 | The Princess of Cleve |  |
SCENE III.
Nemours, Bellamore.Nem.
Thou Dear Soft Rogue, my Spouse, my Hephestion, my Ganymed,
nay, if I dye to night my Dukedom's thine—But
art thou sure the Princess of Cleve withdraws here after Dinner—
Bell.
One of her Women whom I have Debauch'd, tells me 'tis her
Custom; you may slip into the Closet and over-hear all, and yet methinks
'tis hard, because the Prince of Cleve loves you as his Life.
Nem.
I sav'd his Life, Sweet-heart, when he was assaulted by a mistake
in the dark, and shall he grudge me a little Fooling with his Wife,
for so serious an Obligation?
A Pox upon him, here comes the Vidam with his sowre Morals—
Vid.
'Tis certain I like her—She's very pretty, and Tournon shall help
me to her—
Nem.
In Love, by my Lechery—Ay, and she shall help thee to her—
But who, but who is't my Man of Principles—
Vid.
To tell your Grace, I am sure were to be a Man of none for my
self—You that are the Whores Ingrosser—Let me see—There's
Tournon your Ubiquitary Whore, your Bawd, your Bawd Barber or
Bawd Surgeon, for you're ever under her hands, and she Plaisters you
every day with new Wenches—Then there's your Domestick Termagant
—Elianor and Celia, with something new in Chase—Why you
outdo Cesar himself in your way, and dictate to more Whores at once
than he did to Knaves—Believe me Sir, in a little time you'll be nick'd
the Town Bull.
Nem.
Why there's the difference betwixt my Sense and yours; wou'd
I were, and your Darklin Mistress the first shou'd come in my way,
Jove and Europa, I'd leap her in thy Face—Why, how now Vidam,
what Devil has turn'd thee Grave, the Devil of Love, or the Devil of
Envy?
Vid.
Friendship, mere Friendship and care of your Soul; I thought it
but just, to tell you the whole Town takes notice of your way.
Why then the whole Town does me wrong, because I take no
notice of theirs; thus t'other night I was in company with two or three
well-bred Fops, that found fault with my Obscenity, and protested
'twas such a way—Why 'tis the way of ye all, only you sneak with
it under your Cloaks like Taylors and Barbers; and I, as a Gentleman
shou'd do, walk with it in my hand. For prithee observe, does not
your Priest the same thing? did not I see Father Patrick declaiming
against Flesh in Lent, strip up to the Elbow; and telling the Congregation
he had eat nothing but Fish these twenty years, yet protest to the
Ladies, that Fat Arm of his, which was a chopping one, was the least
Member about him?
Bell.
Faith, and it may be so too.
Nem.
Does not your Politician, your little great Man of bus'ness, that
sets the World together by the Ears, after all his Plotting, Drudging
and Sweating at Lying, retire to some little Punk and untap at Night?
Vid.
I submit to the weight of your Reasons, and confess the whole
World does you Injustice, wherefore I judge it fit that they bring your
Grace their Wives and Daughters to make you amends.
Nem.
Why now thou talk'st like an honest Fellow, for never let
bus'ness Flatter thee Frank into Nonsense: Women are the sole Pleasure
of the World; nay, I had rather part with my whole Estate, Health
and Sense, than lose an Inch of my Love—I was t'other day at a pretty
Entertainment, where two or three Grave Politick Rogues were wond'ring,
why Women shou'd be brought into Plays; I as gravely reply'd,
the World was not made without 'em; he full Pop upon me—But
Sir, it had been better if it had—
Vid.
And then no doubt a gloomy Smile arose—
Nem.
These are your Rogues, Frank, that wou'd be thought Criticks,
that are never pleas'd but with something new, as they call it,
just, proper, and never as men speak; you're out of the way, men that hate
us Rogues with a way—
Bell.
But after all this they'll run you down, and say your Grace is no
Scholar—
Nem.
Why, Faith, nor wou'd be, if Learning must wrench a Man's
Head quite round; I understand my Mother-tongue well enough, and
some others just as I do Women, not to be married to 'em, but to serve
my turn; what's good in 'em never scapes me, but as for Points and
Tags, for which those solemn Fops are to be valued, I slight 'em, nor
wou'd remember 'em if I cou'd; for he that once listens to Jingling, ten
to one if ever he gets it out of his head while he lives—But prithee
be gone, and leave me to my Musing; find Tournon out, my Vidam, and
bid her remember the Handkercher—Away, thou art concern'd in the
bus'ness, therefore away.
[Exeunt Vid. Bell.
Nem.
She comes, ye Gods, with what a pompous State;
The Stars and all Heav'ns Glories on her wait.
That's out of the way too—But now for my Closet.
[Exit.
Princess C.
No, no, I charge thee pity me no longer,
But on the Earth let us consult our Woes:
For Earth I shall be shortly; sit and hear me,
While on thy Faithful Bosom thus I lean
My akeing Head, and breath my cruel Sorrows.
Iren.
Speak Madam, speak, they'll strangle if contain'd—
Princess C.
As late I lay upon a flow'ry Bank,
My Head a little heav'd beyond the Verge,
To look my Troubles in the Rockless Stream,
I slept, and dreamt I saw
The bosom of the Flood unfold;
I saw the Naked Nymphs ten Fathom down,
With all the Crystal Thrones in their Green Courts below,
Where in their busie Arms Nemours appear'd:
His Head reclin'd, and swoll'n as he were drown'd,
While each kind Goddess dew'd his Senseless Face
With Nectars drops to bring back Life in vain:
When on a sudden the whole Synod rose
And laid him to my Lips—Oh my Irene!
Forgive me Honour, Duty—Love forgive me,
I found a Pleasure I ne'er felt before,
Dissolving Pains, and Swimming shuddering Joys,
To which my Bridal Night with Cleve was dull—
Enter the Prince of Cleve.
Iren.
Behold him, Madam.
P. C.
Ha! my Chartres—How—
Why on the Earth?
Princess C.
Because, my Lord, it suits
The humble posture of my sad Condition.
P. C.
These Starts agen, but why thy sad Condition?
O rise and tell me why this Melancholy!
Why fall those Tears? Why heaves this Bosom thus?
Nay, I must then constrain thee with my Arms.
[Rise.
Is't possible? does then thy load of Grief
Oppress thee so, thou canst not speak for Sighing—
Ah Chartres, Chartres! then thou didst but sooth me,
And thou hast learnt the art too to dissemble.
Princess C.
O Heavens! dissemble when I strip my Soul,
Shew it all bear, and trembling to your view;
Can you suspect me Sir, for a Dissembler?
P. C.
By all my Hopes, Doubts, Jealousies and Fears,
I know not what to think, I think thou show'st
Thy inmost thought, and now I think thou dost not.
I think there is a Bosom secret still,
And have a dawn of it through all thy Folds
That hide it from my view: O trust me Cleve!
Trust me whate'er it be; I love thee more
Than thou lov'st help for that which thus inthrauls thee.
Trust thy Dear Husband, O let loose the pain
That makes thee droop, though it shou'd be my death!
By thy dear self I'll welcome it to ease thee.
Princess C.
Thou best of all thy Kind, why shou'd you rack me,
Who dare not, cannot speak—No more but this,
Take me from Paris from the Court.
P. C.
Ha, Chartres, how!
What from the Court of Paris, why?
Princess C.
Because—my Mothers Death-bed Counsel so advised me,
Because the Court has Charms, because I love
A Grotto best, because 'tis best for you
And me, and all the World.
P. C.
Because, O Heaven!
Because there is some cursed Charm at Court,
Which you love better than me and all the World.
The Reason's plain, for which you wou'd remove,
To lose the Mem'ry of some lawless Love.
Princess C.
Why then am I detain'd, if that's your fear?
P. C.
It is, it ought, and shall, and Oh! you must
Confess this horrid Falshood to my Face.
Princess C.
Never, my Lord, never confess a Lye,
By Heav'ns I love your Life above my own.
P. C.
Not that, not that, speak home and fly not wide,
Swear by thy self, thou dearly purchas'd Pleasure,
Swear by those Chaster Sweets thy Mother left thee;
Swear that thy Soul, which cannot hide a Treason,
Prefers me ev'n to all the World; Hold Precious,
Swear that thou lov'st him more—And only lov'st him,
And in such Sense as not to love another.
Princess C.
Ah, Sir! why will you sink me to your Feet,
Where I must lye and groan my Life away?
Speak Chartes, Speak, nor let the name of Husband
Sound Terror to thy Soul; for by my hopes
Of Paradice, howe'er thou usest me,
I am thy Creature, still to make and mould me
Thy cringing crawling Slave, and will adore
The hand that kills me—
Princess C.
O you are too good!
And I must never hope for Pardon—Yet
I cou'd excuse it; but my Lord I will not.
Know then—I cannot speak.
P. C.
Nor I by Heav'n.
Princess C.
I Love.
P. C.
Go on.
Princess C.
I love you as my Soul.
P. C.
Ha—But the rest.
Princess C.
Alas, alas, I dare not—
P. C.
Why then farewel for ever—
Princess C.
Stay and take it—
Take the extreamest Pang of tortur'd Vertue,
Take all, I love, I love thee Cleve as Life;
But Oh! I love, I love another more—
P. C.
Oh Chartres! Oh—
Princess C.
Why did you rack me then?
You were resolv'd, and now you have it all.
P. C.
All Chartres! All! Why, can there then be more?
But rise, and know I by this Kiss forgive thee.
Thou hast made me wretched by the clearest proof
Of perfect Honour that e'er flow'd from Woman.
But crown the misery which you have begun,
And let me know who 'tis you wou'd avoid,
Who is the happy man that had the power
To burn that Heart which I cou'd never warm.
Princess C.
Forgive me Sir, in this Prudence commands
Eternal silence—
P. C.
Ha! if silent now,
Why didst thou speak at all? If here thou stop'st
I shall conclude that which I thought thy vertue,
A start of passion which thou cou'dst not hide,
And now Vexation gnaws thy guilty Soul
With a too late Repentance for confessing
His name—
Princess C.
You shall not know it—Yes my Lord,
Now a too late Repentance tears my Soul,
And tells me I have done amiss to trust you;
I swear my Love has never yet appear'd
To any Man but you—
P. C.
Weep not my Chartres, for howe'er my Tongue
Upbraid thy Fame, my Heart still worships thee,
And by the Blood that chills me round—I swear
From this sad Moment, I'll ne'er urge thee more;
All that I beg of thee, is not to hate me.
Princess C.
The study of my Life shall be to love you.
P. C.
Never, Oh never! I were mad to hope it,
Yet thou shalt give me leave to fold thy hand,
To press it with my Lips, to sigh upon it,
And wash it with my Tears—
Princess C.
I cannot bear this kindness without dying.
P. C.
Nay, we will walk and talk sometimes together,
Like Age we'll call to mind the Pleasures past;
Pleasures like theirs, which never shall return,
For Oh! my Chartres, since thy Heart's estrang'd,
The pleasure of thy Beauty is no more,
Yet I each night will see thee softly laid,
Kneel by thy side; and when thy Vows are paid,
Take one last kiss, e'er I to Death retire,
Wish that the Heav'ns had giv'n us equal fire;
Then sigh, it cannot be, and so expire.
Exeunt.
Enter Nemours.
She Loves, she Loves, and I'm the happy Man,
She has avow'd it, past all president,
Before her Husbands Face—
Ha! but from Love like hers such daring virtue,
That like a bleeding Quarry lately chas'd,
Plunges among the Waves, or turns at Bay,
What is there to expect—But—let it come
The worst can happ'n, yet 'tis glorious still.
To bring to such Extreams so chast a mind,
And charm to love the wisest of her Kind.
Enter Vidam.
Ah Vidam! I cou'd tell thee such a Story of such a Friend of mine,
the oddest, prettiest, out of the way of bus'ness, but thou art so flippant
there's no trusting thee.
Vid.
Tournon says the Flag's held out—
Tournon be Damn'd—Know then, but be secret, there is a
Friend of mine belov'd—But by a Soul so Vertuous,
Vid.
That was too much—
Nem.
That quite from the method of all Womankind, she told it to
her Husband.
Vid.
That's strange indeed: And how did her Husband like it?
Nem.
Why, after a tedious passionate Discourse, approved her carriage,
and swore he lov'd her more than ever; so they cry'd and kiss'd,
and went away most lovingly together.
Vid.
Why then she Cuckolds him to rights, nor can he take the Law
of her; and I'll be judge by any Bawd in Christendom—And so my
Lord farewell, I have bus'ness of my own, and Tournon waits you—
Nem.
But heark you, Frank, I have occasion for you, and must press
thee, I hope, to no unwellcome Office—only a Second—
Vid.
With all my heart, my Lord, the time and place.
Nem.
Just now in Luxemburg Garden, betwixt one and two, a Challenge
from a couple, the smartest, briskest, prettiest Tilting Ladies—
Vid.
Your Servant Sir, and as you thrive, let me hear from your Grace,
and so Fate speed your Plow.
[Exit.
Enter Tournon with Marguerite.
Nem.
And so Fate speed your Plow, and you go to that, and I shall
tell you Sir, 'twas not handsomly done, to leave me thus to the Mercy of
two unreasonable Women at once.
Tour.
You have him now in view, and so I leave you.
[Exit. Tour.
Marg.
Stand Sir.
Nem.
To a Lady, while I have breath.
Marg.
Wou'd you not fall to a Lady too, if she shou'd ask the Favour?
Nem.
Ay, Gad, any pretty Woman may bring me upon my Knees at
her pleasure.
Marg.
O Devil—
Nem.
Prithee my dear soft warm Rogue, let thee and I be kind—
Marg.
And Kiss, you were going to say.
Nem.
Z'Life, how pat she hits me, why thou and I were made for
one another—Let's try how our Lips fit.
Marg.
Is that your fitting?
Nem.
'Fore Heaven she's wond'rous quick; Nay, my Dear, and you
go to that, I can fit you every way—
Marg.
You are a notorious talker.
Nem.
And a better doer; prithee try.
Marg.
As if that were to do now.
Nem.
Nay then I'm sure of thee, for never was a Woman mine once,
but was mine always.
Know then you are a heavy sluggish Fellow; but I see there
is no more Faith in Man than Woman, Cork and Feathers.
Nem.
Make a Shittlecork that's Woman, let me, if you please, be
Battledoor, and by Gad for a day and a night I'll keep up with my Fellow
in Christendom.
Marg.
Come away then and I'll keep count I warrant you—Monster—
Villain—
Nem.
Now is the Devil and I as great as ever—I come my Dear—
But then what becomes of my other Dears—For whom I was Prim'd
and Charg'd—
Marg.
Why dont you come my Dear?
Nem.
There with that sweet word she cock'd me—
Marg.
Lord! how you tremble—
Nem.
There the Pan flash'd—
Marg.
I'll set my Teeth in you.
Nem.
Now I go off—O Man! O Woman! O Flesh! O Devil!
| The Princess of Cleve | |