University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—The Cottage.
Juliana,
sitting at her needle, sings; during which the Duke steals in behind.
SONG.

Duke.
Ay, this looks well, when, like the humming bee,
We lighten labour with a cheerful song.
Come, no more work to night!— (sits by her.)
It is the last
That we shall spend beneath this humble roof:
Our fleeting month of trial being past,
To-morrow you are free.

Juliana.
Nay, now you mock me,
And turn my thoughts upon my former follies.
You know, that, to be mistress of the world,
I would not leave you.

Duke.
No!

Juliana.
No, on my honour.

Duke.
I think you like me better than you did!—
And yet 't is natural: Come, come, be honest;
You have a sort of hank'ring,—no wild wish,
Or vehement desire, yet a slight longing,
A simple preference—if you had your choice,—
To be a duchess, rather than the wife
Of a low peasant?—

Juliana.
No, indeed you wrong me!

Duke.
I mark'd you closely at the palace, wife.
In the full tempest of your speech, your eye
Would glance to take the room's dimensions,
And pause upon each ornament; and then
There would break from you a half-smother'd sigh,
Which spoke distinctly—“these should have been mine.”
And therefore, though with a well-temper'd spirit,
You have some secret swellings of the heart
When these things rise to your imagination.

Juliana.
No, never: sometimes in my dreams, indeed,—
You know we cannot help our dreams!—

Duke.
What then?

Juliana.
Why, I confess that sometimes, in my dreams,
A noble house and splendid equipage,
Diamonds and pearls, and gilded furniture,
Will glitter, like an empty pageant, by me;
And then I'm apt to rise a little feverish.
But never do my sober waking thoughts,—
As I'm a woman worthy of belief,—
Wander to such forbidden vanities.
Yet, after all, it was a scurvy trick—
Your palace, and your pictures, and your plate;
Your fine plantations, your delightful gardens,
That were a second Paradise—for fools;
And then your grotto, so divinely cool;
Your Gothic summer-house, and Roman temple;
'T would puzzle much an antiquarian
To find out their remains!—

Duke.
No more of that!

Juliana.
You had a dozen spacious vineyards, too;—
Alas! the grapes are sour;—and, above all,
The Barbary courser, that was breaking for me—

Duke.
Nay, you shall ride him yet.

Juliana.
Indeed!

Duke.
Believe me,
We must forget these things.

Juliana.
They are forgot.
And by this kiss we'll think of them no more,
But when we want a theme to make us merry.

Duke.
It was an honest one, and spoke thy soul;
And by the fresh lip and unsullied breath,
Which join'd to give it sweetness—

Enter Balthazar.
Juliana.
How! my father!

Duke.
Signor Balthazar! You are welcome, sir,
To our poor habitation.

Balthazar.
Welcome, villain?
I come to call your dukeship to account,
And to reclaim my daughter.

Duke.
You will find her
Reclaim'd already:—or I've lost my pains. (Aside.)


Balthazar.
Let me come at him!

Juliana.
Patience, my dear father!

Duke.
Nay, give him room. Put up your weapon, sir—
'T is the worst argument a man can use;
So let it be the last! As for your daughter,
She passes by another title here,
In which your whole authority is sunk—
My lawful wife.

Balthazar.
Lawful!—his lawful wife!
I shall go mad. Did you not basely steal her,
Under a vile pretence?

Duke.
What I have done
I'll answer to the law.—
Of what do you complain?

Balthazar.
Are you not
A most notorious self-confess'd impostor?

Duke.
True!—I am somewhat what dwindled from the state
In which you lately knew me; nor alone
Should my exceeding change provoke your wonder,
You'll find your daughter is not what she was.

Balthazar.
How, Juliana?

Juliana.
'Tis indeed most true.
I left you, sir, a froward foolish girl,
Full of capricious thoughts and fiery spirits,
Which, without judgment, I would vent on all.
But I have learnt this truth indelibly,—
That modesty, in deed, in word, and thought,
Is the prime grace of woman; and with that,
More than by frowning looks and saucy speeches,
She may persuade the man that rightly loves her,
Whom she was ne'er intended to command.

Balthazar.
Amazement! Why, this metamorphosis
Exceeds his own!—What spells, what cunning witchcraft
Has he employ'd?

Juliana.
None: he has simply taught me
To look into myself: his powerful rhet'ric
Hath with strong influence impress'd my heart,
And made me see at length the thing I have been,
And what I am, sir.

Balthazar.
Are you then content
To live with him?

Juliana.
Content?—I am most happy!

Balthazar.
Can you forget your crying wrongs?

Juliana.
Not quite, sir:
They sometimes serve us to make merry with.

Balthazar.
How like a villain he abus'd your father?

Juliana.
You will forgive him that for my sake!

Balthazar.
Never!

Duke.
Why, then, 't is plain, you seek your own revenge,
And not your daughter's happiness!

Balthazar.
No matter
I charge you, on your duty as my daughter,
Follow me!

Duke.
On a wife's obedience,
I charge you, stir not!

Juliana.
You, sir, are my father;
At the bare mention of that hallow'd name,
A thousand recollections rise within me,
To witness you have ever been a kind one:—
This is my husband, sir!

Balthazar.
Thy husband; well—

Juliana.
'T is fruitless now to think upon the means
He us'd—I am irrevocably his:
And when he pluck'd me from my parent tree
To graft me on himself, he gather'd with me
My love, my duty, my obedience;
And, by adoption, I am bound as strictly
To do his reasonable bidding now,
As once to follow yours.

Duke.
Most excellent! (Aside.)


Balthazar.
Yet I will be reveng'd!

Duke.
You would have justice!

Balthazar.
I will!

Duke.
Then forthwith meet me at the Duke's!

Balthazar.
What pledge have I for your appearance there?

Duke.
Your daughter, sir.—Nay, go, my Juliana!
'T is my request: within an hour at farthest,
I shall expect to see you at the palace.

Balthazar.
Come, Juliana.—You shall find me there, sir.

Duke.
Look not thus sad at parting, Juliana:
All will run smooth yet.

Balthazar.
Come!

Juliana.
Heav'n grant it may!

Duke.
The Duke shall right us all, without delay.

[Exeunt different ways.

SCENE II.

—A Wood.
Enter Volante, and several of the Count's Servants masqued.
Volante.

That 's he, stealing down the pathway
yonder. Put on your vizors—and remember, not a
word! (They retire, and enter Rolando.)
Now
I shall be even with your hemp-beating.

[Exit Volante.

Rolando.
Here am I come to be a woman's toy,
And, spite of sober reason, play the fool.—
'T is a most grievous thing that a man's blood
Will ever thwart his noble resolution,
And make him deaf to other argument
Than the quick beating of his pulse. (They come forward and surround him.)
Hey-day!
Why, what are these? If it be no offence,
May I enquire your business?
(They hold a pistol to each side of his head.)
Now I can guess it. Pray reserve your fire!—
(They proceed to bind him.)
What can this mean?—Mute, gentlemen—all mute?
Pray were ye born of women?—Still ye are mute!
Why, then, perhaps you mean to strangle me.
(They bind him to a tree and go off.)
How! gone? Why what the devil can this mean?
It is the oddest end to an amour!—

Enter Volante, and other Women.
Volante.
This is the gentleman we 're looking for.

Rolando.
Looking for me? You are mistaken, ladies:
What can you want with such a man as I am?
I am poor, ladies, miserably poor;—
I am old too, though I look young; quite old,
The ruins of a man. Nay, come not near me!
I have the plague! my breath is venomous!
My touch will, like a witch, breed ugliness!
For the next fifteen generations, ladies,
You will be all as mute as unbeat drums!

Volante.

Fear not; we'll rather be beat than be
silent.

Rolando.
Stand off, I say!

Volante.
Nay, he can't scratch.

Rolando.
Nay, but I'll bite!—
I would for you I were a porcupine,
And every quill a death!

Volante.

By my faith, he rails valiantly, and has
a valiant sword too, if he could draw it! Was
ever poor gentleman so near a rope without being
able to hang himself!

Rolando.
I could bear being bound in every limb,
So ye were tongue-ty'd.
That I could cast out devils to torment you!—
Though ye would be a match for a whole legion.

Volante.
Come, come.

Rolando.
Nay, ladies, have some mercy: drive me not
To desperation:—though like a bear
I'm fixt to the stake, and must endure the baiting,
I pray ye, draw a conjurer's circle round me,
And keep without it.

Volante.
Well, sir, we'll oblige you.

(They make a circle, and dance round him.)
Rolando.
Untie me, ladies, and let me make one!

Volante.
Nay, we dare not trust you.

(They continue to dance. Rolando, after repeated struggles, disengages his right arm, with which he draws his sword, and cuts the ropes that bind him.)
Volante.
The bear is breaking his chain. 'T is time to run, then.

(The women run off; he extricates himself, and comes forward.)
Rolando solus.
Rolando.

So, they are gone! What a damnable
condition I am in! The devils that worried St.
Anthony were a tame set to these! My blood boils!
By all that 's mischievous, I'll carbonado the first
woman I meet! If I do not, why—I'll marry her.
—Here's one already!

Enter Zamora veiled.
Zamora.
I've kept my word, sir.

Rolando.
So much the worse! for I must keep my oath.—
Are you prepar'd to die?

Zamora.
Not by your hand.—
I hardly think, when you have seen my face,
You'll be my executioner.

Rolando.
Thy face!
What, you are handsome?—Don't depend on that.
Had you a skin like old and musty parchment,
A labyrinth of wrinkles, where a man
Might study mathematicks; eyes of lead,
Set like two bullets in a target; teeth
Like broken bottles on an old dead wall,
Serving, like them, to keep off trespassers;
And fewer hair son thy deserted head
Than straggle on thy chin—there were a hope!—
But if those rosy fingers, like Aurora's
Lifting the veil from day, should usher forth
Twin sparkling stars, to light men to their ruin;
Balm-breathing lips, to seal destruction on;
An alabaster forehead, hung with locks
That glitter like Hyperion's; and a cheek
Where the live crimson steals upon the white;—
You have no hope of mercy!

Zam.
(unveiling.)
Now, then, strike!

Rolando.
Eugenio?

Zamora.
Your poor boy, sir!

Rolando.
How, a woman?
A real woman!
What a dull ass have I been!—Nay, 't is so!

Zamora.
You see the sister of that scornful lady
Who with such fix'd disdain refus'd your love,
Which, like an arrow failing of its aim,
Glancing from her impenetrable heart,
Struck deep in mine: in a romantic hour,
Unknown to all, I left my father's house,
And follow'd you to the wars.—What has since happen'd
It better may become you to remember
Than me to utter.

Rolando.
I am caught at last!
Caught by a woman, excellently caught,
Hamper'd beyond redemption!—Why, thou witch!
That in a brace of minutes hast produc'd
A greater revolution in my soul
Than thy whole sex could compass! thou enchantress,
Prepare!—for I must kill thee certainly!—
(Throws away his sword.)
But it shall be with kindness.—My poor boy!
(They embrace.)
I'll marry thee to-night:—Yet have a care!—
For I shall love thee most unmercifully.

Zamora.
And as a wife should you grow weary of me,
I'll be your page again.

Rolando.
We'll to your father!

Zamora.
Alas! I fear I have offended him
Beyond the reach of pardon.

Rolando.
Think not so!
In the full flood of joy at your return
He'll drown his anger, and absolving tears
Shall warmly welcome his poor wanderer home.
What will they say to me?—Why, they may say,
And truly, that I made a silly vow,
But was not quite so foolish as to keep it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—The Duke's Palace.
Enter Balthazar and his Daughter, the Count and Volante, followed by a Servant.
Balthazar.
You'll tell his highness, I am waiting for him.

Servant.
What name, sir?

Balthazar.
No matter, tell him an old man,
Who has been basely plunder'd of his child,
And has perform'd a weary pilgrimage
In search of justice, hopes to find it here.

Servant.
I will deliver this.
[Exit Servant.

Balthazar.
And he shall right me;
Or I will make his dukedom ring so loud
With my great wrongs, that—

Juliana.
Pray be patient, sir.

Balthazar.
Where is your husband?

Juliana.
He will come, no doubt.

Count.
I'll pawn my life for his appearance, quickly!

Enter Servant.
Balthazar.
What news, sir?

Servant.
The Duke will see you presently.

Balthazar.
'T is well!
Has there been here a man to seek him lately?

Servant.
None, sir.

Balthazar.
A tall well-looking man enough,
Tho' a rank knave, dress'd in a peasant's garb?

Servant.
There has been no such person.

Balthazar.
No, nor will be!
It was a trick to steal off safely,
And get the start of justice. He has reach'd,
Ere this, the nearest seaport, or inhabits
One of his air-built castles.

Servant.
Stand aside!

The Duke enters, superbly dressed, with Jaquez and a train of Attendants.
Duke.
Now, sir, your business with me?

Balthazar.
How?

Juliana.
Amazement!

Duke.
I hear you would have audience?

Jaquez.
Exactly my manner!

Balthazar.
Of the Duke, sir.

Duke.
I am the Duke.

Balthazar.
The jest is somewhat stale!

Duke.
You'll find it true.

Balthazar.
Indeed!

Jaquez.
Nobody doubted my authority.

Juliana.
Be still, my heart! (Aside.)


Balthazar.
I think you would not trifle with me now?—

Duke.
I am the Duke Aranza.—

Count.
'T is e'en so. (To Balthazar.)


Duke.
And, what 's my greater pride, this lady's husband;
Whom, having honestly redeem'd my pledge,
I thus take back again. You now must see
The drift of what I have been lately acting,
And what I am. And though, being a woman
Giddy with youth and unrestrained fancy,
The domineering spirit of her sex
I have rebuk'd too sharply; yet 't was done,
As skilful surgeons cut beyond the wound,
To make the cure complete.

Balthazar.
You have done most wisely,
And all my anger dies in speechless wonder.

Jaquez.
So does all my greatness!

Duke.
What says my Juliana?

Juliana.
I am lost, too,
In admiration, sir: my fearful thoughts
Rise on a trembling wing to that rash height,
Whence, growing dizzy once, I fell to earth.
Yet since your goodness, for the second time,
Will lift me, tho' unworthy, to that pitch
Of greatness, there to hold a constant flight,
I will endeavour so to bear myself,
That in the world's eye, and my friends' observance—
And, what's far dearer, your most precious judgment—
I may not shame your dukedom.

Duke.
Bravely spoken!
Why, now you shall have rank and equipage—
Servants, for you can now command yourself—
Glorious apparel, not to swell your pride,
But to give lustre to your modesty.
All pleasures, all delights, that noble dames
Warm their chaste fancies with, in full abundance
Shall flow upon you; and it shall go hard
But you shall ride the Barbary courser too.—
Count, you have kept my secret, and I thank you.

Count.
Your grace has reason; for in keeping that
I well nigh lost my mistress. On your promise
I now may claim her, sir. (To Balthazar.)


Balthazar.
What says my girl?

Volante.
Well, since my time is come, sir—

Balthazar.
Take her then. (Joins their hands.)


Duke.
But who comes yonder?

Count.
'Sdeath! why, 't is Rolando.

Duke.
But that there hangs a woman on his arm,
I'd swear 't was he!

Volante.
Nay, 't is the gentleman.

Duke.
Then have the poles met!

Volante.

Oh, no, only two of the planets have
jostled each other. Venus has had too much attraction
for Mars.

Enter Rolando, with Zamora veiled.
Count.
Why, Captain!

Duke.
Signor Rolando!

Rol.
(After they have laugh'd some time.)
Nay, 't is a woman!
And one that has a soul too, I'll be bound for 't.

Volante.

He must be condemn'd to her for some
offence, as a truant horse is tied to a log, or a great
school-boy carries his own rod to the place of execution.

Rolando.
Laugh till your lungs crack, 't is a woman still.

Count.
I'll not believe it till I see her face.

Volante.
It is some boy dress'd up to cozen us.

Rolando.
It was a boy, dress'd up to cozen me!
Suffice it, sirs, that being well convinc'd—
In what I lately was, a stubborn sceptic—
That women may be reasonable creatures;
And finding that your grace, in one fair instance,
Has wrought a wond'rous reformation in them;
I am resolv'd to marry (they all laugh)
—for 't is odds
(Our joint endeavours lab'ring to that end)
That in another century or two
They may become endurable. What say you?
(To the Duke.)
Have I your free consent?

Duke.
Most certainly.

Rolando.
Yours, sir? (To the Count.)


Count.
Most readily.

Rolando.
And yours? (To Balthazar.)


Balthazar.
Most heartily.

Jaquez.
He does not ask mine!

Rolando.
Add but your blessing, sir, and we are happy!
What think you of my page!—

(Zamora unveils, and kneels to Balthazar.)
Volante.
How!

Balthazar.
Zamora!

Zamora.
Your daughter, sir; who, trembling at your feet—

Balthazar.
Come to my heart!—
You knew how deeply you were rooted there,
Or scarce had ventur'd such a frolick.

Zamora.
That, sir,
Should have prevented me!

Balthazar.
There; she is yours, sir,
If you are still determined.

Rolando.
Fixt as fate.
Nor in so doing do I change my mind;
I swore to wed no woman—she's an angel.

Volante.

Ay, so are all women before marriage;
and that 's the reason their husbands so soon wish
them in heaven afterwards.

Duke.
Those who are tartly tongued: but our example
This truth shall manifest—A gentle wife
Is still the sterling comfort of man's life;
To fools a torment, but a lasting boon
To those who—wisely keep their honey moon.

[Exeunt omnes