 | The Princess of Cleve |  |
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.
| The Princess of Cleve | |