 | The Princess of Cleve |  |
SCENE I.
Poltrot, Bellamore.Bell.
Come, come, take her into Grace agen, 'twas but a slip.
Pol.
Take her into Grace agen?—Why sure you wou'd
have her bring me to that pass she did in England, when my
Lord Hairbrain us'd to keep me in awe, stand biting my Lips, twisting
my Hat, playing with my Thumbs while they were at it, and I durst not
look behind me.
Bell.
Meer Jealousie; you say your self you saw nothing.
Pol.
No Sir, I thank you, I had more care of my Throat; neither is
this the first Fault; for once upon a time, a little while after we were
Married, at London—a Pox o'that Cuckolding Trojan Race; she was
talking to me one day out of her Window more pleasantly than ordinary—
And acted with her Head and Body wond'rous prettily—Butting
at me like a little Goat, while I butted at her agen. I being glad to
find her in so good humour, what did I Sir, but stole away, and came
softly up the back-stairs, thinking to cry Bo—But Oh! Lord—How was
I Thunder-struck, to find my Lord Hairbrain there all in a Sweat—
Kissing and Smacking, Puffing and Blowing so hard, you wou'd have
sworn they had been at Hot-cockles—
Bell.
A little Familiar perhaps, things of Custom—
Pol.
Ay Sir, Kiss my Wife and welcome, but for that Zeal in her shogging
and Butting—Noli me tangere I cry—I am sure it ran so in my Imagination,
I have been Horn-mad ever since—Therefore spare your
pains, for I am resolute.
Enter Celia.
Bell.
See where she comes my Lord—But you are resolv'd you
say—However, let me advise you, have a care of making her desperate.
[Exit.
Pol.
Desperate—Damn her, Polluter of my Sheets—Damn her.
Seek, Celia, not to shun me, for where'er you fly,
I'll follow—hang upon thy knees and dye.
Poltrot, behold—Ah! canst thou see me kneel,
And yet no Bowels of Compassion feel?
Why dost thou bluster by me like a Storm,
And ruffle into Frowns that Godlike Form?
Why dost thou turn away those Eyes of thine,
In which Love's Glory and his Conquests shine?
Pol.
What is this thing call'd Woman? she is worse
Than all Ingredients ram'd into a Curse.
Were she a Witch, a Bawd, a Noseless Whore,
I cou'd forgive her, so she were no more:
But she's far worse, and will in time Forestall
The Devil, and be the Damning of us all.
Cel.
Yet Honour bids you sink with her you call
So foul, whose Frailties you too sharply nam'd;
Like Adam you shou'd choose with her to fall,
And in meer Generosity be Damn'd.
Pol.
No, by thy self, and all alone be curst,
And by the Winds thy Venom dust be hurl'd;
For thou'rt a Serpent equal to the first,
And hast the will to Damn another World.
Cel.
But am I not thy Wife? Let that attone—
Pol.
My Dear Damn'd Wife, I do confess thou art
Flesh of my Flesh, and Bone too of my Bone,
Wou'd mine had all been broke when first thou wert.
Cel.
Why then I'll cringe no longer, heark you Sir, leave off your
Swelling and Frowning, and awkward ambling, and tell me in fine,
whether you'll be reconcil'd or no, for I am resolv'd to stoop no longer
to an ungrateful Person.
Pol.
To your Husband, to your Head, to your Lord and Master, you
will not Goodey Bathsheba, but you cou'd stoop your Swines Flesh last
night you cou'd, to your Rank Bravado, that wou'd have struck his
Tusks in my Guts; he had you with a Beck, a Snort, nay, o'my Conscience
thou wou'dst not give him time to speak, but hunch'd him on
the side like a full Acorn'd Boar, cry'd Oh! and mounted—
Cel.
Are you resolv'd then, never to take me into Grace agen for
one Slip?
Pol.
No, I'm the Son of a Carted Bawd if I do; a Slip do you call
it? what, when I heard the Bed crack with the Violence of my Cuckoldom!
No, I will ascend the Judge of my own Cause, proceed to Condemnation,
and banish thee for ever the Confines of our Benevolence—
Cel.
What here, before the Vidam here?
Pol.
Yes, Impudence, before the Vidam and the Duke Nemours; nay,
to thy eternal Confusion, I will post thee in the Market-place; but
first I'll find out St. Andre, and tell him the whole matter, that he
then—
Cel.
And then I'll have your Throat cut.
Pol.
Ha! Tygress, cut my Throat! why thou Shee Bear! thou Dam of
Lyons Whelps, thou Cormorant of Cormorants, why what wilt thou
devour me Horns and all?
Cel.
He that miss'd your Guts in the dark, shall take better aim at
your Gullet by day-light; nay, to thy Terror of Heart be it known,
thou Monster of ill nature, if I wou'd have consented last night to have
run his Fortune, which is no small one, he wou'd have murder'd thee
in thy Bed, for I heard him speak these very words, Let him lye, In
Mortuis—& in limbo Patrum—Where I must have pray'd for that unthankful
Soul, or thou wou'dst have been Damn'd to all Eternity, dying
suddenly and without Repentance—
Pol.
O Lord! O Lord! In Mortuis, & in limbo Patrum; what, to
be toss'd on burning Pitchforks for my Sins, why, what a Bloody-minded
Son of Belial is this?
Cel.
In fine, since you will have the truth, he has long had a design
upon both our Bodies, to Ravish mine, and rip open yours.
Pol.
Why then he's a Cannibal; Lord! Lord! Lord! Lord! why
what pleasure can it be to any Man to rip me open? to Ravish thee indeed,
there's some Sense in that—But there's none in ripping me open;
why this is such a brutish Cruelty—
Cel.
Rogue, and so I told him—Therefore when he found that nothing
cou'd make me consent to your Murder, he Swore, and caught
me by the hair, if I stir'd, or made the least noise, he wou'd Murder
us all, set the House o'Fire, and so leave us to our selves—
Pol.
And so thou wert forc'd to consent; why then by this Kiss, I
Swear from my Soul, which might have been Damn'd as thou sayst, but
for thee, I forgive thee—And what was he that Cuckolded St. Andre,
such another Mephostophilus as this too?
Cel.
O! my Dear, there are not such a pair of Fiends upon Earth
agen—Why, they look upon't as a Favour to our Sex if they Ravish
a Woman, for you must know they were formerly Heads of the
Banditti—
Pol.
Well, and I must praise thy Discretion in Sacrificing thy Body,
for o'my Conscience, if they had seen this Smock-face of mine, I had
gone to pot too before my Execution.
Cel.
They sent their Pages this Morning to know whether it was our
pleasure to have your Throats cut: But we answered 'em all was well,
and desir'd 'em as ever they hop'd to see us agen, to stir no further in the
matter.
Pol.
Mum, Mum, dear sweet Soul, secure my Life and thou shalt
command me for the future with as full a swing as thou canst desire,
at home and sometimes abroad, and we'll be as merry as the day is long.
Cel.
Be thou but true to me, and like the Indian Wives, I'll not
out-live thee—
Pol.
And I'll Swear now, that was kindly said, as I hope for mercy,
but it makes me weep, what burn for me—And shall I not return, I
will, I will, I will return when thou dost burn;
Nay, when thy Body in the Fire appears,
My Ghost shall rise and quench it with his Tears.
St. A.
All Flesh is Grass, that's certain, we're all Mortal, the Court's
in Mourning for the Prince of Cleve, the Vidam of Chartres is extreamly
griev'd—Heark you Poltrot, sure as I am alive he dy'd of Jealousie.
Well Nelle, for this last care of thine, I Swear to be constant to thy
Sheets, and as thou sayst, I think it will not be amiss to tye me to
thee now and then for fear of the worst—Ha! Poltrot—
Pol.
Ha! Bully, I heard your kind Expressions to your Nelle, and I'll
Swear I'll vie thee with who shall love most, for I'll Swear these daily
Examples make my hair stand an end—Cut my Throat, and rip me
open, he shall Cuckold me all over first, like the Man in the Almanack,
nay, he shall Ravish her while I hold the door to my own deflow'ring.
| The Princess of Cleve | |