University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A road or highway near Feversham.
Black Will and Shakebag.
Shake.

Damnation! posted as you were, to let
him 'scape!

B. Will.

I pray thee, peace.

Shake.

Green and I beheld him pass carelesly by
within reach of your dagger. If you had held it
but naked in your hand, he wou'd have stabbed
himself as he walk'd.

B. Will.

I had not power to do it: a sudden
damp came over me;—I never felt so in my life—
A kind of palsy seized me.

Shake.

Palsy! when you're upon your duty!
Go, go and sleep, or drink away your fears. You
tremble still.—

B. Will.

I tremble! my courage was never yet
call'd in question, villain. When I fought at
Boulogne under the late king, both armies knew,
and fear'd me.

Shake.

That might be, because they did not
know you. Dog, I'll shake you off to your old
trade of filching in a throng—Murder's too genteel
a business for your capacity.—Sirrah, I have taken

more gold at noon-day, than ever you filch'd copper
by candlelight.

B. Will.

Cowardly slave, you lye.

Shake.

A coward! S'blood! that shall be proved.
Come on.

B. Will.

To thy heart's blood.

Shake.

To thine.

[They fight.
Enter Green.
Gr.

What! are you mad! For shame put up
your swords.

Shake.
Not till I've had his life.

B. Will.
Fool, guard thy own.

Gr.
Pray hear me, gentlemen.

B. Will.
Stand farther off.

Shake.
Away.

Gr.
This broil will ruin all.

Shake.
He begun it.

B. Will.
Ay, and will end it too.

Gr.
Arden, you know, returns, and will you let him
Escape a second time?

Shake.
Who did the first?

Gr.
No matter, that may be repair'd.

B. Will.
Brand me with cowardice!

Gr.
Come, come, you're both to blame.
Speak, will you lay aside this senseless broil?

B. Will.
Nay, let him speak.

Shake.
Why, rather than lose this opportunity—

[Puts up his sword.
B. Will.
Ay—We'll defer it 'till Arden's dead.
I'm for doing business first, and then for play—

Shake.
Challenge me when thou darest.

Gr.
The night draws on. Are you resolv'd?

Shake.
We are.

Gr.
Enough.—See where he comes. I must withdraw;
But when you've done the deed, and sent his soul—
No matter where—I'll come to you again.
[Exit Green.

B. Will.

Something rises in my throat—I can
scarce breathe—I'd rather poison half a dozen cardinals,
than kill this honest man, but—I'll do't,
for my reputation.

Shake.

He comes. Retire a little. Let him
advance, then bury your dagger in his heart. If
you fail, I'll second you.

B. Will.

Stand further off, I shall not need your
aid.

Shake.

Now strike—

Enter Arden first, and then Lord Cheyney attended.
B. Will.

Again prevented! Ten thousand devils
take them all!

L. Chey.
Arden, well met. You're to the isle of Shippey
Grown quite a stranger. Shall we see you there?

Ard.
I purpos'd soon t'have waited on your lordship.

L. Chey.
Well, will you sup with me to night at Shorlow?

Ard.
Franklin, my lord, who is my guest at present,
Expects me at my house.

L. Chey.
Then will you dine with me tomorrow?

Ard.
I'll not fail your lordship.

L. Chey.
Believe me, worthy friend, I'm glad to see you.
Walk you towards Feversham?

Ard.
So please your lordship.

[Exeunt Lord Cheyney, and Arden.
B. Will.

Just as I'd taken aim too!—S'blood I
cou'd kill myself for vexation.

Enter Green.
Gr.
Well, Arden is at last dispatch'd?

Shake.
Yes, safe to Feversham.

Gr.
Safe, say you! his good fortune mocks us all.
These strange escapes have almost stagger'd me;
But thinking of my wrongs, I'm more confirm'd.

B. Will.

Well said, my man of resolution! A
gentleman commits a murder with double the satisfaction
for such a heart.—We must lay our snares
more cunning for the future.

Gr.
We shou'd consult with Michael, Arden's man—
The pigmy-hearted wretch, though long ago
He swore his master dead, acts with reluctance.

Shake.

The coward must be spurr'd.—He does
it, or he dies.

Gr.
I wonder at his absence, as he knew
Of this attempt, and promis'd to be here.

Enter Michael.
Mich.
I saw my master and lord Cheyney pass,
And my heart leap'd for joy.

[Apart.
B. Will.
What says the villain?

Mich.
Would I were gone. [Aside.]
Sir, if I give offence—

[Going.
Gr.
Michael, come back; you must not leave us so.

Mich.
What is your pleasure?

Gr.
Why, we understand
You are in love with Mosby's beauteous sister.

Mich.
Suppose I am.

B. Will.

You deal too mildly with the peasant.
You swore to kill your master, villain. Be an
honest man of your word, and do't then, white
liver.

Mich.

Sir, I repented.

B. Will.

Repented! what's that? Dog, know
your rank, and act as we command, or your heart's
blood—

Mich.

What must I do?

[Frighted.
B. Will.

Do! you must shew us the house,
appoint the time and place, and lure your master
thither—We'll take care of him without your
trouble.

Gr.
So shall you purchase noble Mosby's friendship,
And, by his friendship, gain his sister's love.

Mich.
They'll murder me too, shou'd I not comply—

[Aside.
Gr.
Think on your love, your interest.

B. Will.
Or your death.

Mich.
To night, soon as the abbey-clock strikes ten,
[Trembling.
Come to his house: I'll leave the doors unbarr'd:
The left-hand stairs lead to my master's chamber;
There take him, and dispose him as you please.

Gr.
This cannot fail.

Shake.
Unless this love-sick coward thinks to deceive us.

Mich.
I will not, by heaven!

B. Will.
I believe thee; for by hell thou darest not.

[Exeunt.
Mich.
Master, thy constant love and daily bounty
Deserve more grateful offices from Michael.

[Exit weeping.

SCENE II.

A room in Arden's house. Alicia alone.
Alic.
When vice has spread her poison thro' the soul,
How lifeless, slow, confus'd, and insincere
Are our resolves in the pursuits of virtue!
What wonder then heaven shou'd refuse its aid
To thoughts, that only blossom for a time;
Look blooming to the eye, but yield no fruit.

Enter Mosby.
Mos.
I come, Alicia, to partake thy griefs;
For fire divided burns with lesser force.

Alic.
I know thee: thou art come to fan the flame,
Thy breath hath kindled here, till it consume us.
But tears and sighs shall stifle in my heart
The guilty passion—

Mos.
Is heroic love,
That form'd the bright examples of thy sex,
Made their lives glorious, and their fame immortal,
A crime in thee? Art thou not mine by oaths,
By mutual sufferings, by contract mine?

Alic.
Why do you urge a rash, a fatal promise,
I had no right to make, or you to ask?
Why did you practise on my easy heart?
Why did I ever listen to your vows?
In me 'twas foolish guilt and disobedience;
In you 'twas avarice, insolence, and pride.

Mos.
'Twas love in me, and gratitude in you.

Alic.
'Twas insolence in you, meanness in me,
And madness in us both. My careful parents,
In scorn of your presumption and my weakness,
Gave me in marriage to a worthy gentleman,
Of birth and fortune, equal to my own.
Three years I liv'd with him without reproach,
And made him in that time the happy father
Of two most lovely children. I too was happy;
At least I liv'd in hopes I might be so:
For time, and gratitude, and Arden's love,
I hop'd might quench my guilty flame for you,
And make my heart a present worthy him.

Mos.
And dost thou glory in thy perjuries?
In love, inconstancy alone's a crime.
Think on the ardor of our youthful passion,
Think how we play'd with love; nor thought it guilt,
Till thy first falshood (call it not obedience)
Thy marriage with this Arden made me desperate;
Think on the transports of our love renew'd,
And—

Alic.
Hide the rest, lest list'ning winds shou'd hear,
And publish to the world our shameful tale.
Here let remembrance of our follies die.

Mos.
Shall our loves wither in their early bloom?

Alic.
Their harvest else will be to both our shames.
Hast thou not made a monster of me, Mosby?
You shou'd abhor me, I abhor myself.
When unperceiv'd I stole on Arden's sleep,
(Hell steel'd my heart, and death was in my hand)
Pale anguish brooded on his ashy cheek,
And chilly sweats stood shivering on his brow.
Relentless murder, at a sight so sad,
Gave place to pity; and as he wak'd, I stood
Irresolute, and drown'd in tears.

Mos.
She's lost,
And I in vain have stain'd my soul with blood.

[Aside.
Alic.
Give o'er in time: in vain are your attempts
Upon my Arden's life; for heaven, that wrested
The fatal weapon from my trembling hand,
Still has him in its charge.

Mos.
Little she thinks,
[Aside.
That Arden's dead ere now.—It must be so;
I've but that game to play, ere it be known.

Alic.
I know our dang'rous state; I hesitate;
I tremble for your life; I dread reproach.
But we've offended, and must learn to suffer.

Mos.
Then Arden live in his Alicia blest,
And Mosby wretched. Yet shou'd chance or nature
Lay Arden gently in a peaceful grave,
Might I presume to hope? Alicia, speak.

Alic.
How shall I look into my secret thoughts,
And answer what I fear to ask myself?

[A long pause.
Mos.
Silence speaks best for me. His death once known,
I must forswear the fact, and give these tools
To public justice—and not live in fear.
[Aside.
Thy heart is mine. I ask but for my own.
[To her.
Truth, gratitude, and honour bind you to me,
Or else you never lov'd.

Alic.
—Then why this struggle?
Not lov'd! O had my love been justly plac'd,
As sure it was exalted and sincere,
I should have gloried in it, and been happy.
But I'll no longer live the abject slave
Of loose desire—I disclaim the thought.

Mos.
I'll ask no more what honour should deny;
By heaven, I never will.

Alic.
Well then remember,
On that condition only, I renew
My vows. If time and the event of things
[Giving her hand.
Should ever make it lawful, I'll be yours.

Mos.
O my full joys!—

Alic.
Suppress thy frantic transports,
My heart recoils, I am betray'd, O give me back
My promised faith.

Mos.
First, let the world dissolve.

Alic.
There is no joy, nor peace for you, or me:
All our engagements cannot but be fatal.

Mos.
The time may come when you'll have other thoughts
'Till then, farewel.— [Aside.]
Now, Fortune, do thy worst.

[Exit.
Alic.
Mosby, return—He's gone, and I am wretched.
I shou'd have banish'd him my sight for ever.
You happy fair ones, whose untainted fame
Has never yet been blasted with reproach,
Fly from th'appearance of dishonour far.
Virtue is arbitrary, nor admits debate:
To doubt is treason in her rigid court;
But if ye parley with the foe, you're lost.

[Exit.
SCENE, another room in Arden's house.
Arden and Franklin sitting together on a couch: Arden thoughtful.
Frank.
Nay, wonder not.—Tho' ev'ry circumstance
Thus strangely met to prove the lady false,
And justify the husband's horrid vengence;
Yet it appears to ev'ry honest eye,
(Too late for the poor lady) she was wrong'd.

Ard.
Is't possible?

Frank.
—Ay very possible:
He lives that proves it so. Conceal'd from justice,
He pines with ceaseless sorrow for his guilt,
And each hour bends him lower towards his grave.

Ard.
I know thy friendship, and perceive its drift.
I'll bear my wrongs—for sure I have been wrong'd.
Do I but think so then! What fools are men
Whom love and hatred, anger, hope, and fear,
And all the various passions, rule by turns,
And in their several turns alike deceive?

Frank.
To cast away, and on suspicion only,
A jewel, like Alicia, were to her
Unjust, and cruel to yourself. [Clock strikes ten.]
Good night,
The clock has strucken ten.

Ard.
I thought it more.

Frank.
I thought it not so much.

Ard.
Why, thus it is:
Our happy hours are few, and fly so swift,
That they are past ere we begin to count 'em:
But when with pain and misery opprest,
Anticipating Time's unvarying pace,
We think each heavy moment is an age.

Frank.
Come, let's to rest. Impartial as the grave,
Sleep robs the cruel tyrant of his pow'r,
Gives rest and freedom to the o'erwrought slave,
And steals the wretched beggar from his want.
Droop not, my friend, sleep will suspend thy cares,
And time will end them.

Ard.
True, for time brings death,
The only certain end of human woes.
Sleep interrupts, but waking we're restor'd
To all our griefs again. Watching and rest
Alternately succeeding one another,
Are all the idle business of dull life.
What shall we call this undetermin'd state,
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless oceans,
That whence we came, and that to which we tend?
Is it life checker'd with the sleep of death?
Or death enliven'd by our waking dreams?
But we'll to bed. Here, Michael, bring the lights.
Enter Michael with lights.
Heaven send you good repose.

[Gives Franklin a candle.
Frank.
The like to you.

Mich.
Shall I attend you, sir?

Frank.
No, no, I choose to be alone. Good night.

Exit Franklin. Michael attends his master with the other light, and returns.]
Mich.
I, who shou'd take my weapon in my hand,
And guard his life with hazard of my own,
With fraudful smiles have led him, unsuspecting,
Quite to the jaws of death—But I've an oath.
Mosby has bound me with an horrid vow,
Which if I break, these dogs have sworn my death.
I've left the doors unbar'd.—Hark! 'twas the latch.
They come—I hear their oaths, and see their daggers
Insulting o'er my master's mangled body,
While he for mercy pleads.—Good master, live:
I'll bar the doors again. But shou'd I meet 'em—
What's that?—I heard 'em cry, Where is this coward?
Arden once dead, they'll murder me for sport.
Help—call the neighbours—Master—Franklin—help.

Enter Arden and Franklin, undress'd, at several doors.
Ard.
What dismal outcry's this?

Frank.
What frights thee, Michael?

Mich.
My master!—Franklin!

Ard.
Why do'st tremble so?

Mich.
I dream'd the house was full of thieves and murderers.

[Trembling.
Ard.
Dream'd! what, awake! Are all the doors made fast?

Mich.
I think they are.

Ard.
I'll go and see myself.
[Exit Arden.

Frank.
You made a fearful noise.

Mich.
Did I?—

Ard.
[within]
Why Michael!

Frank.
You tremble still.—Has any one been here?

Mich.
No, I hope not. My master will be angry.

Enter Arden.
Ard.
This negligence not half contents me, sir:
The doors were all left open.

Mich.
Sir—

Ard.
To bed,
And as you prize my favour be more careful.

[Exit Michael.
Frank.
'Tis very cold. Once more, my friend—

Ard.
Good night.
[Exit Arden.

Scene changes to the street before Arden's door, the door shut.
Enter Black Will, and Shakebag.
B. Will.
Zounds! Michael has betray'd us—
The doors are fast. Away, away—Disperse.

[Exeunt.