.
Come: no circumstance.
Your answer? quick.
Evad.
I beg it on my knees,
Have a respect to your own soul, that sinks
In this dishonour, Sir, as deep as mine.
Tyn.
You are discourteous, Lady!
Evad.
Let these teares
Plead for me: did you rescue me from theeves,
To rob me of the jewell you preserv'd?
Tyn.
Why do I trifle time away in begging
That may command.—Proud Damsel, I will force thee.
Evad.
I thank thee blest occasion:—Now I dare
She snatches a stilletto out of his pocket.
Defy thee devil: here is that shall keep
My chastity secure, and arm a maid,
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Tyn.
Be not too masculine, Lady.
Evad.
Stand off, or I will search my heart with this,
And force my bloud a passage, that in anger
Shall flie into thy face, and tell thee boldly
Thou art a villain.
Tyn.
Incomparable Lady!
By all those powers that the blest-men adore,
And the worst fear, I have no black designe
Upon your honour; onely as a souldier
I did desire to prove whether my sword
Had a deserving cause: I would be loth
To quarrell for light ware. Now I have found you
Full weight, I'le weare his life upon my point
That injures so much goodnesse.
Evad.
You speak honour.
Tyn.
Blest be this minute, sanctifie it, Time,
'Bove all thy calendar. Now I finde her gold.
This touchstone gives her perfect. The discovery
Of ne're found kingdomes, where the plow turns up
Rich oare in every furrow, is to this
A poore successe. Now all my doubts are clear'd,
And I dare boldly say, Be happy Tyndarus!
| The Jealous Lovers | |