University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—The Outskirts of London.
Enter Eustace and Walsingham.
Eust.
Now for the confidence you promised me.

Wal.
Canst thou not guess my story? Look at me!
Seem my years more than his you'd reckon in
Life's outset, when beneath our feet all's flowers,
Above our heads all sun? Canst not divine
What could alone o'ercast and wither thus?
Nor only take away the adjuncts sweet
Of that fair prime of hope, but prospect leave
Of nought but cloud and barrenness?

Eust.
Ambition?

Wal.
No; that's an after-game. There's one we play
Before, o'er which the heart will throb, as o'er
None other!—where we throw the die, whose turn
Nine times in ten's the oracle foretells
All chance to come! which, if we play in earnest—
And light are they who of that game make light—
We make ourselves for ever, or lose all,
Doubling the value of our being, or
Reducing it to naught!—a game, methinks,
Which you have play'd at—Love.—Am I not right?

Eust.
You are.

Wal.
You didn't win?

Eust.
[hesitatingly].
I didn't.

Wal.
How?
You speak as one that yet did neither lose—
Whose game not yet was out—a chance, although
With heavy odds against him! Mark me; if
Thou hast rivals whom she entertains like thee,
With just so much of hope, as may suffice
To keep them suitors still, while each can say,
She's mine, as well as t'other—give her up!
Away with her! Abandon her for ever!
Thou woo'st, what, if thou winn'st—the tongue is kind—
Not that doth give thee joy—but wish thee dead!
The keeper, not the owner of a thing
Wherein is lock'd thy life, and thy life's gems—
Thy peace and honour dear!

Eust.
Won such a maid
Thy love?

Wal.
Not such a maid! No! No! she lived
Forbid to all but me. The statue's ear
And eye, you'd think, as much perception had
Of wonder at the consummate chisel's skill,
As hers of praise from others' eyes and tongues.
But, oh! at lightest glance or sound of mine,
How would the rich and fair-wrought marble glow!

Eust.
Thou mourn'st her dead, then?

Wal.
Dead?—Ay, dead! a corpse,
A mouldering corpse, that's with corruption housed,
Which skill medicinal can ne'er restore
To its sweet life again!—the which to weep
Is all that fondest eyes may look for, now;
The life, alas! of her fair honour 's gone!

Eust.
What! lived she but for thee, and gave she up
Her richest jewel to another?

Wal.
You
Shall hear my story. What in form she was,
I will not paint to you.—Each lover has,
You know, the fairest she—say, mine's a paragon
As much as thine; yet, of the very charm
That's crest of all, thou wilt but make a seat
To mount some plume of hers, whom thou affect'st,
That shall transcend it far! I know it—so
Forbear. Yet had you e'er set eyes upon her!
Alas! she stood alone! To truest hearts
The sight of her was wonderful estrangement,
Weaning them for a time from things, howe'er
Clung dotingly to before—that mistresses
Have sadden'd to see eyes, that blazed on them
Ere they were turn'd away, turn back again
Listless and icy cold! Riches and rank,
Bestudded o'er and gilded, have look'd blank
To see themselves outshone without a gem!
Nay, very hostesses, whose only care
Was to behold their costly huswifery
Approved, have been discomfited to see
Their tables crown'd as ne'er they were before,
And she the only garnish of the board!

Eust.
Fancied you not that others saw like you?

Wal.
No! no! I saw they did—I felt they did—
Felt it through many a pang of doubt—but not
Through fear of her demerits, but my own!

Eust.
Ne'er gave she cause to doubt?

Wal.
No!

Eust.
Still she fail'd?

Wal.
As life—when health, that is the heart of life,
Seems sound to the very core!—has ne'er given sign
Of flaw or speck—this moment in the bloom—
The next, is blasted!

Eust.
What you so assert,
The more that you assert, the more I doubt!
What! truth to falsehood in a moment turn?
Virtue to vice? Love to estrangement? Love!
And in a woman! Had she loved before?

Wal.
No!

Eust.
Her first love, too!—But she was a child?

Wal.
No; in the blush of bursting womanhood.

Eust.
And left thee for another? No declining
Of that first passion? Never seen to wane
A little now—now more? but all at once
Go out! Impossible! You've been deceived!
Abused! you have! my life, my soul upon it!

Wal.
They're costly pledges to be forfeited;
Then risk them not!

Eust.
What canst thou set against them?

Wal.
Proofs! facts!

Eust.
Facts?

Wal.
Facts! My cause thou wast engaged in?
How is't I find thee in another's listed?

Eust.
Whose is the cause of her thou lov'st, but thine?

Wal.
Not if she's false.

Eust.
But if she's true?

Wal.
She's not!
By truth, she's not!

Eust.
By truth, she is!—unless,
Things, coinciding just as much as the East
And West—high Heaven and the Abyss—noonday
And midnight—reason and madness—contraries
Confess'd and palpable—for so opposed,
I own, do your averments seem to me—
You prove to be identical.

Wal.
Listen, then!
Who wins a prize, thou know'st wins envy too.
With such a prize thou wilt not wonder then
That many grudged my fortune! 'Mong the rest
Was one, a satire on the saucy code
That makes the wreath of merit, birth-right, when
No law can make the grace that wins it so!
This titled profligate alone, no check,
Reverse, rebuke, rejection, could divert
From pressing still his suit: my arm had tried it,
But that she hung upon it, minding me
The life I'd peril was the heart of hers!
She did!—and for enforcement show'd to me
Vouchers on vouchers—genuine sighs and tears!
Art couldn't feign such—I'll do justice to her—
She then was true—as true as haggard since!
Why weep'st thou?

Eust.
Thou dost weep; and tears draw tears,
When grief itself will fail.

Wal.
Then dry your eyes;
You'll ne'er see mine again! you think me lost
To honour?

Eust.
No!

Wal.
What! not to weep a wanton?

Eust.
O, not a wanton!

Wal.
How!

Eust.
Not then a wanton!

Wal.
Not then! The devil was once an angel—what
Of that? He fell!—who weeps him? no one! What
Though she was once a spirit of light, as he was,
When now she's black as he?

Eust.
Nay!

Wal.
Doubt it not!
To cavil at the right we feel to writhe,
Is aggravation, that adds wrong to wrong,
And drives before-o'erburthen'd patience mad!
The sun itself stared on it!—'twas not lewdness
Chamber'd—behind the curtain—'Twas i' the street,
Light as noonday could make it!—without cloak!
Hood!—veil!—Now call it questionable! Nothing
To mask the wanton!—Oh! for a thunderbolt,
To strike me then!—from a noted, libell'd stew,
Led by the noble libertine—his trophy,
Worn on his arm, in the gaze of every eye—
I saw her issue.

Eust.
Did she shun thee?

Wal.
No!

Eust.
That was a proof of innocence.

Wal.
Of guilt!
Rank! rank!—a sudden and entire infection,
A touch and rottenness; as from the bite
Of a serpent, in an instant, ruddy life
To black corruption grows! Why should she shun me?
She had her tale at hand! 'Twas but to make
Her paramour her friend; their assignation
A freak of chance; her reconcilement to
A man she loath'd before, a debt; and for
That debt assign a cause equivalent;—
All which she did in a breath! 'Twas clear, sir; clear!
The truth spoke for itself! Fact built of fact—
Nought out of place or disproportionate!
As obviously that followed this; this, that!
As this doth chime with this, and that with that!
A thing one must believe!—from end to end,
A lie, sir!—He had saved her from a villain!
The villain!—when she appeal'd to him, he'd damn her!
“He fain would bear her out! His life was hers!—
“His fortune—but upon a point of honour—
“In question with a man of honour—not
“That he denied her fair averments though—
“He pray'd she would excuse him!”

Eust.
You believed him!
Him you believed, that ne'er was true before!
Her disbelieved, was ne'er before but true?

Wal.
Herself admitted it.

Eust.
How?

Wal.
By damning silence!

Eust.
Is't guilt alone, convicted, that keeps silence?
Guilt—saucy guilt—that dares to break the law
Of God and man! Remember you no case,
Where innocence accused hath all at once
Been stricken dumb?—appall'd to undergo
The charge of sin, that never could endure
The thought of sin?—appearances against her,
And witness for her none, but her own heart?
Her very blood betraying her, deserting
Its post upon her cheek, whence, were it bold
As honest, 'fore a host 'twould ne'er give way!
Remember you no case like this? or if
Your memory none records, is such a one
So much at odds with probability,
Your fancy cannot image it? A woman,
Young, charily brought up, as vestal for
The fane!—suppose a novice, so sincere,
She loved and knew it not, till, by its signs,
Others more skill'd find out the passion for her,
And told her that she loved!

Wal.
Thou draw'st herself!

Eust.
And such a one, by accident or plot,
Sudden to stand in such predicament
As of her honour valid question founded—
In presence too of him whose value for
The gem had made it doubly, trebly dear—
And then, appealing to a villain's truth,
To find the tongue should clear, but blurr'd her more!—
Oh! I would ask for signs of life as soon
From lips of stone, as look for words from hers!
She couldn't speak!—Speak? breathe! she would be stunn'd
To utter lapse of every sense, except
That at her heart, which told it at that hour
It would be bliss to break! Should she be true
At last—

Wal.
No more of this!

Eust.
Have I not shaken—
Not much, but somewhat—say, a little—say,
A very little—your belief of her
Dishonour?

Wal.
Speak not of her.

Eust.
If she is pure,
Despite appearances, as first you thought her;
Constant, despite desertion; and despite
Wrongs, scornings, brandings, fond;—it may be fonder—
For woman's love's a plant, I've often heard,
Which mocketh all that thrive in winter time,
Not only keeping green, but growing then.

Wal.
You take, methinks, strange interest in her fate!

Eust.
I have a friend, whose fate resembles hers—
Whose cause I'm sworn to right! Besides, we're friends.
Thou art not happy?

Wal.
No.

Eust.
I would see thee so.
To have thee so, I'd wish thee in the wrong.
She's not forgotten—is she?

Wal.
Would she were!

Eust.
Perhaps thou lov'st her still?

Wal.
To madness! There's
My malady. I love her—not what she is,
But what she was! What's present—that's her swerving,
That's palpable, which you may see, touch, handle,
Define, weigh, prove by any test is real—
Feels but a phantasm, a conceit, a dream—
A horrible one!—in contrast with what's past,
Her worth, her love, her constancy, that vanish'd
Or e'er you question'd them.

Eust.
Art sure of that?
Come, come, thou'rt not, at least, thou'rt not quite sure.
Now did she stand before thee undismay'd
Confiding in thy honour—say thy patience—
Say thy endurance—

Wal.
If my eyes could look
The mandate of my soul, they would flash lightning on her.
To blast her where she stood! What ails thee?

Eust.
Nought—
What did I do? How did I look? What saw'st,
To ask? Did I turn pale, or start, or what?
Do I tremble? Feel!—I am past fear, grief, pain,
As death! Give me thy arm, and come with me.
I'll show thee what a piece of rock thou thought'st
Was quaking. Thou a false woman, as thou think'st her,
Wouldst revenge—I would revenge a woman wrong'd!
Bitterly wrong'd! so wrong'd, that after her
None should complain of hardship! Come! and see,
Which holds his purpose most tenaciously.

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—A Chamber in Hero's House at Greenwich.
Enter Sir Valentine and Clever.
Sir Val.
I tell thee, I must see her!

Clever.
Friend, thy face,
Albeit no modest one, thy deeds outdo
In forwardness! I brought thee but to see
The maiden's house—and thou wouldst enter it!
Nor therewith rest'st content—but must have speech
With her that owns it, and escheweth thee,
As all ungodly things!

Sir Val.
And I will have it!
So tell thyself—but gently say to her,
A stranger craveth audience. Mind—a stranger.
And do my bidding; else I may forget
Thou art a man of peace, and, may be, beat thee.
Yea—beat thee—I repeat it! and, I pray thee,
Make me not do't again!

Clever.
I will submit—
Ere I will use the argument o' th' flesh,
For that would hurt my spirit. Umph! I am gone!

[Goes out.
Sir Val.
So far, so well! Admittance I have gain'd,
And now an audience wait—but doubtingly.
Her cousin?—then behoves me change my name,
Else, knowing me for Hero's suitor, she
May spurn me. Yes! I'll even call myself
Sir Launcelot de Vere.—Can this be she?
The knave has mock'd me—and the world of hopes
That sudden rose to my imagining,
Melts into nothing.—Stay—It forms again!
It grows to probability.—No vapour
That takes a passing form!—is here and gone!
But a sincere and palpable creation!
Another Hero is there—or I see
The same!—Oh, likeness at beholding, e'en,
Incredible!—that makes with wonderment
The vision waver, and the utterance fail!

Enter Hero (disguised as before).
Hero.
Well? What's your will?

Sir Val.
Forgive me, lady, if
With occupation of mine eyes, awhile
I thus forget the office of my tongue
To give thee 'custom'd salutation! Still—
Still would I gaze, nor speak! Art what thou seem'st?

Hero.
What seem I, friend?

Sir Val.
Likeness—unlikeness! A thing
Most different—and yet the very same!
What I would give averment of, most strong—
Again most strong deny! The form of the bane,
With the sweet virtue of the antidote!
The rose, was canker'd yesterday, to-day
Freshness and soundness to the very core!
O beauty conscious of its proper pride!
That nothing deigns to ask, to set it off,
Except simplicity, that offers nought,
Yet all that's due performs! I have not lived
Till now!—I have but dealt with shows of life,
Automatons, that do not know themselves,
But act from causes, are no part of them!
But here is nature's mechanism—mind
And soul—a body fitting them, informing
With motions of their own.

Hero.
Friend, art thou mad?

Sir Val.
Mad, lady?

Hero.
Rational, thou canst not be!

Sir Val.
Not rational?

Hero.
If that—which much I doubt—
Certain, not favour'd with the grace of truth.

Sir Val.
Doubt'st thou I utter aught but truth?

Hero.
I doubt
Thy wits, thy wisdom, or thy truth. Not mad,
Thou art not wise—if wise, thou speak'st not truth.
And sooth to say, thy dress of vanity,
Thy looks of wildness, and thy air, assured,
Where one who knew propriety would feel
Disturbance—this abrupt intrusion, which
Nor leave, nor introduction, nor acquaintance
Can justify—approve thee void of truth,
Unwise, or mad!—if none of these, a man
Of cloddish nature, base and ignorant!

Sir Val.
Oh! say not cloddish nature! Say not base,
Nor ignorant! It is the dignity
Of man, that the bright stars invite his mind
To soar the empyrean where they sit,
Placed infinite beyond terrestrial reach;
And scan their uses and their essences,—
High argument of his affinity
To him that made them, and the immortal light
That shall outlast this filmy, shadowy sphere
Whereon they look and smile! 'Twas told to me
That thou wast perfect fair—I doubted that,
For I had found, methought, the paragon
Of beauty's wealth in woman! then 'twas said
That thou wast wise—I wish'd thee that, for still,
Though oft at fault, in noble house I've lodged
Noble inhabitant! 'Twas said again
That thou wast good—then I believed thee wise,
For wisdom should bear goodness, or no fruit!
And good and wise, believed thee fairest too,
And coveted! Nor come I without leave—
Thy simple life, eschewing worldly forms,
Was pledge for leave! Nor lack I introduction,
That honest errand bring to vouch for me.
Nor, least of all, acquaintance—I have known thee
Since matured thought, my nature's fondest wish
Informing, told it loveliness of soul,
Yet more than that of body, forms the woman,
And, therewith when abiding, makes full up
The highest worth that excellence on earth
Amounts to—nearest what we hope in Heaven

Hero.
Friend, dost thou know thou talkest to a worm?

Sir Val.
A worm!

Hero.
A mite?

Sir Val.
A mite!

Hero.
Nor yet a mite—
A congregate of evils, whereunto
The worm and mite are strangers?

Sir Val.
Evils!

Hero.
Know'st not
That beauty will take cold?—will have the tooth-ache?
Will catch a fever?—that its peachy cheek
Will canker in a night?—that its sweet lips,
Palace of smiles, spasm will compel to change
Their garish tenants for uncouth contortions?
That its fair dress of pride—its velvet skin—
Humours will spot, discolour?—that, in brief,
It is a thing in value vanishing
As fickle merchandise, which rates to-day
Enormously—the next, may go a-begging?
And, worse than all, that its chief merit lies
In wishing, not possessing?—coveted,
Of purchase measureless—obtain'd, worth nothing!

Sir Val.
Thou mean'st the beauty that but meets the eye?

Hero.
I mean the beauty thou alone canst see,
And provest thou only see'st. Why, what pains
Thou takest with a common piece of clay
To set it off! A fine account to turn
The bow of God to—meant for spiritual,
And not corporeal use—with divers tints
To clothe thy body! besides lading it
With the mine's produce—gems and metals—proof
Far more without concerns thee than within!
Oh! that a nature, of immortal reach,
Should house its aspirations in a crib
Like this poor tiny world! and, taught to look
Above the coronets of the fair stars;
Go proud with grains of dust and gossamer,
The property of things inferior to him,
As motes unto the sun! But I forget—Thy errand?

Sir Val.
Love!

Hero.
'Tis clear, thou'rt mad! What! love
Whom ne'er thou saw'st before!

Sir Val.
Nay, pardon me,
And let thy patience lend me audience, while
I show thee my credentials, on the faith
Of which I come. I have seen thee very oft.

Hero.
Stark mad!

Sir Val.
Nay, rational—as rational
As reason in its soberest, perfect mood—
Held converse with thee, countless times.

Hero.
Broke loose
From Bedlam!

Sir Val.
Walk'd and sat with thee.

Hero.
I trust
Thy keeper is at hand!

Sir Val.
He came with me.

Hero.
Where is he?

Sir Val.
Here, although thou see'st him not.
My keeper's Love. I have woo'd thee for a month!

Hero.
Hoa! help!

Sir Val.
Be not alarm'd.

Hero.
Nay, touch me not!
When didst thou break thy chains?

Sir Val.
I wear them yet;
The subtle ones that self-same beauty forged,
Which now I look upon—most gorgeous dress,
But by another worn.

Hero.
Oh! you have loved
One that resembles me.

Sir Val.
I have.

Hero.
'Tis not
A fit, then?

Sir Val.
No; for fits are vanishing.
This is a mood like nature's; lasts for life!

Enter Clever.
Clever.
Why didst thou call? I heard thy voice, in fear.

Hero.
All's well, good Obadiah.

Clever.
Is it so?
Then I may go again. Young man, beware
Thou frighten'st not the maiden. We are meek,
And offer not offence; but meeting it,
As injury will make the worm rebel,
We turn, and we are strong—yea, very strong!—
Whose wrath, albeit a pebble, hath avail
To smite a giant!—therefore, tempt it not!
Umph!

[Goes out.
Hero.
Thou hast known a maiden like me?

Sir Val.
Yes;
I have loved a maid, most like thee—most unlike;
Without, as costly,—but within, as poor
To thee, as penury to affluence.

Hero.
And didst thou love and woo her for a month,
And a defaulter, thus? 'Twas grievous lack
Of penetration.

Sir Val.
Nay, 'twas specious show
That valid credit won.

Hero.
Thou art a man
Like all thy worldly class, of shallow mind.
Thy heart is in thine eyes! What pleaseth them,
Is sure of that.

Sir Val.
Nay, I had then loved on.

Hero.
What cured thy love?

Sir Val.
I saw her in a dance
Light nature show.

Hero.
A dance! Oh! I have heard
Of such a thing. An idle pastime! What
But folly comes of folly? Do you dance?

Sir Val.
I do.

Hero.
What kind of a thing is it? Come, show me!

Sir Val.
I pray you to excuse me.

Hero.
Nay, but dance.

Sir Val.
I pray you, ask me not.

Hero.
Thou dancest badly?

Sir Val.
Nay, I have won some credit in the dance.

Hero.
Then do the thing thou hast won credit by.

Sir Val.
I cannot.

Hero.
Friend, thou art ashamed to dance.

Sir Val.
Nay, not ashamed.

Hero.
Then dance!

Sir Val.
'Twere out of time
And place.

Hero.
What, out of time and place, and to
A man of gallantry, to do the thing
A lady wishes him; and he the while
On sufferance in her presence! I perceive!
Thou art in a grave mood, and for a man to dance,
And look like Solomon, I must suppose
Were more offence to seriousness, than were
A cap and bells. Friend, it is very clear
Thou canst not dance, and look like a wise man—
Yet thou woo'dst a lady, thou saidst,
And cast her off, because she did not dance
With gravity!

Sir Val.
She danced with lightness more
Than lightest measure warranted. No thing
A modest woman does—say that it touches
The utmost verge of license—but that cincture,
Of better proof than zone of adamant,
Its holy and offence-repelling fires,
Keeps waving round her, that the libertine,
Unwon by honour, yet is tamed by awe!
She danced to gladden eyes, whose burning glances
Turn thoughts of honest men on flashing swords,
On flame at stains wash'd out alone by blood!
The empire of her beauty gave a prey
To parasites, who love for their own ends,
And by their homage shame!

Hero.
We have talk'd enough.

Sir Val.
Your pardon! Yet, we have not talk'd at all—
The errand yet untold, that brought me here—
I would have leave to woo thee.

Hero.
Thou!—a man
Of the vain world!

Sir Val.
Nay, of no world but thine!

Hero.
Thou of my world! How comest thou by these gauds—
Lace, ribbons, tinsel, trinkets, slashes—not
To name that most egregious vanity
Thou mountest in thy cap, and the poor bird
It was purloin'd from wore for use, not show!—
Rebuke and lesson to its wiser lord!
There's not a portion of thee but bespeaks
Ransacking of the earth and sea—and all
To recommend thee unto eyes, whose owners,
Be they the homeliest, behold thy betters
In their own mirrors.

Sir Val.
I will dress to please
The eyes of none but thee.

Hero.
Thou shouldst be rich—
Too rich for modest happiness, and all
Beyond is but the name! Riches are bars
Prevent us enter Heaven; how, then, be doors
On earth to admit us unto aught of Heaven?
How many hundreds brings thy rental in?

Sir Val.
As many as make up a thousand pounds
To welcome every quarter.

Hero.
Poor young man!
How much I pity thee!

Sir Val.
I will reduce
My revenue.

Hero.
Canst thou reduce the wants
Thy revenue hath gender'd—foes to thee,
Under the masques of friends?

Sir Val.
My every want
Is now summ'd up in one.

Hero.
Hast thou a title?
How art thou named?

Sir Val.
Sir Launcelot de Vere.

Hero.
How wouldst thou bear be call'd plain Launcelot?
Thou wouldst not know thyself! We have no titles.
Names, being of themselves no part of us,
We only value as distinguishing
One from another. Stephen, Ephraim,
John, Obadiah, Solomon, suffice.
All adjuncts else, as Misters, Sirs, Earls, Dukes,
We estimate as superfluities.
Sir Launcelot de Vere! I neither like
Title nor Christian name. More proper far
Would Peter fit—or Mark, or John, or Luke,
Or Nicodemus—names of men of peace,
And sounding passing sweet!

Sir Val.
The name is mine
Thou givest me.

Hero.
So thou believest now;
To-morrow, thou wilt be the former man.
Nor must I longer talk with thee; for sweet
I own the proffer of thy duty comes,
Although by me received mistrustingly.
Persist not, friend, or I may wholly doubt
What half I would believe;—which, if indeed
Thou mean'st—and, here, the frankness of a maid
Hath overshot her coyness—thou canst prove
Hath matter weightier than airy words.
Farewell! What shall I call thee?

Sir Val.
Launcelot.

Hero.
So soon forgot.

Sir Val.
Mark, Obadiah, Job,
Peter, or—or—I lack the other names.

Hero.
No matter! These are grateful as the rest,
Nor 'mongst them Peter least! What a sweet name
Is Peter!—I will call thee Peter, though
It be for the last time. [Sighs.]
Farewell, friend Peter.

Sir Val.
Stay! How may I call thee?

Hero.
Say, Ruth.

Sir Val.
Farewell,
Fair Ruth!

Hero.
Fair Ruth! So soon forgot again!
Friend Ruth, thou ought'st to say.

Sir Val.
Friend Ruth, farewell!
And yet another word! Have I thy leave
To come to thee again?

Hero.
That must depend
On how thou com'st.

Sir Val.
Then sure I come again!
Friend Ruth!

Hero.
Friend Peter?

Sir Val.
May we not shake hands?

Hero.
That must depend on how thou shakest hands.

Sir Val.
Why, how should I shake hands?

Hero.
Why, soberly.

Sir Val.
Then soberly, friend Ruth, shake hands with me.

Hero.
There, that is long enough!

Sir Val.
One more word yet—
Friend Ruth, may I not kiss thy hand?

Hero.
Friend Peter!

Sir Val.
I'll kiss it soberly—yea, soberly.
Farewell—once more—farewell!—One more.—It is
A banquet, gathers appetite.

[Kissing her hand.
Enter Clever.
Clever.
Young man,
What dost thou?

Sir Val.
Nothing.

Clever.
Yea, a thing that vexes
The spirit of the maiden, and to mine
Gives much disturbance—yea, a forward thing,
Abomination to the faithful—yea,
Abomination.—Go!

[Placing himself between them.
Sir Val.
Farewell!

Clever.
Avaunt!
Such things become not eyes like hers or mine
To look upon.—Avoid!

Sir Val.
Farewell! I'll come
Again!

Hero.
Then come with more discretion, friend.

Clever.
Thou hear'st—avoid! Remove thee hence! Begone!
Make not a crook, friend, of thy body—say
Farewell—do nothing more—and go!

Sir Val.
Farewell!

Hero.
Farewell!