 | The Princess of Cleve |  |
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Nemours, Bellamore. Fiddles Playing.Nem.
Hold there you Monsieur Devol; prithe leave off playing
fine in Consort, and stick to Time and Tune—So
now the Song, call in the Eunuch; come my pretty
Stallion, Hem and begin.
[I.]
All other Blessings are but ToyesTo his that in his sleep enjoyes,
Who in his Fancy can possess
The object of his Happiness;
The Pleasure's purer for he spares
The Pains, Expenses, and the Cares.
II.
Thus when Adonis got the stone,To Love the Boy still made his moan;
Venus the Queen of Fancy came,
And as he slept she cool'd his flame;
The Fancy charm'd him as he lay,
And Fancy brought the Stone away.
Sirrah, stick to clean Pleasures, deep Sleep, moderate
Wine, sincere Whores, and thou art happy; Now by this damask
Cheek I love thee; keep but this gracious Form of thine in
health, and I'll put thee in the way of living like a man—What
I have trusted thee with—My Love to the Princess of Cleve, Treasure
it as thy Life, nor let the Vidam of Chartres know it; for however
I seem to cherish him, because he has the knack of telling a
Story maliciously, and is a great pretender to Nature, I cast him
off here—'Tis too much for him: Besides he is her Uncle, and
has a sort of affected Honour, that wou'd make him grin to see
me leap her—Hey Jaques—When Madam Tournon comes, bring
her in; and heark you Sir, whoever comes to speak with me,
while she is with me—
Jaq.
What if the Dauphin comes?
Nem.
What if his Father comes, Dog—Slave—Fool! What if
Paris were a fire, the President and Council of sixteen at the door!
I'm sick, I'm not within—I'm a hundred mile off—My bosom
Dear—So young, and yet I trust thee too—But away, to the
Princess of Cleve, thou art acquainted with her Women, watch
her Motions, my sweet-fac'd Pimp, and bring me word of her
rising.
Bell.
She is a prize, my Lord, and oh what a night of pleasure
has Cleve had with her—the first too!
Nem.
Any thing but what makes such a pleasure, wou'd I give
for such another—But be gone, and no more of this provoking
discourse, lest Ravishing shou'd follow thee at the heels, and
spoil my sober design.
Exeunt severally.
Enter Tournon, La March.
Jaq.
Madam, my Lord was just now asking for you.
Tour.
Go tell him I'm coming—Is he dress'd?
Jaq.
Yes—But your Ladiship knows that's all one to him—
Tour.
Honest Jaques, 'tis pity such. Honesty should not be encourag'd—
Jaq.
This comes of Pimping, which she calls Honesty.
Exit. Jaq.
Tour.
Thus thou mayst see the method of the Queen—We are
the lucky Sieves, where fond men trust their Hearts, and so she
sists 'em through us—
La M.
What of Nemours, whom you thus early visit?
The Queen designs to rob him of a Mistress, Marguerite
the Princess of Janvill, whom he keeps from the knowledge of
the Court; and if the Queen be a Judge, is contracted to her—
Who works the Court quite round by Womankind,
And thinks this way to mould his supple Soul,
Resolves, if possible, to gain her for him.
La M.
But how is't possible to work the Princess from the
Duke Nemours, who loves him as the Queen affects Ambition.
Tour.
Why thus she knows Nemours his Soul is bent
Upon variety, therefore to gain her ends
She has made me Sacrifice my Honour, nay
I'm become his Bawd, and ply him ev'ry day
With some new face, to wean his heart
From Marguerite's Form, nor must you longer be
Without your part.
La M.
Employ me, for you know the Queen commands me.
Tour.
There was a Letter dropt in the Tennis-Court
Out of Nemours his Pocket, as I'm told,
And read last night in the presence—'Tis your Task
Slily to insinuate with Marguerite.
This Note which came from some abandon'd Mistress,
Is certainly the Dukes—
La M.
Then Jealousie's the ground on which you build.
Tour.
Right, we must make 'em jealous of each other; Jealousie
breeds disdain in haughty minds, and so from the extreams
of violent Love, proceeds to fiercest hate. But see
the gay, the brisk, the topping Gallant St. Andre
here, Couzen to Poltrot, who arrived from England
with a pretty Wife last week, and Lodges in the Palace of this
his related Fool—St. Andre has a Wife too of my acquaintance—
Both for the Duke my Dear; but haste I'm call'd—
[Exit La March.
Jaq.
Madam—
Tour.
I go.
[Exit Tournon.
St. A.
Monsieur Jaques, your most obliged faithful humble Servant.
What, his Grace continues the old Trade I see, by the Flux
of Bawds and Whores that choak up his Avenues, and I must
confess, excepting my self, there's no man so built for Whoring
and a stiff—calf of a Leg.
Jaq.
Your Lordship has all these in Perfection.
St. A.
Sir your most faithful obliged humble Servant. Boy—
B.
My Lord—
St. A.
How many Bottles last night?
B.
Five my Lord.
St. A.
Boy.
B.
My Lord.
St. A.
How many Whores?
B.
Six my Lord.
St. A.
Boy—
B.
My Lord.
St. A.
What Quarrels, how many did I kill?
B.
Not one my Lord—But the night before you Hamstrung a
Beadle, and run a Link-man in the Back—
St. A.
What, and no Blood nor Blows last night?
B.
O yes my Lord, now I remember me, you drew upon
a Gentleman that knock'd you down with a Bottle.
St. A.
Not so loud you Urchin, lest I twist your neck round—
Monsieur Jaques is his Grace stirring?
Jaq.
My Lord, he's at Council—
St. A.
Od I beg his Pardon, pray give my duty to him, and
tell him, if he pleased to hear a languishing Air or two, I am at
the Princess of Cleve's with a Serenade—Go Raskal, go to Monsieur
Poltrot—tell him he'll be too late—Black airy shape—but
then Madam Cleve is Vertuous, Chast, Cold—Gad I'll write to
her, and then she's mine directly, for 'tis but reason of course,
that he that has been Yoak'd to so many Dutchesses, should at
last back a Princess: Sir, your most obliged faithful and very
humble Servant Sir.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Nemours, Tournon.Tour.
Undone, undone! will your sinful Grace never give over,
will you never leave Ruining of Bodies and Damning
of Souls—cou'd you imagine that I came for this? What have you
done?
Nem.
No harm, pretty Rogue, no harm, nay, prithee leave blubbering.
Tour.
'Tis blubbering now, plain blubbering, but before you
had your will 'twas another tone; why Madam do you wast
and sets a Gaity on a Face of Sorrow.
Nem.
Thou art certainly the pleasantest of Womankind, and I
the happiest of Men; dear delightful Rogue, let's have another
Main like a winning Gamester, I long to make it t'other hundred
Pound.
Tour.
Inconsiderate horrid Peer, will you Damn your Soul
deeper and deeper, can you be thus insensible of your Crime?
Nem.
Why there's it, I was as a man may be, very dry, and
thou kind Soul, gav'st me a good draught of Drink; now 'tis
strange to me, if a man must be Damn'd for quenching his thirst.
Tour.
Ha, Ha—Well, I'll swear you are such another man—
who wou'd have thought you cou'd delude a Woman thus, and
a Woman of Honour too, that resolv'd so much against it; Ah
my Lord! your Grace has a cunning Tongue.
Nem.
No cunning Tournon, my way is downright, leaving Body,
State and Spirit, all for a pretty Woman, and when gray Hairs,
Gout and Impotence come, no more but this, drink away pain,
and be gathered to my Fathers.
Tour.
Oh thou dissembler, give me your hand, this soft, this
faithless violating hand, Heaven knows what this hand has to
answer for.
Nem.
And for this hand, with these long, white, round, pretty
Bobbins, t'has the kindest gripe, and I so love it, now Gad's
Blessing on't, that's all I say—But come tell me, what no new
Game, for thou knowest I dye directly without variety.
Tour.
Certainly never Woman lov'd like me, who am not satisfied
with sacrificing my own Honour, unless I rob my delights
by undoing others—
Nem.
Come, come, out with it, I see thou art big with some
new Intrigue, and it labours for a vent.
Tour.
What think you of St. Andre's Lady?
Nem.
That I'm in Bed with her, because thou darst befriend me.
Tour.
Nay, there's more—Monsieur Poltrot lodges in his House,
with a young English Wife of the true breed, and the prettier of
the two.
Nem.
Excellent Creature, but command me something extravagant,
as thy kindness, State, Life and Honour.
Yet all this will be lost when you are married to Marguerite.
Nem.
Never, by Heaven I'm thine, with all the heat and vigorous
Inspiration of an unflesh'd Lover—and so will be while
young Limbs and Lechery hold together, and that's a Bond methinks
shou'd last till Doomsday.
Tour.
But do you believe if Marguerite shou'd know—
Nem.
The question's too grave—when and where shall I see
the Gems thou hast in store?
Tour.
By Noon or thereabouts; take a turn in Lunemburg Garden,
and one, if not both, shall meet you.
Nem.
And thou'lt appear in Person?
Tour.
With Colours flying, a Handkerchief held out; and yet
methinks it goes against my Conscience.
Nem.
Away, that serious look has made thee old:
Conscience and Consideration in a young Woman too?
It makes a Bawd of thee before thy time.
Nay, now thou put'st me in Poetick Rapture,
And I must quote Ronsard to punish thee:
Call all your Wives to Council, and prepare
To Tempt, Dissemble, Flatter, Lye and Swear;
To make her mine, use all your utmost skill,
Vertue! An ill-bred crosness in the will;
Honour a Notion, Piety a Cheat,
Prove but successful Bawds and you are great.
Come, thou wilt meet me.
Tour.
'Tis resolv'd I will, till which time, thou dear Man—
Nem.
Thou pretty Woman.
Tour.
Thou very dear Man.
Nem.
Thou very pretty Woman one Kiss.
Tour.
Hey Ho—
Nem.
Now all the Gods go with thee—
Tour.
A word my Lord, you are acquainted with these Fops;
set 'em in the modish way of abusing their Wives, they are turning
already, and that will certainly bring 'em about.
Nem.
Bellamore shall do't with less suspicion: farewell—
Hey Jaques—
Enter Jaques with the Vidam.
Jaq.
Ha! my grave Lord of Chartres, welcome as Health, as Wine,
and taking Whores—and tell me now the bus'ness of the Court.
Vid.
Hold it Nemours for ever at defiance,
Fogs of ill humour, damps of Melancholy,
Stuff it with fulsome Honour—dozing Vertue,
And everlasting dullness husk it round,
Since he that was the Life, the Soul of Pleasure,
Count Rosidore, is dead.
Nem.
Then we may say
Wit was and Satyr is a Carcass now.
I thought his last Debauch wou'd be his Death—
But is it certain?
Vid.
Yes I saw him dust.
I saw the mighty thing a nothing made,
Huddled with Worms, and swept to that cold Den,
Where Kings lye crumbled just like other Men.
Nem.
Nay then let's Rave and Elegize together,
Where Rosidore is now but common clay,
Whom every wiser Emmet bears away,
And lays him up against a Winters day.
He was the Spirit of Wit—and had such an art in guilding his
Failures, that it was hard not to love his Faults: He never spoke
a Witty thing twice, tho to different Persons; his Imperfections
were catching, and his Genius was so Luxuriant, that he was
forc'd to tame it with a Hesitation in his Speech to keep it in
view—But oh how awkard, how insipid, how poor and wretchedly
dull is the imitation of those that have all the affectation of his
Verse and none of his Wit.
Enter Jaques.
Jaq.
My Lord, Monsieur Poltrot desires to kiss your Grace's hand.
Nem.
Let's have him to drive away our Melancholy—
Vid.
I wonder what pleasure you can take in such dull Dogs,
Asses, Fools.
Nem.
But this is a particular Fool Man, Fate's own Fool, and
perhaps it will never hit the like again, he's ever the same thing,
yet always pleasing,; in short, he's a finish'd Fool, and has a fine
Wife; add to this his late leaving the Court of France, and going
to England to learn breeding.
Enter Poltrot.
Pol.
My Lord Duke, your Grace's most obedient humble Servant,
My Lord of Chartres and Monsieur Jaques, yours Monsieur; St. Andre
desires your Grace's presence at a Serenade of mine and his together—And
I must tell your Grace by the way, he is a great Master,
and the fondest thing of my Labours—
And the greatest Oaf in the World.
Pol.
How my Lord—
Vid.
The whole Court wonders you will keep him company.
Nem.
Such a passive Raskal, he had his Shins broke last night
in the Presence, and were it not fear'd you wou'd second him, he
wou'd be kick'd out of all Society.
Pol.
I Second him my Lord, I'll see him Damn'd e'er I'll be
Second to any Fool in Christendom—For to tell your Grace the
truth, I keep him company and lye at his House, because I intend
to lye with his Wife; a trick I learnt since I went into England,
where o'my Conscience Cuckoldom is the Destiny of above half
the Nation.
Nem.
Indeed!
Pol.
O there's not such another Drinking, Scowring, Roaring,
Whoreing Nation in the World—And for little London, to my
knowledge, if a Bill were taken of the weekly Cuckolds, it wou'd
amount to more than the Number of Christnings and Burials put
together.
Vid.
What, and were you acquainted with the Wits?
Pol.
O Lord Sir, I liv'd in the City a whole year together, my
Lord Mayor and I, and the Common-Council were sworn Brothers—I
cou'd sing you twenty Catches and Drolls that I made
for their Feast-days, but at present I'll only hint you one or two—
Nem.
Pray do us the Favour Sir.
Pol.
Why look you Sir, this is one of my chief ones, and I'll
assure your Grace, 'twas much Sung at Court too.
O to Bed to me—to Bed to me—&c.
Nem.
Excellent, incomparable.
Pol.
Why is it not my Lord? This is no Kickshaw, there's substance
in the Air, and weight in the words; nay, I'll give your
Grace a taste of another, the Tune is, let me see—Ay, Ay—
But I'll present your Grace with some words of my own, that I
made on my Wife before I married her, as she sate singing one
day in a low Parlour and playing on the Virginals.
Nem.
For Heavens sake oblige us dear pleasant Creature—
Pol.
I'll swear I'm so ticklish you'll put me out my Lord, for I
am as wanton as any little Bartholomew Bore-Pig—
Vid.
Dear soft delicate Rogue sing.
Nay, I protest my Lord, I vow and swear, but you'll
make me run to a Whore—Lord Sir, what do you mean?
Nem.
Come then begin—
Poltrot.
Sings.
[I]
Phillis is soft, Phillis is plump,And Beauty made up this delicate lump:
Like a Rose bud she looks, like a Lilly she smells,
And her Voice is a Note above sweet Philomel's.
II.
Her Breasts are two Hillocks where Hearts lye and pant,In the Herbage so soft, for a thing that they want;
But Mum Sir for that, tho a notable Jest,
For if I shou'd name it you'd call me a Beast.
Enter St. Andre without his Hat and Wig.
St. A.
My Lord, the Serenade is just begun, and if you don't
come just in the nick—I beg your Grace's Pardon for interrupting
you—But if you have a mind to hear the sweetest Airs in the
World—
Nem.
With all my heart Sir—
Pol.
Nay, since your Grace has put my hand in, I'll sing you
my Lord, before you go, the softest thing—compos'd in the
Nonage of my Muse; yet such a one as our best Authors borrow
from. Nay, I'll be judg'd by your Grace, if they do not steal
their Dying from my Killing—
St. A.
Nay prithee Poltrot thou art so impertinent.
Pol.
No more impertinent than your self Sir, nor do I doubt
Sir, but my Character shall be drawn by the Poets for a Man of
Wit and Sense Sir, as well as your self Sir—
Vid.
Ay I'll be sworn shall it—
Pol.
For I know how to Repartee with the best, to Rally my
Wife, to kick her too if I please Sir, to make Similes as fast as
Hops Sir, tho I lay a dying slap dash Sir, quickly off and quickly
on Sir, and as round as a Hoop Sir—
St. A.
I grant you Dear Bully all this, but let's have your Song
another time, because mine are begun.
Pol.
Nay, look you Dear Rogue, mine is but a Prologue to
your Play, and by your leave his Grace has a mind to hear it, and
he shall hear it Sir—
Ay and will hear it Sir, tho the Great Turk were at
St. Dennis's Gate; come along my Orpheus, and then Sir we'll
follow you to the Prince of Cleve's—
[Exeunt Singing.
SCENE III.
The Prince of Cleve's Palace. Musick.SONG.
[I.]
In a Room for Delight, the Landskip of Love,Like a shady old Lawn
With the Curtains half drawn,
My Love and I lay, in the cool of the day,
Till our Joyes did remove.
II.
So fierce was our Fight, and so smart e'ry stroak,That Love the little Scout
Was put to the Rout;
His Bow was unbent, e'ry Arrow was spent,
And his Quiver all broke.
Enter Vidam, Nemours.
Nem.
I have lost my Letter, and by your Description
It must be that which the Queen read at Court.
But are you sure the Princess of Cleve has seen it?
Vid.
Why are you so concern'd, does your wild Love
Turn that way too—She is too Grave.
Nem.
Too Grave, as if I cou'd not laugh with this, and try
with that, and veer with every gust of Passion—But has she seen it?
Vid.
She has the Letter, the Queen Dauphin sent it her.
Nem.
Then you must own it on occasion, and whatever else I
shall put upon your Person—
Vid.
Why?
Nem.
Lest it shou'd reach the Ears of Marguerite,
For, Oh my Vidam! 'tis such a ranting Devil,
If she believes this Letter mine, when next
We meet, beware my Locks and Eyes—No more,
But this remember that, you own it.
[Exit.
Enter St. Andre and Poltrot.
St. A.
His Bow was unbent, &c.
[Singing with Poltrot.
Come, my Lord, we'll have all over agen.
Vid.
See, we have rais'd the Prince of Cleve:
My Lord, good Morrow—
P. C.
Good morrow my good Lord—Save you my dear Nemours!
Pol.
Give you Joy my Lord: What a little blew under the Eyes,
Ha, Ha—
St. A.
Give you Joy my Lord: Ha, my Lord, Ha.
[Holds up 3 Fing.
Pol.
Ha, my Lord, Ha—
[Holding up five Fingers.
P. C.
You are merry Gentlemen—I am not in the vein,
Therefore, Dear Chartres, take these Fingers hence.
St. A.
My Lord, you look a little heavy, shall we Dance, Sing,
Fence, take the Air, Ride—
Vid.
Come away Sir, the Prince is indispos'd.
St. A.
Gad I remember now I talk of riding, at the Tournament
of Mete, as I was riding the great Horse—
Vid.
Leave off your Lying, and come along.
St. A.
With three pushes of Pike, and six hits of Sword, I
wounded the Duke of Ferrara, Duke of Millain, Duke of Parma,
Prince of Cleve—
P. C.
My Lord, I was not there—
St. A.
My Lord—I beg your Lordships pardon, I meant the
Vidam of Chartres.
Vid.
You Lye, I was then at Rome.
St. A.
My Lord—
Pol.
Ha, Ha—Lord, Lord, how this World is given to Lying!
Ha—Come, come, you're damnably out, come away.
St. A.
My Lord, I beg your pardon, I see you are indispos'd,
besides the Queen oblig'd me this Morning to let 'em choose
Colours for my Complexion—
Vid.
Heark you, will you go or shall I—
[Pulling him off by the Nose.
St. A.
My Friend, my Lord you see, is a little Familiar, but I
am ever your Highness's most humble faithful obedient Servant.
[Exeunt.
Manet P. Cleve.
Full of himself, the happy Man is gone;
Why was not I too cast in such a Mould?
To think like him, or not to think at all.
Had he a Bride like me, Earth wou'd not bear him:
But Oh I wish that it might cover me!
Since Chartres cannot love me: Oh I found it!
Last night I found it in her cold Embraces;
Her Lips too cold—Cold as the Dew of Death:
And still whene'er I prest her in my arms,
I found my Bosom all afloat with Tears.
Princess C.
He weeps, O Heaven! my Lord—the Prince of Cleve.
P. C.
My Life, my Dearest part!
Princess C.
Why Sighs my Lord?
What have I done Sir, thus to discompose you?
P. C.
Nothing.
Princess C.
Ah Sir, there is a Grief within,
And you wou'd hide it from me.
P. C.
Nothing my Chartres, nothing here but Love.
Princess C.
Alas, my Lord, you hide that Secret from me,
Which I must know or think you never lov'd me.
P. C.
Ah Princess! that you lov'd but half so well!
Princess C.
I have it then, you think me Criminal,
And tax my Honour—
P. C.
Oh forbid it Heaven—
But since you press me Madam, let me ask you,
Why when the Princess led you to the Altar,
Why cak'd the Tears upon your Bloodless Face?
Why sigh'd you when your hand was clasp'd with mine?
As if your Heart, your Heart refus'd to joyn.
Princess C.
Ah Sir—
P. C.
Behold, you're dash'd with the remembrance;
Why when my Hopes were fierce, and Joys grew strong,
Why were you carri'd like a Coarse along?
When like a Victim by my side you lay,
Why did you Gasp, why did you Swoon away?
O speak—
You have a Soul so open and so clear,
That if there be a Fault it must appear.
Princess C.
Alas you are not skill'd in Beauties cares,
For Oh! when once the god his Wrath declares;
To make its passage thro the Virgins Heart:
She hides her Wound, and hasting to the Grove,
Scarce whisp'ring to the Winds her conscious Love.
The touch of him she loves she'll not endure,
But Weeps and Bleeds, and strives against the Cure:
So judge of me when any Grief appears,
Believe my Sighs are kind, and trust my Tears.
P. C.
Vanish my Doubts, and Jealousies be gon—
On thy lov'd Bosom let me break my Joy,
O only Sweets that Fill, but never Cloy:
And was it, was it only Virgins fear?
But speak for ever and I'll ever hear.
Repeat, and let the Ecchoes deal it round,
While list'ning Angels bend to catch the Sound;
Nay, Sigh and Weep, drain all thy precious Store,
Be kind, as now, and I'll complain no more.
[Exit.
Princess C.
Was ever Man so worthy to be lov'd,
So good, so gentle, soft a Disposition,
As if no Gaul had mixt with his Creation:
So tender and so fearful to displease,
No barbarous Heart but thine wou'd stop his entrance;
But thou Inhumane banisht him from his own.
And while the Lordly Master lyes without,
[Enter Iren.
Thou Trait'ress, Riotests with a Thief within.
Iren.
Ah Madam, what new Grief!
Princess C.
Alass Iren,
Thou Treasurer of my thoughts—
What shall I do? how shall I chase Nemours,
That Robber, Ravisher of my Repose?
Iren.
For the great care you wish, may I enquire
Whether you think the Duke insensible,
Indifferent to the rest of Woman-kind?
Princess C.
I must confess I did not think him so
Tho now I do—But wou'd give half my Blood
To think him otherwise—
Iren.
Without the Expense,
There take your wish,—a Letter which he dropt
By her Page, and sent to you to read for your Diversion.
Princess C.
Alas! Iren—
Why trembles thus my Hand, why beats my Heart?
But let us Read—
Reads—
Your affection has been divided betwixt me and another, you
are False—a Traytor to the truest Love—never see me more—
Princess C.
Ah 'tis too plain, I thought as much before; but Oh!
we are too apt to excuse the faults of those we love, and fond of
our own undoing.
This stab to all my gather'd Resolution.
Iren.
Read it agen, and call Revenge to aid you.
Princess C.
Perhaps he makes his boast too of the Conquest,
For Oh! my Heart he knows too well, my Passion—
But as thou hast inspir'd me, I'll revenge
The Affront, and cast him from my Poyson'd Breast,
To make him room that merits all my thoughts.
Enter the Prince of Cleve with Nemours.
P. C.
Madam there is a Letter fall'n by accident into your
hands—my Friend comes in behalf of the Vidam of Chartres to
retrieve it, when I am dismiss'd from the King my Lord, I'll wait
you here again.
Nem.
My Lord—
P. C.
Not a step further.
[Exit. P. C.
Nem.
Madam, I come most humbly to enquire, whether the
Dauphin Queen sent you a Letter which the Vidam lost?
Princess C.
Sir, you had better
Find the Queen Dauphin out, tell her the truth,
For she's inform'd the Letter is your own.
Nem.
Ah Madam! I have nothing to confess
In this Affair—or if I had, believe me,
Believe these Sighs that will not be kept in,
I shou'd not tell it to the Dauphin Queen.
But to the purpose; Know my Lord of Chartres
Receiv'd the Note you saw, from Madam Tournon,
A former Mistress—But the Secret's this—
Princess C.
I thought the King intended her for Savoy.
Nem.
True Madam, but the Vidam is belov'd;
In short, he dropt the Letter, and desir'd,
For fear of her he loves, that I wou'd own it;
I promis'd too to trace the Business for him,
And if 'twere possible, regain the Letter.
Princess C.
The Vidam then has shewn but small Discretion,
Being engag'd so high—
Why did he not burn the Letter?
Nem.
But Madam, shall I dare presume to say,
'Tis hard to be in Love and to be wise?
Oh did you know like him—like him! Like me,
What 'tis to languish in those restless Fires.
Princess C.
Iren, Iren, restore the Duke his Letter.
[Enter Iren.
Nem.
Madam, You've bound me ever to your Service,
But I'll retire and study to repay,
If ought but death can quit the Obligation.
[Exit.
Princess C.
O 'tis too much, I'm lost, I'm lost agen—
The Duke has clear'd himself, to the confusion
Of all my settl'd Rage, and vow'd Revenge;
And now he shews more lovely than before:
He comes agen to wake my sleeping Passion,
To rouze me into Torture; O the Racks
Of hopeless Love! it shoots, it glows, it burns,
And thou alas! shalt shortly close my Eyes.
Iren.
Alas! you're pale already.
Princess C.
Oh Iren—
Methinks I see Fate set two Bowls before me,
Poyson and Health, a Husband and Nemours;
But see with what a whirl my Passions move,
I loath the Cordial of my Husband's Love;
But when Nemours my Fancy does recal,
The Bane's so sweet that I cou'd drink it all.
| The Princess of Cleve | |