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SCENE VIII.
London. The Palace.Enter Flavia and Pascentius.
Fla.
Oh! heav'ns! in thy great mercy thou hast led me
To that dear object I so long have sought
Through ev'ry secret winding o'th'palace.
Pas.
My Flavia say!
I fear our father hath occasion'd this,
For late as passing through the hall I saw him,
He paced to and fro in great disorder,
Sometimes in deep thought lost, he'd stop and pause,
Then o'er his troubled breast crossing his arms,
Would utter words, but in a voice so low,
That they distill'd themselves i'th'gentle air.
Tho' I did thrice address him, yet he brake
Abruptly from me, and no answer made.
I never saw the conflict of his soul
So plainly in his countenance pourtray'd.
Fla.
Alas! 'tis true! I too have seen my father;
And harshly has he urg'd my breach of vow
To my Aurelius, and to pledge my love
To one my soul abhors! say then, my brother,
Is that kind friendship for my lov'd Aurelius,
Which first in years of infancy took root,
Is it yet untainted? Speak truly brother—
And are thy vows of friendship to thy sister
Pure and unspotted as the face of heav'n!
And wilt thou save her?
Pas.
'Tis not in my nature
To act a treach'rous or ungenerous part!
Fla.
Enough, enough, I meant not to offend;
That I'm about to ask is truly urgent,
Nor more nor less than our own banishment.
Pas.
Th'impending exile is to me most strange,
But if thy dearest mother thou can'st leave,
Then must it be most pressing; I consent,
And will not ruffle thee by further question.
But silence for a while, here comes the Fool,
Of him some tidings we perchance may hear.
Fla.
Speak, Fool, when did'st last see my gentle mother?
Fool.
Rather ask, when 'twas that I e'er saw
thy father in such sort before; marry, he did
never speak so roundly to me. Of old, your
Fool did make your sage one tremble, but my
foolship hath not found it so. Times must indeed
be bad, when fools lack wit to battle wise
mens ire; nay, but I have legs, therefore can
run; a heart, that's merry, but wou'd be more
so, an 'twas drench'd with sack from my ladle; but
no matter, that's empty, till you gentles chuse
to fill it, then by your leaves we'll walk, and
carry our wits where they'll chance meet better
fare.
Pas.
Nay, nay, come hither Fool, be not too hasty;
This fellow's true and honest, and, dear sister,
Might well our purpose serve, wilt thou consent
That in our service he be bound?
Fla.
Of me ask nothing, but pursue that council
Which in thy riper wisdom shall seem meet.
Pas.
What's thy purpose, Fool?
Fool.
To quit thy father.
Pas.
What think'st o'me for a master?
Fool.
Nay, o'that I think not, for thou wou'dst
joke, but an thou dost, thou hast rare impudence
to do't i'th'presence of a fool.
When thy years have made thee riper,
When in thy purse the pounds thou'lt tell,
And for a brothel thou'lt not sell
Thy patrimony, and thy lands,
Why marry, an I should then find nought more
suiting, my charity shall bid me follow thee, and
teach thee the ways o'this slippery world.
Fla.
O tarry not, for we must hence away;
What hour is it?
Pas.
Near five o'th'clock.
Yon brilliant mass o'fire the golden sun,
Hath just saluted with a blushing kiss,
That partner of his bed the vasty sea.
Fool.
Yea, and your father wills that you do soon
salute your beds, for he hath order'd that supper
be instantly brought into the hall.
Fla.
Good heav'n's! so soon, O my Pascentius,
Each moment lost is an eternity.
[Exeunt.
Fool.
Nay, then ye are gone and ha left your
poor Fool behind. Methinks I love that young
master; nay, I know not how 'tis, but my legs
wou'd needs go follow him; yet master Fool, is
this wisdom? for they say the legs should ne'er
carry away the brains; yet let me see, cannot I,
in my folly, now form this saying, and turn it to
mine own conceit? I ha hit it; for it matters
not what comes o'my brains, for men say they are
good for naught, but my legs are; therefore, let
the better o'th'two serve as guide for the other.
I'll away then, and follow him.
[Exit.
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