University of Virginia Library

Scena quarta.

Enter Varina.
Var.
Now should I be intrapt in my own Gin,
Whom should I blame, but only my false heart?
Should that unkindnesse dropping from my pen,
Extinguish quite poor Roderiquez flame,
On whom should I disgorge my troubled stomach,
But on my selfe? 'tis pretty to consider
How I expose my selfe unto a wound,
To make another bleed.—

Enter Rodriguez.
Rod.
Pardon, sweet Damsell, this my bold intrusion,
Urg'd not by rude behaviour, but by love.

Var.
Sir, you're a stranger; but if it be void
Of ill intent, your pardon's quickly seal'd.

Rod.
If that to evidence the true affection
I alwayes bare unto your noble self,
Be ill intent, then my accesse is conscious.

Var.
To court me with your love, Sir, it is strange,
I'm a poor Orphan, one whom Fate decreed
To hang my Fortunes on anothers girdle,
Time sure hath prov'd himselfe a cunning Artist,
That in so short a space could frame a subject
For your affection; 'tis not long agoe
My eyes tooke their first notice of you.

Rod.
Time,
Is not that cunning Artist, but your vertues,
Which through the winding convex of my ears,
Convey'd their winding admiration to my heart,
'Tis not your means, sweet Lady, but your love
That I now covet: For your guardians favour,
I weigh it little, so you'l grant me yours:
Throw not those angry fire-balls of thy eyes
Upon me who am Touch-wood, left I here
Moulder to ashes; bid them that they keep
Fast their Artillery; 'tis your milder beams,
Those rayes of favour that we now request.

Var.
Though I am conscious of no demerits
Residing in me, that might claim these praises,
These pick-thanks of your tongue, I think my selfe
Too good to entertain a scornfull jeer;
For honours sake forbear't.

Rod.
Wretched mistake!
That you should once conceive my heart could lodge
The least base thought that's Traytor to your honor!

Var.
But hear me, Sir, Once walking with my Nurse
For recreation in our shady groves,
She told me her prophetick spirit fear'd
Some false One would betray me to his love,
And to my ruine.

Rod.
If 'twas me she meant,
The Sibyll lyed.

Var.
Howe're, it breeds suspition.

Rod.
What demonstration of my zealous faith
Can this your incredulity exact?
Shall I contend in combat with the Lion?
Or else affront the ugly foaming Boar?
What is't that I shall doe? Speak, and 'tis done:
Shall I betake my self to th'Russian Fields
Ith' midst of Winter, where my faithfull blood
May freeze to Corall, and my sad laments,
Congeal with th'aire? Shall I devote my selfe
A sacrifice to Ætna, or to Neptune?
Shall I atchieve to fetch the golden fruit
From th'scaly Dragon? pluck fell Cerberus out
From's stinking den? These, or a thousand more,
I'll doe at your command.

Var.
To promise, Sir,
Is easie, when performance lags behind.

Rod.
'S your heart so prepossest, that there's no room,
No corner left to hold one grain of faith?

Var.
I'll try your love; here, take this, drink it off.
(gives him wine)
Leave not one drop i'th' bottom of the cup.

Rod.
What e're it be, I'll banish feare and do't.

(drinks.)
Var.
Is't off?

Rod.
It is.

Var.
Then know that thou art poyson'd.
This is that draught which to Ulysses mates,
In stead of drink sage Circe did extend;
'Tis venoms quintessence, rank poyson.

Rod.
Poyson?

Var.
Yea, poyson! not the ugly Toad includes
Worse venome then that potion.

Rod.
Methinks,
I feel no alteration in my blood.

Var.
I know that too. Th'time for its operation
Is not yet come; some sev'n hours hence, and then
A deadly fire raging within thy breast,
Shall make thy Arteries crack, and tear thy nerves:
An Iron girdle shall not hold thy body
It shall so swell with this envenom'd draught.

Rod.
Alas! good Lady, you much fail i'th' end
For which you practise this; you plot my torture
By fear of death, alas! you doe mistake,
My love shall own you for her greatest friend:
For thus to live, deprived of your love,
Is worse ten thousand times then death it selfe.
Then, thank you for this cruell courtesie,
I will not stile you cruel, or hard hearted,
But pitifull, a kind and loving Lady,
And so will limb your vertues to the life:
This kindness chalenges my best respects;
First, that you fix a period to my flames:
Next, that I dye a sacrifice to you.

Var.
What? Art thou glad to die, and proud to fall
A victime by my hands?

Rod.
Your victime, Lady!

Var.
Do not dissemble, in the heav'nly Quire
There's no permission for an hypocrite
To be a Chorister; do not palliate
Th'internall thoughts with such Hypocrisie.

Rod.
I scorn the Title of an Hypocrite,
I liv'd your Lover, and will dye your Martyr.

Var.
Then am I sorry for my cruel act.
There, take thou that, and work thine own revenge
(gives a bodkin.)
While time permits.

Rod.
It shall not be, sweet Lady.
First, should these eyes behold these wretched hands
Pluck forth my entrals: should my harmlesse soul
When 'tis transported over Charons, passage,
But have intelligence that you were injur'd.
It would return, and kill your enemy.

Var.
What needs a further triall of thy love?
Then know, that draught I gave thee was not poyson,
But is as cordiall as th'Hyblæan Nectar.

Rod.
This is beyond the fadome of my weak
Conception's, that you durst expose your life
To one, whom you (for ought he knew) had injur'd.

Var.
I durst expos't to thee, I knew thy hart,
Forgive me now the rude assault I made
Upon thy patience: here accept my hand,
My heart, my love, 'tis all thine own.

Rod.
This gift
Is more to me then th'Orientall Empire,
Which lies embroider'd with earths chiefest treasure,
Pactolus, nor proud Tagus cannot bring
So rich a Present to their native Prince,
As is Varina's love: Alas! one kisse
Stoln from her lips, is worth th'Grand-Signiors bliss.

Exeunt.