 | The Princess of Cleve |  |
SCENE II.
Enter Tournon with the Vidam.Tour.
So let that corner be your Post, and as soon as ever you see
St. Andre come stalking in his Dream, slip to his Lady, and
when you have agreed upon the Writings, I'll be ready to bring you off
with a Witness—
Vid.
Thou Dear obliging—
Tour.
No more o'that; away, mark but how easily those that are
gifted with Discretion bring things about; in the name of Goodness let
Men and Women have their Risks, but still be careful of the Main—
Here's a hot-headed Lord goes mad for a prating Girl, Treats her, Presents
her, Flames for her, Dies for her, till the Fool complies for pure
Love, and when the bus'ness fails, is forc'd to live at last by the love of
his Footmen; but she that makes a firm Bargain, is commonly thought
a great Soul, for my Lord having consider'd on't, thinks her a Person of
depth, and so resolves to have it out of her—But why do I talk so
my self, when there's something to do, certainly I shou'd have made a
rare Speaker in a Parliament of Women, or a notable Head to a Female
Jury, when his Lordship gravely puts the question, whither it be
Satis or Non Satis or Nunquam Satis, and we bring it in Ignoramus—
Ha! but who comes here? I must attend for Bellamore.
Enter Poltrot, Celia over-hearing.
Pol.
My Wife and I went to Bed together, and I'll warrant full she
was of Expectation, so white and clean, and much inclin'd to laugh, and
lay at her full length, as who wou'd say come eat me.
Cel.
Said she so sweet Sir?
Pol.
Not a bit by the Lord, not I, not I—
Cel.
Alas! nice Gentleman.
Pol.
A Farmer wou'd say this was barbarously done, because he loves
Beef—But I have Plover in reserve—Ha! St. Andre, heark, I
last night I was Gelt—
Enter St. Andre in his sleep. The Vidam goes in—
'Tis he, 'tis he, by the twilight I see him—
Ay, now the politick head goes, it shall be branch'd by and by—What
was that stop for, there's neither Gate nor Stile in your way; now by
that sudden stretch, he seems as if he wou'd take a jump, or practice on
the High rope; O your humble Servant Sir, I'll but do a little bus'ness
for you, and be with you agen. Nay, look you Sir, I have as many
Bobs as Democritus when he cry'd Poor lack—There's more Pride in a
Puritans Band, short Hair, and Cap pinch'd, than under a Kings Crown.
Poor Jack, Citizens, Citizens, look to your Wives, the Courtiers
come, look to 'em, they'll do 'em, look to 'em, they'll do 'em, Poor
Jack—
St. A.
Ha! Ha! You'll tickle me to death—Nay, prithee Pen—
Your Mistress will hear us—Thou art the wantonest Rogue—
Enter Tournon with Bellamore.
Tour.
Madam.
Cel.
Here's.
Tour.
Here's a Thief I took in your Chamber—
Bell.
Ah Madam! retire for a moment, and I'll make you the whole
Confession.
Cel.
Confess and you know what follows, however I am resolv'd to
hear what you can say for your self.
[Exeunt.
St. A.
Nay Pish, nay Fie sweet heart—
But I'll kiss you if I can;
I did not take you for to be
Such a kind of a Man.
[Re-enter Poltrot.
But I'll go call my Mother as loud as I can cry,
Why Mother, Mother, Mother, out upon you, Fye.
Pol.
O Lord! O Lord! I had like to have trod upon a Serpent that
wou'd have bit me to death. I went to take up the Cloths as gently as
I cou'd for my Life, when a great huge hoarse Voice flew in my face,
with Damme you Son of a Whore, I'll cut your Throat; you may guess
I withdrew, for o'my Conscience the Fright had almost made me unclean;
but I'll to my own Spouse, and if the Lord be pleas'd to bring
me off safe this bout, I'll never, never go a Cuckold-making agen while
my eyes are open.
[Exit.
St. A.
Heark, my Wife's coming up Stairs—Help up with my
Breeches; so, so, smooth the Bed—What damn'd Luck's this—
So, fall a rubbing the Room agen—Heark you Wife, Celia has been
upon the hunt for you all this day, she's below in the Garden, go, go,
we'll kiss when you come back—Now Sirrah, now you Rogue, she's
gone, come, come, lose not your opportunity, I'll keep on my Breeches
for fear—Ay? No, no, not upon the Bed, Pish, against the back of
Gown, and a Fan, and a lac'd Petticoat, and pay thee double Wages;
O! thou dear pretty soft sweet wriggling Rogue, what wou'dst thou
dodge me, Gad but I'll have thee, Gad but I'll catch thee; Ay, and
have at thee agen and agen.
[Exit. Re-enter Poltrot.
Pol.
Was ever Man of Honour thus unfortunately met with? I went
into my Chamber and trod as softly as a half-starv'd Mouse, for fear of
waking my Cat, when coming close to my Bed-side, methought it rock'd
to and fro like a great Cradle, and the Cloaths heav'd as if some Beast
lay blowing there—But the Beast was by the Bed-side it seems—Yes, I
am, and who can help it, as very a Cornuto as e'er was grafted—
I heard my beloved Wife too—The Plagues of Egypt on her—Speak
so lovingly and angrily together—Nay, Prithee my Dear—Nay, now
you are tiresome—I shall be asham'd to look you in the face agen! Why,
how will she look upon me then? O Lord—O Lord—What shall I do?
shall I stand thus like a Cuckoldly Son of a Whore, with my Horns in
my Pocket and not be reveng'd—
But here comes as very a Cuckold as my self, I am resolv'd to wake
him, and we'll fall upon 'em together—Allo, St. Andre, St. Andre.
St. A.
Ti—ti 'tis im—im—im—possible I-I-I shou'd be the Man,
Fo-Fo-For I cannot speak a plain word.
Pol.
You're a Cuckold, a Cuckold, a Cuckold.
St. A.
Why lo-lo-look you, I said it co-co cou'd not be me, for Sir, I
all the World knows I am no Cu-Cu-Cu-ckold.
Pol.
Wake, wake, I say, or I'll shake the bones out of your Body,
your Horns are a growing, your Bed is a going, your Heifer's a Plowing.
St. A.
Why, let her Plo-Plo-Plow on, if the Se-Se-Seed be well
Sown, we shall have a good Cro-Crop—
Pol.
Worse and worse, why then I will roar out directly and raise the
Neighbours—Help! Ho, Help! Murder! Murder! Fire! Fire! Fire!
Cuckoldom! Cuckoldom! Thieves! Murder! Rapes! Cuckoldom!
Enter the Vidam and Bellamore. The Vidam comes up to Poltrot, shoots off a Pistol, St. Andre and Poltrot fall down together—Tournon enters with the Ladies—Tournon leads off the Vidam and Bellamore.
Cel.
Thieves! Thieves! Ho! Jaques! Pedro—Thoma—
Elia.
Thieves! Thieves—Wake! wake! my Lord.
St. A.
Waking]
Why, what a Devil's the matter? where am I?
Elia.
O! you'll never leave this ill habit of walking in your sleep—
'Tis a mercy we had not all been Murder'd—You went down in your
Shirt Sir, open'd the door, and let in Rogues that had like to have cut
the Bed cord, rather than endure this—
St. A.
Where's Poltrot?
Cel.
Murder'd Sir, here! here! here! one of the Villains discharg'd
a Pistol just in his Belly—
St. A.
Shot in the Guts! Lord bless us! here Thom. a light! light!
light! shot in the Guts say you—
Pol.
Oh! Oh—Lower, lower, lower—Feel, feel, search me, lower,
lower—
St. A.
Cold hereabouts—Let's bear him to his Bed, and send for a
Surgeon—
Pol.
Softly! softly! softly—Come not near me Crocodil; Oh! Oh—
St. A.
Unhappy Chance, no where but just in the Guts?
Pol.
Yes, yes, yes, in the Head too, in the Head Man, in the Head:
Nay, and let me tell you, you had best search your own, but bear me off
or I shall Swoon, I feel something trickle, trickle in my Breeches;
Oh! Oh! Oh!
[Exeunt.
| The Princess of Cleve | |