 | The Surprisal |  |
SCENE III.
Enter Villerotto solus.Vill.
So, now to my Prisoners:
A single Beauty cou'd not have the power
To keep my blood thus at high tide; if one
Permits my veins to find but the least ebb,
49
Flowing by one or to'thers eyes:
And like my blood, my flames finde no retreat:
—I must allay my fires,—or wast
In this expence of heat.—Come forth, come forth,
Enter Samira, and Emilia, and Taccola.
My Lady Brides, you shou'd have made such fools
Of men.—'tis not amiss to give you joy.
Sam.
What means the Villain?
Em.
O give him gentle words, his looks are dreadful.
Sam.
Give him Rats-bane.
Em.
O speak gently to him! when I was a girle
They us'd to frighten me with such a one.—I tremble.
Sam.
Fear not, Emilia; the villain dares not wrong us.
Vil.
But the villain dares revenge his wrongs.
Sam.
Who has injur'd thee?
Vil.
He that did it will do so no more,
I can assure you.
Sam.
What dost thou mean?
Vil.
Why, this Wound, as shallow as it is,
Was fathom'd by Cialto's Sword,
Sam.
Pish.
Vil.
'Tis true indeed; but I was more bold with him,
And put in farther; he had no time
To make a Will; I doubt he left you nothing.
Sam.
What do'st thou mean, screech-Owle?
Vil.
Oh, you have no minde to understand;
This 'tis plainly, Cialto's dead;
I kill'd him in my own defence.
Sam.
Villain thou lyest, in every thing thou lyest;
He cou'd do nothing basely; nor could thy power
Reach his generous life.
Vil.
Why, in good truth, 'twas he that stir'd my blood,
And made this hole to let it out at; but
As luck wou'd have it, 'twas not deep enough:
I saw his error, and did rectifie it;
I thrust my Sword two or three inches deeper,
And that laid him to rest.
Sam.
O heaven protect us.
Vil.
Why now you run on that mistake again;
No help can come so quickly as you'l want it.
Tac.
Thou dost not mean to ravish us, dost thou, Varlet?
Vil.
Us! canst thou be ravish'd, old willingness?
Tac.
How do you know Jackanapes,
Whether I am willing or no? you never try'd yet.
Vil.
Nor ever will: This she devil will ravish me.
Be quiet, or I'le slit your tongue; d'see this.
[He shews a Dagger.
50
O for some help! I'le tear the Villain.
Em.
Peace, pray peace, let me beg again;
Good Sir let's go, why do you fright us so?
You dare not be so wicked as you talk.
Vill.
Pretty; their different tempers bring to my enjoyment
Variety of bliss; in her embraces
I shall enjoy a calm, and childish innocence;
In th'other, loftiness of minde, and spirit,
As if kinde nature had presented now
All that she cou'd produce for me to rifle.
Emil.
Do you not hear me Sir? I pray release us:
You have no cause to keep us prisoners;
Yet we will pay a ransome.
Vill.
Why, so you shall before you go,
Pretty one: is't more unjust for you to be my Prisoners,
Then me to be your Slave?
Sam.
Our Slave!
Vil.
Nay, put not on a scornful look;
I shall not beg your pitty.
Em.
But we are willing to beg yours, good gentle Sir.
Sam.
Beg not so meanly, he dares not injure us.
Vil.
O, by no means; why that Frown?
Those storms shall cast away no heart of mine;
I'le force my way to harbour in your armes.
Sam.
What do you mean?
Vil.
I mean to make my self as fortunate
As man can be in his full crown'd wishes;
I will enjoy you both.
Tac.
Which two d'you mean?
Vil.
Pox on thee, wou'dst thou be one?—
Nay wonder not, nor bless your selves, unless
It be in admiration of my justice,
Shew'd to the equal power of your beauties;
You may see the image of it every day;
'Tis in the labouring Bee, that gathers sweetness
From every Flower that contends in beauty.
Tac.
By that simile he should go near
To venture on us all.
Sam.
Monster, dar'st thou entertain a thought of such a villlany?
Vil.
Alas, 'tis past that, I am almost ready for action;
Yet for all that you shall be honest women
When I have done.
Em.
For heavens sake, Sir, what mean these dark expressions?
I hope they include no evil.
Vill.
Not any; perhaps you may scruple it
A little at the first. But I'le allow you
Some small time to consider on't:
What an excellent contrivance 'twill be!
51
And yet be honest; come prepare.
Sam.
For what?
Vill.
For my embraces.
Sam.
For those of Snakes first.
Vill.
O, mine are gentler far.
Sam.
Villain, thou—
Emil.
Pray peace, and let me beg once more,
Upon my knees; pray Sir do not affright us,
I know you cannot mean the thing you threaten;
You are too wise, by our unhappiness
To bring on your own ruine.
Vill.
Ha, ha, why you will not publish your own shame;
This will not do; no, if I were sure
That death waited for me, as soon as I had crown'd
My passion and revenge, I wou'd think it
A good bargain, to chop a little time for so much satisfaction.
Sam.
Be merciful, and kill us.
Vill.
That's to be cruel to my self—but I trifle time,
A little business calls me; be wise, and meet
My embraces willingly; if not, know your doom;
For by those powers that govern me, Love and Revenge,
I'le sacrifice both your enjoyments to them,—
So ponder till I return.
[Exit Villerotto.
Em.
Ah Madam, what shall we do?
Sam.
Dye, Emilia.
Em.
When Madam?
Sam.
Presently.
Em.
Alas, I tremble at your naming it.
Sam.
Why do you shake? you must dye one day?
Em.
I know it, by that time I may be willing;
Old age, or a Disease may make it welcome,
At least more gentle, then it now appears
By an approaching violence—but—
Sam.
O rather with a juster apprehension
Recount the lingering Torments a Sickness
Or old Age may bring on; a violent Feaver
May make the body a furnace for the soul
To suffer, not to live in; or old Age
May take away our reason, and the use of sense and faculties,
And rob the body and soul both of their eyes: this way
A minutes pain assures felicity for ever.
Em.
Which way shou'd we do it?
Sam.
See, this I had still about me in all my fears
She draws a short Dagger.
Of being forc'd to be made Brancadoro
Why do you wink? the brightness of it shines
Most lovely in my eyes, when I but think
What service it may do in sending us
52
Emil.
Can a soul be carried through a stream of Blood,
To peace in to'ther world? is't not a Sin to destroy life?
Sam.
'Tis to avoid a greater sin we do it:
Dare you, nay, can you live stain'd with this—
I tremble more to name or think on that,
Then on the death that will prevent it.
But I have given you my opinion,
And will afford you my example:
If you stay behinde me you will repent,
Among those miseries that I am freed from.
Emil.
Oh! do not speak of leaving me behinde you,
To the rude passions of this horrid villain;
I know not how to live without you,
Nor dye, but as you teach me;
Pray blame me not, nor take it ill of me:
Sick men, though they are told, and do believe
That health is offer'd in a bitter potion,
Shrink at the taking of it; 'tis no more in me:
I know, at last I shall chuse death, rather then shame;
—Yet I know not how I shall endure to hurt my self,
I have cryed when I have but cut my Finger.
Sam.
That only was, because 'twas unexpected;
Your resolution now for a just cause
Will make this welcome, and prepare you for it.
Emil.
I fear I shall hardly strike home,—
Then I may suffer all that shame and mischief
I would avoid; pray therefore grant me one thing.
Sam.
What is't?
Em.
To kill me first.
Sam.
That were to commit murder.
Em.
Why, have a better title to your own life,
Then unto mine; you purchas'd one no more
Then you did 'tother; there is no contract, or permission,
Granted from Heaven, that allows the difference.
Sam.
But alas, my sweet Emilia,
I never shall endure to hurt thee.
Em.
Nor your self neither, did not that vertue prompt you
Which bids me beg it, and then the Argument's the same for me.
Sam.
Pretty reason'd; but it will be needless
To dispute this; I know my fair example,
In dying first, will arme thy feeble hand,
With double strength, to force a passage
For thy unstained soul to fly with mine,
Where every thing is in perpetual lustre.
Em.
Shall we know one another there?
Sam.
No question of it, else this bad world
In something might exceed the best.
53
You have confirm'd me, Madam, pray forgive
My simple, if not unbeseeming fears;
'Twas no dispute my vertue did admit of,
But a confusion brought upon me suddenly,
By nature, and still flattering hope, reasons, and vertues enemies.
Come dear Emilia, we'l prepare our selves,
And make the circumstances of our death
Familiar to us; for 'tis practice only
Takes the sharp nature off from things,
And gives them new ones, that at the last
We shall be so much strangers to the thoughts
Or the desires of life, that all will seem
Already done, which we resolve to try,
And we shall both seem dead before we dye.
[Exeunt.
| The Surprisal | |