 | Andronicus Comnenius |  |
SCE. III.
Enter Philo solus with a Letter in his hand.Ph.
Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah! To see this world!
Luck's all: 'Tis better to be fortunate,
Than be a rich Man's Son:—Hear are boys scrambling;
One gets an Apple, t'other a broken pate.
There's good Luck, and bad Luck:
Yonder a knot of Rogues rebel—the poor ones
Hang for Example; And the great ones are
(Scratches)
Luck's all: 'Tis better to be fortunate,
8
One gets an Apple, t'other a broken pate.
There's good Luck, and bad Luck:
Yonder a knot of Rogues rebel—the poor ones
Hang for Example; And the great ones are
Ev'n what they please—Good luck, and bad luck too.
'Tis now two years since first my Master sent me
To manage his design within this City;
And what have I done there?—Only deserv'd
For to hanged—Many an honester man
Then both, has marcht that way:—But the luck's all:
See! (Shews his letter)
I've receiv'd intelligence from him
That what we have been hammering so long
Is just dropt into's mouth: 'Tis offer'd him:
Here is a kennel of such pretious Curs,
They cannot rule, themselves; and now they Court
The Devil, to part stakes: I hope he will
Remember 'um in time:—Troth they deserve it.
Well: I must to 'um: But to bring me there,
Find out Maria—Now the wit of Woman!
—I see they may be trusted with more secrets
Besides their husband's: Though in troth I judge,
Twas the best place to lodge one safe; wise men
Ne're looke for't there:—
Enter Manuel in a disguise.
To manage his design within this City;
And what have I done there?—Only deserv'd
For to hanged—Many an honester man
Then both, has marcht that way:—But the luck's all:
See! (Shews his letter)
I've receiv'd intelligence from him
That what we have been hammering so long
Is just dropt into's mouth: 'Tis offer'd him:
Here is a kennel of such pretious Curs,
They cannot rule, themselves; and now they Court
The Devil, to part stakes: I hope he will
Remember 'um in time:—Troth they deserve it.
Well: I must to 'um: But to bring me there,
Find out Maria—Now the wit of Woman!
—I see they may be trusted with more secrets
Besides their husband's: Though in troth I judge,
Twas the best place to lodge one safe; wise men
Ne're looke for't there:—
—But what have we got here?
A peice of Poetry in Prose! Hah! Hah!
A small Philosopher, but that he wears
A brawling—I'ron: He walks as if he were
Measuring feet with the Antipodes,
Or treading out the Saxon Ordeal;
Sure it would speak—I'll step aside, and see.
A peice of Poetry in Prose! Hah! Hah!
A small Philosopher, but that he wears
A brawling—I'ron: He walks as if he were
Measuring feet with the Antipodes,
Or treading out the Saxon Ordeal;
Sure it would speak—I'll step aside, and see.
Man.
Vain state of wretched man, that only knows
What yet he found too soon, his misery:
Where is that happiness Phisolophers
So much contend for? I have often met
The name, but ne're the thing: sure 'tis their Stone,
In other words; or having trod that path
So long, I must have reach'd my journeys end;
One would have thought, my birth (to say no more)
Had been enough t'ave given me title to't:
But now, I am convinc'd, 'tis but a dream,
An aery fancy; Or if yet there be
More in't, 'tis negative; and to be happy,
Is only not to be miserable.
What yet he found too soon, his misery:
Where is that happiness Phisolophers
So much contend for? I have often met
The name, but ne're the thing: sure 'tis their Stone,
In other words; or having trod that path
9
One would have thought, my birth (to say no more)
Had been enough t'ave given me title to't:
But now, I am convinc'd, 'tis but a dream,
An aery fancy; Or if yet there be
More in't, 'tis negative; and to be happy,
Is only not to be miserable.
But what do I thus fondly to complain
In such a common case? Trace far and near
And all alike; no satisfaction.—
Now I see Nature took a fall when young,
She has so limpt e're since: What's all this world,
But several Purlieues of wild Beasts that walk
On their hin' legs; wherein, not alwaies strength,
But such as have the cleanliest conveyance,
Drive the dull-staring-heard before 'um?
What's all that noise, and cry of publick good,
But a conspiracy of the richer sort,
To grind the poor, and sence themselves with Laws,
To keep that safely, they've unjustly got?
What makes a Traitor, but a ruin'd cause?
Or Hereticks, but being less in number?
Nay, what are even our greater ties become,
But Bawds to interest; and specious names,
To cover great mens wrongs?—who then would live
That had but soul enough to die? or be
A Pris'ner, when the keys of his own Prison,
Hang by his side, and may discharge himself?
And so will I (draws)
'tis worthy of my blood,
Here (sets the hilt to ground)
take your vertue back again who gave it,
And by your leave.—
In such a common case? Trace far and near
And all alike; no satisfaction.—
Now I see Nature took a fall when young,
She has so limpt e're since: What's all this world,
But several Purlieues of wild Beasts that walk
On their hin' legs; wherein, not alwaies strength,
But such as have the cleanliest conveyance,
Drive the dull-staring-heard before 'um?
What's all that noise, and cry of publick good,
But a conspiracy of the richer sort,
To grind the poor, and sence themselves with Laws,
To keep that safely, they've unjustly got?
What makes a Traitor, but a ruin'd cause?
Or Hereticks, but being less in number?
Nay, what are even our greater ties become,
But Bawds to interest; and specious names,
To cover great mens wrongs?—who then would live
That had but soul enough to die? or be
A Pris'ner, when the keys of his own Prison,
Hang by his side, and may discharge himself?
And so will I (draws)
'tis worthy of my blood,
Here (sets the hilt to ground)
take your vertue back again who gave it,
And by your leave.—
Ph.
And mine too if you please.
Man.
Still more misfortune!
Philo comes from behind the hangings, and trips his Sword away.
What art thou? 'Twas rude
To take that from me, which thou darest not give:
Man. riseth and runs upon t'others point.
10
Stand off—nay since you must pursue your folly,
Hold—there's your sword agen—
(draws)
They fight, and close, in the close: Ph. knows him throws away his sword, and kneels.
My honour'd Lord!
Now shall I bless, on curse my hand?
Man.
Be gon,
And tempt thy fate no longer.—
Ph.
My best Lord;
Yet hear me speak.—
Man.
Rise and be sudden then.
Ph.
I shall (riseth)
and since this combat of your passions
May've checkt each other; give your reason time
To breath a while: consider what you're doing:
It is an injury to your self, and nature:
Nature preserves it self, and taught not this;
Nor promis'd any by Privation, Bliss.
Man.
Injurious to my self? it cannot be:
I'm willing; injury supposes force:
Nor yet 'gainst nature: for then surely they
Whom no Religion aw'd (as having't not)
Had never us'd, at least affected it;
Then take your Argument, or tell me why
Nature yet left it in our power to dye?
Ph.
She could not help it; to have made a man,
And yet deny'd him liberty of will,
Had been t'ave given him wings, and clipt 'um too.
Yet take't with its restriction, she ne're meant
Because you might, you should destroy your self;
If all should do the same, where were the world?
Man.
What's that to me? would the whole world lay here;
claps his hand upon his heart.
And I'd soon 'solve the question.—
Ph.
Yet shew me
Some late example of this kind; this humor
Has worm'd it self quite out of date.—
Man.
Disuse,
is a poor Argument—Let Children fear
11
It is enough to me, there is yet left—
This remedy, and triumph over Fortune:
Be gon.—
Ph.
I must not; 'tis now worth your self
To dare to live; who ever sunk his ship
Because he fear'd a storm might do it for him?
Or kill'd himself to save his enemy pains?
Life is a warfare; and who quits the field
Without a lawful Pass-port, runs away.
Man.
And so do thou; and quickly;—or by this
Man. Shakes his sword at him.
I shall too soon confute your Argument.
Ph.
What will your noble Father say?—
Man.
Ha!—Father!
There's magick in the word; t'as chill'd my blood
Into a Pally—Hence—I dare not trust
My resolution, nor thy rattle, longer;
Ph.
How will he bear 't I say, when he shall hear
His son thus sacrific'd to his Return?
Man.
Return!—there's witchcraft in thy breath—
Begon;
And stagger me no longer with false hopes;
Ph.
Credit me once,—By all that's Great, or Good:
He's now in Greece, nay, near this City too.
Man.
Shall I believe thee?—no—it must not be;
Somewhat within me whispers, 'tis not so.
Yet say he were.—He has believ'd me lost
These many years; and why should I now add
New sorrows to my self, or him; to see him
And yet want power to help him?—
Ph.
Fear not that,
You have; I'll chalk you out the way: And if
You see him not e're many hours shall pass,
As glorious as the Sun broke through a cloud;
Then let that mischief you design'd your self,
Fall headlong upon me.
Man.
Well—for a while
12
Sheath his Sword.
Take up that—and help me
To put it on again—so—so—'Tis well.
Ph. takes up his grey peruwick, and helps him on with't again.
Exeunt.
| Andronicus Comnenius | |