 | Adrasta : or, the Womans Spleene, And Loves Conqvest |  |
Actus 4.
Scena 1.
Enter Althea and Camilla disguis'd like Shepheardesses.Althea.
The day growes hot, and with the climing Sunne
That mounts to th'height of noone, our cares doe flie
Drawne on by feare and griefe, to deep despaire.
Lets rest under this shade until the finding Ray a little hath withdrawne
it selfe.
Cam.
And gladly too, for I am as weary of travell, as I am of a
Shepheards life.
Alth.
I Camilla, the desire of being publike is the disease of our
Sex: we thinke the Countries free breathing spaciousnesse a prison,
where the losse of libertie is the want of company. But if
there were one of us, whose contents were not without her, she
would shun that common concurse of eyes, as she does the opinion
of deformity; and perceive that the best perfectiō had no greater
enemy than publike aspects.
Cam.
This is forc'd now, and favours not of your temper and
womans seasoning, to hold Paradoxes against nature, and opinions
opposite to our owne feelings. 'Sprecious Madam, if Nature
fram'd us to please, how can we please where's none to be pleas'd
but Beasts and Birds, whose apprehension was ne'r made capable
of proportion, and therefore regard it not.
And therefore condemne us of unnaturalnesse, that
when beauty was equally shar'd 'twixt them and us, they respect
it as it is; whil'st wee, blinded by reasonable sense; conceive it the
richest gift Heaven could give, study it above the soule, and equall
to life, tho it meerly touch our outsides, as clothes doe.
Cam.
Nay deare Mistris, let's talke a little now like our selves
like women; and tell mee whether an excellent Qualitie forc'd
from operation, or a rare peece of worke held from sight, bee not
a wrong to the Author, as well as the thing? O they were fowly
deceiv'd that sought perfection in a Nunnery!
Alth.
Thats the errour of our ambition, that while wee take
our ayme at admiration, by publikenesse and common flattery, we
misse that repute among the wisest, which our beauties not prostituted
would infallibly merit; because every thing, though lesse
perfect, yet lesse common, is more admired, as we see in the Sunne
and a Comet.
Cam.
You are Bookish still: and Ile stand to it yet, there's no
woman but loves them both: and therefore being naturall to our
Sex, why should it bee tearmed unnaturalnesse in us, to cherish
beautie, or wish the perfection of civill mens amiable societie,
when that ever begets love, and love is ever secōded with flattery.
I like a Wench that's pure mettall, and spirit, and the very soule
of her kinde; that when a Lord wantons her, will forsake her
home, give off her father and competent meanes to the poore of
the Parish; stick to the City, like a Prodigall to the Counter, that
cannot be drawne out by all the friends, he has; lives clearely by
her wits, yet reasonable honest too and all to be flatter'd.
Alth.
Such Camilla be the disgrace of their Sex: whose appetites
change with varietie; and taint the generall name of women
with the vicious note of inconstancy.
Camill.
That's the folly of men, to terme inconstancie vicious
in us, for were they not so prone to wrong us, they would ne'r
expect it, but know that to bee too constant to them, were to bee
too disloyall to our selves, which I hope ne'r came nigh a womans
wit.
Alth.
Yet it is the perfection of vertue to lose by the exercise.
Cam.
By the pleasures of change, I sweare this constancy is a
mortall sinne, and not a vertue in any of us.
Alth.
A sinne! and mortall!
A sinn, and most mortall, because most against nature, and
brings many of us to lead Apes in Hell. To lose the sweets of
youth, the very Nectar of Nature, and frustrate the end of our
Creation; can this be lesse than a mortall sinne?
Alth.
'Tis a worke of merit, and they be Saints worthy to have
their names written upon the Altar of Chastity. 'Tis belov'd of
Heaven, and sometimes fortunately rewarded here.
Cam.
As for example—
Alth.
My selfe you meane.
Camill.
I am no Divine, spight of the time I must speake my
thoughts.
Alth.
Why then 'tis I,
Althea.
Why then 'tis you: would any woman breathing, that
had her 5 senses, and no red head, no blew lips nor raw Nose, no
desperate fortunes, nor crackt reputatiō, but walk'd upright in the
face of the world, and in the Aprill of her age, so devote her selfe
to one, that she must undergoe these miseries, when by renouncing
him, shee may underlie so many commodities? To turne Savage
here, and hold conference with none but hils and sheepe, when
she might have variety of fashions, wits, and breathes to Court
her at home. I protest I would love over a whole Play-house of
Gallants first.
Alth,
I could be angry with thee Camilla, for Ile first be treacherous
to my owne soule, ere buy content or kingdomes with
perfidiousnesse.
Cam.
God reward you, for man will never.
Alth.
Vertue is rich, and rewards it selfe: and if my wrongs
merit Lucilios safetie, Heaven redouble 'hem.
Enter Micale like a Shepherdesse with a Bottle and a Bagg.
Mic.
Now Micale thou hast the sight of them,
And art already 'spy'd; cast out the baite.
Alth.
What is shee? Sure some voluntary occasion has driven
her this way.
Cam.
'Tis some Camelion perhaps, that lives upon the breath
of newes, and comes to intelligence us here.
Mic.
What, no salute! methinkes the furious heate
Should make 'hem soone inquisitive to know
What I came laden with into these Mountaines,
I have a Liquor here to quench their thirst,
Physick to purge them from their loving humours,
And that aspiring minde that does invest
Altheas hopes within a Duchesse stile.
She sits downe and plucks out her Viands.
Cam.
Faith Mistris my stomack takes this for an invitation, I
have a great appetite to be acquainted with the honest Shepherdesse,
for I am dry at heart, though my teeth water.
Alth.
Yet be not impudent, invite not thy selfe.
Cam.
Why no, I shall doe as custome and fashion forces us in
wooing, forbeare and be coy, look to be invited and pray'd, when
we be ready to starve: Ile to her & dine, that's past resolving—
Come will you goe?
Alth.
Not I.
Cam.
Your reason?
Alth.
Because I have none to goe.
Cam.
Nor I to stay—Shepherdesse proface: I thinke your
feast be neither gluttonous nor miserable, that thus you make it in
the sight of heaven.
Mic.
'Tis the Countries priviledge faire Shepherdesse to shun
both: will't please you sit and eate?
Cam.
Your kindnesse makes mee presume, yet I feare to be over
bold.
Mic.
Command and try, these Hill-Inhabitants dissemble not.
Cam.
I have a melancholy friend here by, whom discontent
makes scarce sociable: yet perhaps company & your Bottle would
infuse a little spirit, and make a Sunshine on her thoughts.
Mic.
You are too blame if you left her then, solenesse feeds melancholy:
please you we goe and sit with her?
Cam.
That were to trouble your kindnesse.
Mic.
Nay you mistake me then, methinks Shepheards should
not know these Court complements, more then that does the
Countries honesty.
They rise and goe to Althea.
Cam.
Come, rouze your selfe, and meet a banquet that comes
freely to you.
I cannot eate.
Mic.
Why then you cannot live.
Alth.
And therefore I cannot eate, because I cannot live.
Mic.
Yet strengthen Nature, and out-live sorrow.
Alth.
'Twere Tytius plague, to renew strength for griefe to
feed on.
Mic.
And to let sorrow keepe you fasting were to starve with
Tantalus.
Alth.
A hard choise for me the while.
Cam.
Vertuous constancy; thou art belov'd of Heaven, and
fortunately rewarded.
Alth.
Peace good Eccho.
Mic.
Come Nymph, you must bee joviall, these love griefes
availe you nothing: men perhaps laugh at 'hem.
Cam.
Why true: here's a health and wisedome to you
Alth.
Both to your selfe, I am not sick.
Mic.
Pledge her faire Nymph.
Cam.
See what a company of religious fooles wee maides bee,
to sigh and hang the head for ere a rough-hewne-stubble cheeke
on 'hem all, when a Crab-fac'd Cynick, that has neither land nor
hansomnesse, will scoffe at affection, and say hee knowes foure
Wenches, who if they were stampt and strain'd, so, that he might
draw out the vertue of one, the beauty of another, the witty good
nature of a third, and the Portion of a fourth; he could make a reasonable
good Wife for ere a yonger brother in the land.
Mic.
By Pan but such a wife would right well fit a Worshipfull
Heire.
Cam.
Nay that were pity faith, then fooles should trouble two
houses. Come will you take your Liquor?
Alth.
good Spirit leave thy tempting: my heart growes cold
and pants, as if it did presage some fatall ill stood nigh me.
Mic.
These be the dreames of love: here take a draught, and
waken imagination, fancy is strong with you.
Alth.
I thinke so too; pray heaven it be no more.
Mic.
Great Brimo, shall our labour be frustrate!
Ile frame a lye shall make her hang her selfe
For griefe, since poyson failes—yet taste a little,
The Citie yeelds no better Cordiall to banish feares.
Alth.
I cannot drinke—were you in the City late?
Mic.
I was, and saw a heavy spectacle,
The Dukes sole Heire, who taking the disguise
Of Treason, was throwne downe from off the Rock,
And, by the priviledge of Law that gives
Our Virgins leave to pleade and dye conceal'd,
Vntill his Funerall, was still unknowne.
Since when, the Duke to satisfie the wrath
His ignorance had bred by such a losse
Vnto the State, has burnt the guiltlesse mother
Of that young Lady, persecutes her Kinne,
Raced their ancient House, and vowes the death
Of her, who yet is fled, and none knowes where.
Alth.
Oh—
She sownes.
Mic.
Are you poyson'd with a lie?—What ailes you Lasse?
What fainting?
Alth.
I am not well; good Shepheardesse
Leave us a while; I thanke thee for her meate,
But the Sawce comes worse than poyson to my breast.
Mic.
Then fare you well: I am sorry to have bin the Messinger
of that afflicts you—and kils not presently,
aside.
Although I hope this lie proves to thy heart,
Poyson more ranke then ere was us'd by Art.
exit Micale.
Alth.
O we have liv'd too long Camilla, and
Out-slept the houre in which wee should have dyed,
Plagues, guilt and mischiefe have o'rtaken us,
Because we slack'd, and would not quit the world
To rest in pure white Tombs of innocence,
Cam.
I feare some of us shall recompence our sloth too soone,
for I am wondrous ill.
Alth.
Poore wench, these newes have wounded thee.
Cam.
Not to dissemble, no: but from the Wine
I tasted of the Bottle, went a cold
Through every veine, that settling at my heart,
Shuts up the passages of life, and fils
The Organs of my powers with such a frost
As kils the spirits that should harbour it.
Alth.
Does Hell conspire with envy then to persecute
Our misery? and sent some fiend to take
That shape, that ne'r till now did shrow'd so foule a sin.
My soule growes faint and weary of her house,
And Death claimes right in all my Vitall parts:
Help me Althea! help me Mistris!
Or bury me at least, and close mine eyes,
Death is the best—
Camilla dies.
Alth.
Of all lifes miseries.
She rubs her to get life.
Dead—starke dead—
It is not much I aske the Angry heavens,
Lend but my wits to die, I crave no more;
Or if you have a further punishment
Reserv'd, be milde, and hurle it quickly on mee
With its full weight—Poore wench, I have no tooles
To breake the earth, nor meanes to burie thee:
Thou hast not kill'd a Mother, nor a Prince,
Nor beene the ruine of thy Family;
Is't such a guilt to beare me company,
That thou must dye, and want what Homicides,
And Malefactors finde?—a grave! Here take
This Scarfe, Lucilio was wont to weare it;
Tell him thou hast it for thy Shrowd, and I
Am gone to meet him, and have onely begg'd
A truce with fatall mischiefe, whilst I hie,
That where hee dyed, there I may likewise die.
Poore soule farewell.
exit.
Enter Damon and Arminio two Shepherds. Laurinda a Shepherdesse with greene Strewings.
Dam.
Come, hands to worke, it is the Festivall
Of our Silvanus, we must round entrench
The place fittest for dancing.
Laur.
And strew the bankes
On which the Summer Lord and Lady sit
To see the sports, with these rich spoyls of May.
Arm.
Our Shepherds will be frolicke then, and lose
No Ceremony of their ancient mirth.
Dam.
I like 'hem well: the curious precisenesse
And all-pretended gravities of those
That sought these ancient harmlesse sports to banish,
Armin.
I doe beleeve you: 'tis the exercise
Of such, only to seeme, and to be thought,
What they are not, holy. They keep the feast
Of our great Pan, with more than needfull strictnesse,
And take upon 'hem to bee great oath-haters,
When all is but dissembling, and their Devotions
Like Witches charmes, disguis'd with seeming good
To beare out wickednesse.
Dam.
Then they have reason, for they that live by showes must
paint faire.
Lau.
Alas, what's here? a Shepherdesse asleep!
Dam.
Sweet benefit of our life, to whom a Turfe gives a more
secure sleep, than a Palace doth a Monarch.
Laur.
But this is death, not sleep.
Arm.
Why then shee's absolutely blest: Nature has given her
an acquitance from the reckonings of fortune and miserie.
Laur.
We must in charity bury her.
Dam.
To your Tooles then, we can doe no lesse: though it bee
Scarce in fashion now to be charitable.
They digg the Grave.
Laur.
Fashion is a Traviller, and Shepheards cannot follow it.
Arm.
I Laurinda, it travels into all Nations the world o'r.
Laur.
And therefore should goe round.
Dam.
And therefore does goe round, blindfold, like a Mill-Horse,
who thinkes he goes forward, yet keeps his course circular.
But now Laurinda what further Ceremony can you devise
for this Funerall? poore haplesse Coarse!
Laur.
To mourne for we know not whom, and when peradventure
death was the beginning of her happinesse, were to abuse
our selves, and be sorry she could be no longer miserable.
Ile strow my flowers on her Virgin Hearse,
And rob another Meddow for the sports,
The place affords no other Ceremony.
Arm.
Yes, wee must have a Countrey Song for her farewell
from the earth, and welcome to the earth.
Laur.
Ile doe my best, though it bee unseasonable to sing at
burials.
Poore Wench, even in the flower of her age! although
I knew thee not, yet for thy memory Ile change with thee—
Your hand Arminio.
They take her up and bury her.
Song.
Laur.
Die, die, ah die!
Wee all must die:
'Tis Fates decree,
Then aske not why.
When we were fram'd the Fates consultedly
Did make this law, That all things borne should die.
Yet Nature strove
And did denie
We should be slaves
To Destinie:
At which they heapt
Such miserie
That Natures selfe
Did wish to die:
And thanks their goodnesse that they would foresee
To end our cares with such a milde Decree.
—Farewell and sleep for ever.
Enter Antonio disguised.
Ant.
'Tis too late, I have miss'd him, and all my labour's lost.
Speed you shepheards and your worke.
Armin.
Sir, you are welcome, but our sad worke is sped already,
and so are they for whom we worke.
Ant.
Why is it sad then if both be sure of speeding?
Because Sir the bestspeed our labour can have, is the sad
end of their life for whom we worke. We have buried the dead.
Anton.
'Tis well that Charity is not runne the Countrey then.
But whom have you buried?
Armin.
One doubtlesse as unfortunate as unknowne, a stranger
sure in these parts, and as shee seem'd, a maid: further particulars
we know not: but pittying shee should want a buriall, as we
came by and saw her dead, we gave her that which earth denies
to no misfortune, a poore grave.
Dam.
And tooke from off her face this Scarfe, bless'd with the
last kisse her dying lips could give.
Anton.
O my apprehensive soule!
He catches the Scarfe.
Dam.
What meane you Sir? doe you know it?
Anton.
I too too well. Poore Lord that wont'st to weare
This Relique, which is now left for an Index
Grant me thus much and bestow it on me.
Dam.
Faith Sir since I perceive you long for it, you shall prevaile:
and if shee were of your acquaintance, keepe it as a monument
of her untimely death. So fare you well Sir.
Exeunt Shepheards.
Anton.
Too timelesse death that kill'd two hearts in one!
And now Lucilio, where ere thou liv'st,
Here we may joyntly finish both our labours,
Since here lies bury'd all thy hopes and feares.
Too vertuous maid Althea! could the earth
Yeeld thee no better place to enshrine thee in.
Yet can its basenesse never dimme thy name,
That shall be sung into posterity
By a whole race of Virgins, and thy Fame
Shall be a Tombe more durable to thee
Then Brasse or Marble. So farewell Althea!
Ile straight returne this newes to thy sad mother,
That shee may give with some solemnities
Thy unhappy death its latest exequies.
exit.
Lucil.
Slave to affliction, that must still pursue
The shadowes of my hopes, clasping the windes
To feed the hunger of my discontent,
And set aloft by greatnesse, stand expos'd
To every clap of Fortunes thundering,
Still banish'd from the sight of sweet content
That sits below me. Had my birth but bin
As free from height as from ambition:
I might have slept under a silent roofe,
And eate securely of a Countrey Feast,
Bound to no Ceremonious pathes of State,
Nor forc'd to torture mine affections,
Or chaine them till they sterve to some deform'd
Remedy of love, and change our lives content
For a bare title, that forsooth must come
To edge a line of words, and make our names swell
To fill th'ambitious thirst of greedy age—
How easily could I forget my selfe
By looking still upon thee, honest habit!
And could I finde her, whom the tyrannie
Of love hath made mee seeke, I would not tread
So many weary steps back for a Dukedome.
exit.
Enter Page disguised as before, and Master Frailware.
Page.
Now Master Constable, how like you this project? Doe I
not draw all things to the life?
Frail.
Excellent Boy! for a searching braine thou mightst have
made a Head-borrough.
Page.
What an ambidextrous shaver have I got to doe the
feate?
Fra.
Can he draw teeth I wonder?
Page.
I, who doubts it? 'tis the semi-sphere of his Profession:
why doe you aske?
Frail.
because I would have this hatefull Stoiks two rowes of
teeth drawne, for trespassing at my Table.
You'll save nothing by that, for the want of teeth will
make him come the oftner to your wifes White-broth, her Marrow,
and Eringoes, who will likewise cram him up with Potatoes,
Oysters, metamorphis'd Mushromes, and such like self-swallowing
provocatives, that will runne down his throate as glibbie, as your
pils of Butter, and make as much haste into his Belly, as they will
make out againe into hers.
Frail.
How thou doest charge my head with scruples!
Page.
No; the way to destroy all fundamentall reference betweene
him and your wife hereafter, and to spoyle him for ever
giving fresh sappe unto your hornes, let his offensive member be
now lopt off, before the Sunne enters the Ramme.
Frail.
And what then Boy?
Page.
Why when we have reduc'd him to this impotent state,
we will straight divest him, and trusse him up naked in a Wheele-barrow,
and send him home in the posture of an innocent, with
his hands cleaving to the outsides of his knees, and his nose betweene
his two Thumbes.
Fra.
Content; and wee'll goe pawne his clothes the while, and
be drunke with the money.
Page.
Stay, this is a little two Tragicall, now I thinke on't:
wee'll spare his wifes night-peece for her sake, till the next conjunction—
Harke—our Checkerman has him by the Poll already: now
Master Constable stand close to your revenge, dissemble a feare
a while, wee shall be summon'd straight.
They step aside.
Enter one disguised like a Devill Barber pulling forth Damasippus by the Beard.
Bar.
Come out you unpoll'd Stoick, 'tis time you had the curtesie
of my Razer.
Dam.
Good sir, I need it not.
Bar.
I'll force it on you sir: as I am Pluto's Barber in Ordinary
I will trimme you, come, I long to doe it, therefore sit downe, and
make your Beard ready for dissection—wee must have help I see;
Constable come hither, come I say, and feare not, but doe your
you trembling slave come helpe.
Page.
I come, I come sir.
Frail.
Damasippus I command you to sit in the devils name.
They set him in a Chaire.
Bar.
So, hold him there. Now Damasippus before my mortall
Razer seize your morall Beard, what can you say to save it?
Dam.
Oh sir, it is an Ornament and speciall gravity belonging
to our Sect.
Barb.
Impossible that haire should argue wit; I rather thinke
it does ecclipse a good disputative face, and makes you look more
like a Travelling Greeke, then an Italian Stoick.
Dam.
Yet for Antiquitie-sake spare me these haires that never
yet were cut.
Barb.
How! Nunquam tondenti Barba cadebat?
Damas.
Never since 'twas a Beard sir, it is yet tipt with the
Downe, the reliques of my youth, and in a primitive state.
Barb.
Why then sir the antiquitie of this your primitive Beard
showes you to have beene a ranke enemy to our Profession.
Dam.
Why sir, I kept it for that end that Nature gave it, as a
garment to cloathe the face of age in winter.
Bar.
Yet know Damasippus, tho it keep your face lukewarme,
then; it breeds a frost in your Liver, devours the radicall humour
of your body, and endangers you to a Consumption: But in Summer,
especially the Dog-dayes, such a Dung-mix of haire, and vast
foregrowne Beard as this, were enough to keepe your Chin sweating,
nine dayes together, and turne every haire of these to
Snakes.
Page.
Most devillishly argu'd.
Barb.
Now Saturne, Vertumnus, and the god of Sheep-sheare
guide my hand—
He cuts off his Beard.
Dam.
Oh, oh—
Barb.
Hold, I have almost done.
Page.
Shave him close.
Fra.
And wash him too in Lethe-water,
that he may forget his way to my house.
Barb.
So, let him rise.
Frail.
Why this was quickly done.
Page.
And valiantly suffer'd.
Barb.
Now Damasippus, in hope that you'll heareafter bee a
Page.
Nor Fidler I.
Fra.
Would I could cast my head too.
Dam.
O you damn'd Villaines! have you betraid mee thus to
shame and horrour!
Bar.
Be not angry Damasippus: now the Antependium of your
face is off, you have a more Sibiline aspect a great deale.
Page.
True, hee lookes now just like a Goose return'd out of
an inchaunted hole without her feathers.
Dam.
Iust Nemesis inspire me with revenge
That these unlectur'd miscreants may drinke
Of the like Cup.
Frailw.
Wee have already Damasippus, our wives have mingled
it.
Page.
And you have both tasted of the horne of abundance—
Bar.
That your heads may be exalted like a brace of Bucks—
Frail.
According to moralitie vertuous Damasippus.
exeunt.
Enter Lady Iulia weeping, and Assassino: shee brings the Scarfe Antonio carried out.
Iul.
Thou art dearly welcome good Assassino:
Now cease to wonder why I sent for thee;
I had a daughter once, Assassino,
A comfort to mine age, life to my veines,
A living Image of her fathers vertues,
Faire, modest, and which is halfe monstrous
In these polluted times, inwardly chaste:
I doe remember such a one I had.
Ass.
And have still Madam, for rumour sayes she lives.
Iul.
No, no, poore Girle, rumour has oft bely'd her.
Seest thou this Scarfe?
Assas.
I Madam, what of that?
Iul.
And doe'st not see the letters writ in blood,
That tell me she is dead, murdred, and on
The Mountaines bury'd in obscure contempt?
Assas.
Madam not I,
Iul.
Why no, I thought as much.
But looke Assassino, if thou hadst felt
Seene an appalling sight would make thee tremble,
Or through the spectacles of love didst view
A losse as deare as heaven, thou wouldst discerne
These bloody Characters, and meet her pale Ghost
In every slumber, begging with silent showes
And deep fetch'd groanes a mothers slow revenge.
Assas.
Good Madam, I am sorry for it—
Iul.
Then to recount the wrongs, the infamy
Heapt on her youth, when by most trecherous plots.
Shee was attaint of murder, and became
The marke for every vulgar tongue to spit
Slander and treason on her faire report;
And last her undeserv'd imprisonment—
Assas.
By heavens 'twas a foule abuse; what wer't best to doe?
Iul.
And now to force her flie her dearest Countrey,
Friends, hopes, contents, twixt opposite love and hate,
To live in obscure exile, poore, forlorne,
Suspitious still of death, and flying that,
To wade each houre deep into misery,
To meet another death before her, and sinke
Vnder the double hand of murder, not
Into a Tombe, but a poore Mountaine grave,
No rites nor obsequies at her interment;
Buried without a teare, unpitied, unrespected.
Assas.
'Fore Heaven Madam I would revenge it.
Jul.
My soule Assassino labours for revenge;
Yet I'm a woman, and can sprinkle them
But with a few salt teares, and curse, and pray,
Which is a weake foundation for my revenge
To climbe and over-looke them.
Assa.
You have friends: call in the enemie, & mutine.
Iul.
That's full of hazzard, for a peace being sworne,
The enterprize may make them happier.
Vs still more miserable: But if my griefe
Were arm'd with such a hand, as would o'rturne
The frame of all those hopes for which they sweate,
And spurne that in the dust, which they would raise
With hatefull deeds, up to the point of state:
Which now afflicts my carefull widdowhood,
Know what it were to lose a childe, sole comfort
Of their declining yeares, and send their a-
Ged Coarses to the grave, hopelesse of issue.
Assas.
To make away the Prince; 'tis that you meane,
Iul.
Thou art within me already?
And mark Assassino how easie 'tis,
Since time, occasion, travaile, and his solenesse,
Thy selfe not knowne, gives advantagious meanes
To second thine attempt: doe but resolve
And Fate will straight resolve to second thee
In such a righteous and just revenge.
Assas.
Madam the enterprise is dangerous,
And though I have a daring spirit that bids
Mee undertake the deep'st attempts of blood
For your revenge, and in so just a quarrell,
Yet must you thinke the danger I shall passe
Cannot but highly merit recompence.
Jul.
Vow't; & propose the summe; my House, my Purse,
My Meanes, and whatsoe'r is mine is thine:
Be bold and faithfull, Ile ever hold thee deare,
Call thee our Houses Champion, and the hand
Of heaven's justice mark'd to punish sinne,
And plague the guilty thoughts of tyranny.
Ass.
But Madam the report of his passage is so obscure,
That I can hardly learne which way hee tooke.
Iul.
I have dogg'd the rumour of his journey, and can
Exactly informe thee, come take directions,
And gold to furnish thee.
Assas.
Then I resolv't;
And he shall die.
Iul.
Now thou dost powre fresh youth
Vpon my haires, newly reviv'st my soule,
Put'st spirits to my heart dry'd up with sighes,
And mak'st fresh blood traverse my empty veines,
For the sweet'st heaven the spleenes of women finde
Is full revenge to our aggrieved minde.
Exeunt.
Alast.
It's strange I heare not from the Prince, nor Antonio,
who promis'd to meet mee here, where I have now stay'd three
dayes in expectance, and had the winde bin faire, must have pass'd
for Greece—'Fore Heaven it's a gallant thing to be a Lord,
if but in name, you shall be so applauded in every vanitie, scurrill
jest, and impious action: A Satten Thersites that stalks among the
Pesants like the Stork that Iupiter sent among the frogs, will so
bend and bow to your little Toe, fawne and protest your excellencies;
Si bene ructavit—Si rectum minxit—I would I
had the faith that some have, I would never be unlorded againe.
'Fore Heaven I must begin to fawne, and get my selfe created:
This service done for the Prince is a good step to it.
Now Captaine, the winde's unconstant still, every where save
where to steed us.
Cap.
Womanish my Lord, womanish.
Alast.
Indeed their levity has gotten them now that Simile
appropriated.
Cap.
But they shew'd other Cards before they wonne it too.
Alast.
Nay, that's enough i'faith.
Cap.
Yet they had more.
Alast.
As what!
Cap.
Why their tongues, which fill houses, as the bustling of
Windes doe Climates: they overturne Families, and States, as
winds doe Trees, Towres, Ships. And for your diversitie of winds
you have your diversitie of women: for your whirlewindes that
claspe and carry a thing in the ayre, till it fall dasht to peeces; you
have of your Females that will claspe and beare you, till at your
next fall you will thinke one peece will scarce hang by another. For
your freezing windes, you have them that will breed such a frost
in your bones, that change of weather will make 'hem as rotten
as the ground after a sudden thaw: And for your blitting and
burning windes, you have of them too, that will blast and scorch
sixteene points in the Card, where the winde can be unprofitable
to a man: but a woman has for the most part, the whole compasse
of her Card unprofitable, which containes two and thirty points
at least.
Alast.
Then the Grāmarians methinkes did ill to make Ventus
of the Masculine Gender.
Cap.
The Grāmarians my Lord were meere Schollers, & meere
Schollers be meere fooles, and meere fooles are easily deceiv'd in
matter of Gendring.
Alast.
Impossible sir, they couple Genders by Booke.
Capt.
Right my Lord: so they all study Riders Dictionary, and
therefore become excellent Horsemen,
Enter Navarchus a Master of a Ship.
Navar.
Newes from Court to your Grace; a stiffe robustious
Letter-Carrier makes much inquiry where he may be delivered
of some matters he has beene in travaile withall.
Alast.
Cozenage and dissimulation help me, it's impossible to
scape discovering. D'sfoote I must walke stately, looke scornfully,
talke simply, and be Noble at all points now. But it fals out something
fortunately to be in the Evening: let him have entrance.
Enter Assassino disguised.
Assas.
Health to your Grace.
Alast.
As much to them that bring it: how fare our friends at
Court?
Assa.
As wanting no part of welfare but your wish'd presence.
Alast.
Have you ought to impart that concerns us?
Assas.
I have my Lord, and must have private conference with
your Grace.
Alast.
Attend us then on the Litto, where Ile presently meete
you, and take this soft Evening breath.
Assas.
Heaven, Ayre, Place, Time, and all will fit thy death.
Alast.
By Iove methinks I begin to be my Craftes-Master and
Lord it handsomely. If it were as easie for a Villaine to be a Lord,
as a Lord to be a villaine, I would write noble instantly: get mee
a Herald for seven shillings, or a frowne to forsweare himselfe,
and draw my Pedigree as deep as Romulus. Captaine, as the wind
serves, either on the Litto, or at my Lodging.
exit.
Wee will attend your Grace.
Nav.
'Tis strange that such a personage should thus obscurely
travell.
Capt.
Tush Navarchus, our common-wealth is among fishes,
and our pollicie with the windes, and therefore no marvell if
Courtiers tricks savour not on our palats.
Navar.
Yet fearing disgrace above damnation, and loving a
popular esteeme more then heaven; methinkes obscuritie should
fright 'hem.
Capt.
Faith no; for you shall have a Courtier of the first Velvet
head, when the tide runnes low, and in a place unknowne, will familiarly
turne you to his old trade, accoutre his palfrey most neatly,
and thanke obscurity for drowning the unfit honour hee had
lately slipt on and off.
Navar.
'Tis a disease indeed they have, to feele no touch of future
honour, nor taste any thing more than what lies before
'hem.
Capt.
Tut, they be wise in that, for their conception being precipitate,
and their births rash, they knew their glories birth would
bee like the flies I have seene by a River in Ægypt, that begin to
live in the morning, are at full age by noone, and die before Sunne
set: and therefore their honour feeds like mothes upon apparell,
and objects meerly present—flashes—flashes.
Navar.
But such an imputation cannot staine his honor, whose
graine taken in the die of a Dukes blood, stands immaculate spight
of all fortunes.
Capt.
'Tis true, and therefore peradvanture parsimony invites
him to this obscuritie, for Ile assure you, that to be miserable, and
not fight, are growne to be two right honourable qualities,—
Enter a Shipman.
Shipm.
Captaine, you stand talking here of a Cock and a Bull,
while our rich fare is gone another way.
Capt.
Who? my Lord the Prince?
Shipm.
I your Lord the Prince.
Navar.
Which way, for profits sake?
Shipm.
That way that many Lords doe for profits sake: downwards,
downwards.
Cap.
Prethee speake not in enigmas; be understood.
In plaine Dagger termes the Prince is slaine.
Navar.
D'foot 'tis sharp newes.
Capt.
By whom?
Shipm.
Why, that swart Rutter that brought the message from
Court, delivered it in such keene termes, that it went to his heart:
& when he had done, tumbled him off the Litto into the water to
catch Whitings. But two Merchants spying it, rais'd the people
and tooke him, and now the Governour is gone a fishing after the
Body.
Cap.
Tis amazes mee, done so suddenly.
Shipm.
Death's a quick Carver when he comes in that shape.
Navar.
Who set him on sayes he?
Shipm.
Some valiant Squire or other, who is yet unknowne, nor
will the Governour urge the knowledge, but sends him back to
Court, that the Duke may take notice of all.
Cap.
Come, lets to the Litto, and set our helps to find the Body.
Both.
Content.
Exeunt
| Adrasta : or, the Womans Spleene, And Loves Conqvest | |