University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene 1.

The park of Judge Winthrop, early morning. Enter Anne and Alford.
ANNE.
All's still as night; come—you may come—come quickly;
I have spied carefully, there's no one near.

ALFORD.
Thanks, gentle guide! what, art thou turning back?
Wilt thou not walk with me to the orchard wall?

ANNE.
I'm sick with fear! O Alford, get thee gone!
Hark! what was that?

ALFORD.
Nothing; why how you tremble!
A bird stirred in its sleep among the boughs.
Why, how your heart is beating, and the blood
All ebbing from your cheeks!

ANNE.
This is the joy of guilt!
For mercy's sake, begone!—the light is breaking
In the east. See, there's a shadow moving yonder.

ALFORD.
Oh, you see shadows where there's nothing, love.

ANNE.
'Tis very like; my eyes are full of fear.

ALFORD.
What should'st thou fear when I am near thee, sweet?

ANNE.
Everything—you—myself—my husband—God.
You laugh because I said that I feared God;
Yet oh, 'tis true! I fear His dreadful justice;
It will o'ertake us yet—be sure it will!

ALFORD.
Why, thou'rt some pretty puritan, and not
The gallant lady that Lord Alford loves.

ANNE.
Do you love me yet? is't possible you do?
You will not love me long—you will forsake me;
What will become of me when you are weary of me!

ALFORD.
Fie! speak not thus! whene'er I love thee not,
I live not either. Come, cheer up, my love,
And look upon me brightly ere I go.

ANNE.
I know you do not love me as you used.
You come less often, and you stay less long;
You jest now when I weep, and you grow angry
When I sigh, as I must do whene'er I think:
Oh no, no, no: you will not love me long,
And then what shall I do?—then I must die!

ALFORD.
Pshaw! if I come less oft, or stay less long,
'Tis that you now for ever wear a face
Of discontent and mortified repentance;
As if the loving me were such a baseness
As would degrade you.

ANNE.
Oh, my heart is breaking!
You cannot, and you will not understand me.

ALFORD.
I do not understand these wintry looks,
And these eternal self-upbraidings, madam.

[Going.
ANNE.
O heav'ns! you're angry! Do not leave me thus.

ALFORD.
Nay, but I thought my presence might disturb you.
I know not how thou art when I am hence,
But when I'm here, you've nought but lamentations.

ANNE.
I'll tell thee how I am when thou art hence.
The very moment that mine eyes lose sight of thee,
Horrible darkness falls upon my life.
One dismal, dreary winter spell comes o'er me,
And save for a dim and dreamy sense of shame
And terror that for ever dogs my steps,
I seem no more alive;—each word, each look
Makes the guilty red roll hotly to my brows;
I wake all night, weeping, till I grow sick;
And if my heavy eyelids drop, I rise,
And like a wicked spirit walk about,
For fear lest I should sleep, and dream, and speak.
Look at me, Alford! Do you see my eyes,
How dim they look, and how my cheeks are fading?
You cannot love the thing I am becoming.

ALFORD.
(Aside)
—There's truth in that. (Aloud)
—Oh, is it not yourself
That have grown weary of our sweet communion?
You do but jest to say that I am changed.
You do not love me any more.

ANNE.
O Heaven!
What shall I do? Alas! what's left to do,
To prove my mad love for thee? Nothing—nothing

ALFORD.
Yes, there is something yet, sweet Anne, to do.

ANNE.
Say what. I'll buy thy gratitude at least;
That may outlive thy waning fancy. What?

ALFORD.
I have been playing deep, and am a loser
Of heavy ventures. I am sore beset.

ANNE.
I have no money.

ALFORD.
But your husband—

ANNE.
What?
Shall my husband's purse as well as—oh, no, no!
You do not mean—you're not in earnest—you—
You do but jest—it is impossible!

ALFORD.
Unless I have to-night seven hundred pounds,
To-morrow I shall bid adieu to England.
I will not live to be lackeyed at the heels
By ragged rascals, clamouring for their dues;
I will begone—

ANNE.
Whither?

ALFORD.
In Italy
Life's pleasant, or in France, and I will thither.

ANNE.
And what shall I do?

ALFORD.
Oh, make friends with your husband.

ANNE.
I was proud once!

ALFORD.
Hark! I hear footsteps coming.
If I should never see you more—

ANNE.
O God!

ALFORD.
Farewell—

[Going.
ANNE.
What! Are you going thus! For ever!
I will ask for the money, Alford,—yes, I will!

ALFORD.
I know for certain, that Judge Winthrop means
To go from home for some few days, to-night.
In a few hours hence I will again be with you,
Thanks, gentle friend! farewell! but not for ever.

[Exit.
ANNE.
My body's honour, and my soul's salvation,
My peace of mind here, and heaven's joys hereafter,
All, all are gone! for what? Why, he despises me.
He's used me for his pleasure, and he now
Will use me for his profit, for his purse.
He loves me not!—he soon will grow to loathe me;
For where we wrong, there do we oftenest hate,
And presently he'll leave me, throw me by;
He'll never come again, nor ever think of me,
But with an inward sneer; perhaps, he'll brag
Of how he found Judge Winthrop's lady easy,
And make a ribald table tale of me!
I shall go mad!
[Enter Mary.
What, Mary, are you there?
Have you been walking? I've been up, and stirring,
With the early bees; you see I mend apace:
The morning was so fair, and—and—my spirits
So light and joyful, that I thought I'd try
How the dewy air of the grey hours tasted; and—
I came to walk—

[Enter Winthrop.
MARY.
Why, here's a miracle!
Why, brother, here's our Lady Runaway
Turned handmaid to the early morning star,—
First gentlewoman of Aurora's bed-chamber,
And blushing as her mistress.

WINTHROP.
How now, wife!
What, truant, what! steal from me as I slept?
What shall I think hath lured thee from my bed?
Why, were I jealous, such unwonted wakefulness
Might make me doubt—

ANNE.
Doubt, sir! you—you—you could not.

WINTHROP.
What, will you answer me in earnest now?
Yea then, I swear, I saw you meet the man,
And—

ANNE.
Sir!

WINTHROP.
And part from him—

ANNE.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!
How merry is my husband this fair morning,
To jest so much ere breaking of his fast!

MARY.
Nay, but I find you merrier than your wont;
Do you not notice, brother, in her eyes
An unaccustomed brightness, and a colour
More red than usual in her cheeks?

ANNE.
Why sure,
You would not have me rise at such an hour
For nothing? Why, the profit's to our beauty,
If, ere the sun gets up, we cheerly leave
Our dreaming beds, and to the early light,
And the fresh air, and sparkling dews of morning,
Commend our faces; what—you see your homilies
Are not lost on me; I can chatter, too,
On wholesome exercises and good hours;
Perhaps you thought that, being city-bred,
I was incapable of all this wisdom?

MARY.
I scarcely thought thee apt at so much mirth;
I do not know thee.

ANNE.
'Tis the morning sun,
Hath touched my forehead, and upon my spirits
Worked a brisk spell.

WINTHROP.
Why, be it what it will,
That to thy heart brings but one pleasant fancy,
It has my thanks; for still thy mirth is mine,
Thy pleasure and thy joy my best content,
And what does thee a good does me a thousand.

ANNE.
(Aside)
—O Heaven! (Aloud)
—Come, I must test your love a little;
I—no—I will not.

WINTHROP.
What's the matter, wench?

ANNE.
I thought to have asked you, since your love's so great.
A proof of it.

MARY.
Now shall I learn to wheedle

WINTHROP.
Learn! oh you're perfect all of ye in that;
Dame Nature, in your very swaddling clothes,
Teaches ye that. Come, now, what is it, wife?

ANNE.
I fear you will deny me.

WINTHROP.
Nothing, sweet,
That lies within my compass. What?

ANNE
(aside).
My eyes
Are filling fast with tears; I shall betray myself.

WINTHROP.
Come, Anne, take heart,—do I deserve this pause?

MARY.
I would not bargain so to tax thy love.

ANNE.
No, you've no need. I—I would have some money,—
Sir—husband—I have need of such a sum
As I most fear to name—seven hundred pounds!

MARY.
Wilt thou build churches? This is wonderful!

ANNE.
Pray do not question me for what I want this;
Pray do not say one word but yea or nay;
Say no, I cannot have it,—say so quickly!

WINTHROP.
Wife, you can have it; I have more than that
Now in my hands, and it is freely yours.
I do not ask you anything, but when
You please to tell me how you need this money,
I shall be glad to know it. Hitherto
I have not known you wasteful or unthrifty;
I'll think you have good cause for what you ask,
And mean to put it to some worthy use.

ANNE.
This is too much! I will not take it, no.

WINTHROP.
Peace, peace, 'tis yours. Here is the key of my chest,
Take that thou find'st therein, it will not reach
To full seven hundred pounds, but go to my steward,
And bid him pay the rest to thee. I know
It is to do some holy act of charity,
Which shall buy blessings out of heaven for us,
That thou desirest this; it could not be
Else that thou wert so close;—give me a kiss!
For I must ride from home some twenty miles,
And shall not see thee for a day and night,
So bid me speed.

MARY.
Why, Anne, what is the matter?
You're growing deadly pale.

ANNE.
Oh, stay at home!
Good husband, stay at home, to-day, at least!
Oh, I beseech thee do not go away!
No, do not go from home by any means!

WINTHROP.
Why, this is stranger than all things beside!
Not go from home! not do my duty, Anne!
'Tis not the first time that I have been called
Unwillingly enough, for a space to leave thee,
But never yet have I been stayed with tears,
And wringing hands.

ANNE.
Pray, do not go! pray, do not!

MARY.
Why say, what is it? Hast thou dreamt of him?
Ill chances on the road? Did the death-watch tick?
Or did your woman break a glass last night?

ANNE.
Well, I am mad! yet, husband, do not go!

WINTHROP.
Pray, Anne, don't try my virtue in this fashion.
'Tis hard enough still to be called away
From you and home, by matters that in nothing
Touch my own heart; but thus to have thee sue,
And hang about me, and weep over me,
Why, 'tis enough to melt a man's soul out of him.

ANNE.
I cannot help it. What, can you not stay?

WINTHROP.
So little, that the hour is even now
When I must mount my horse; come, walk with me
To the gate.

ANNE.
Will you not stay?

WINTHROP.
I cannot, Anne.

ANNE
(aside).
'Twas the last hope, and I had clutched at it
In vain!

MARY.
Oh, come! I see 'tis I must play the hero,
And swear to guard you well till he comes home.
There shall no thief come in at our door, nor lover
At our windows, brother, and so go in peace;
I will look to your loving wife the while.

[Exeunt.

Scene 2.

A tavern in London. Wilton, Mowbray, and others discovered at dice.
MOWBRAY.
Who saw him last?

WILTON.
Whom?

MOWBRAY.
Why, the pattern man;
The eleventh commandment, by which people live
In London; the Lord Alford.

WILTON.
Bless him!

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Three days since
I met with him, passing through Austin Friars
He was in grave talk with an Israelite;
I feared for the poor circumcised rascal;
I thought he was no match for the gentleman.

WILTON.
Well, well, revenges will be had some day,
And justice comes, though she be long a-coming.
They say he's steep'd in debts to the very lips;
An I were his creditor, I'd be like him i' the Bible,
And hold him by the throat till all were paid.

MOWBRAY.
His estates are laden with more mortgages
Than his oaks bear apples; yet he ruffles it
For ever like a pageant through the town,
And his need seems costlier than most men's wealth.

WILTON.
He hath means, sir, easy means.

MOWBRAY.
Hush, Wilton!

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
What,
What means hath his lordship?

WILTON.
Oh, the devil knows!
Not I.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Why, he's kept by half a score
Of loving ladies who have loving lords;
He borrows from their husbands several ways;
He will not starve till he grows old or ugly.
Yonder he comes—

WILTON.
Then I'll begone. I love not
To handle dice in his lordship's company.
[Exit Wilton.

[Enter Lord Alford.
ALFORD.
Good morrow, lads! Ha, still at the old work!
Who's winning, and who's losing? Come, I'll be
One of ye. Here be good seven hundred pounds
I mean to lose, or double, presently.

MOWBRAY.
That's well, for Jew, or mistress! I will go
Shares in your lordship's luck.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Then George and I
Shall be your adversaries:—now, my lord.

ALFORD.
Who saw James Forrester to-day?—so—so—
An excellent cast.

MOWBRAY.
I did; in merry humour,
Going to meet his brother, the new baronet.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
I do not see we touch that bag of gold yet:
Your lordship has a spell for the dice, I think.

ALFORD.
Certainly, sir, I have. So Sir John Forrester
Comes home to-day, does he?

MOWBRAY.
E'en now he should be landing.

ALFORD.
What manner of man is he?—like James?

MOWBRAY.
Not much:
Graver, and less acquainted with the world;
A scholar, and a single-hearted man,
Of excellent dispositions.

ALFORD.
Is he married?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Oh, no! he never found that perfect lady
That he could love, they say.

ALFORD.
Indeed! There's the last cast:
That finishes the game;—good sirs, you're conquered.
I beg your pardon humbly. Well, this gentleman,
He's got this title lately?

MOWBRAY.
Aye—and with it
A fat round revenue of thirteen thousands
Per year.

ALFORD.
That's too much for a bachelor.
(Aside)
—I would I might but once get hold of him,
Easy, and rich, he were an income to me;
Teaching such fools experience, we do give them
Their money's worth—wisdom, that pearl of price,
For what all wise men are agreed is trash.

[Enter Servants, carrying in trunks, &c. Enter Sir John and James Forrester.
JOHN.
No, no, I will not set my foot again
Upon that most uneasy cradle. James,
See thou to the rest; I'm no more for the water,
My head is rocking yet; I'll keep the ground,
The new-found earth, for a little while.

JAMES.
I go,
And straight am back to you,—oh, welcome friend!
Dear brother, welcome!

[Exit.
MOWBRAY.
Welcome home again,
Worthy Sir John.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Good sir, I greet you well!

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
You're very welcome back to England, sir!

JOHN.
Thank you, good gentlemen! your courtesy
Is very gratefully received by me:
And 'tis a happiness indeed, once more,
To hear the pleasant tongue my mother spoke,
And grasp an Englishman again by the hand.

ALFORD.
May I take leave to bid you welcome, sir,
To your own country; wealthier, and more noble,
In the world's common use of speech; but neither
To those who knew your worth and true nobility.

FORRESTER.
Lord Alford, as I think?

ALFORD.
The same.

FORRESTER.
My lord,
Your speech would make me blush, but that I know
'Tis a mere fashion thus to praise demerit,
And courtesy, rather than truth, is thanked for it.

ALFORD.
Sir, I have long desired much to know you.

FORRESTER.
Your lordship does me honour.

ALFORD.
Not a whit;
Myself much pleasure. Shall we sit, good sir?
They may be tedious landing of your goods,
You're doubtless weary?

FORRESTER.
Why, I thought I was,
Till from the main into the river's course,
Swoll'n with the briny mingling of the sea,
We turned our prow; then, as the morning broke
Upon the narrowing stream, and from each shore
Up drew the misty curtains of the night,
My senses, challenged by each several object
Of welcome sight and sound, and smell of land,
Grew brisk and wakeful; and the kindly greeting
That met me here has given me rest already,
Refreshing me with pleasure and content.

MOWBRAY.
We'll take our leave awhile; hereafter, sir,
We shall be proud to wait upon your leisure.

[Exeunt Mowbray and Gentlemen.
ALFORD.
Methinks good Master James has a long task;
How shall we waste the time? Oh! here be dice—
D'ye play?

FORRESTER.
No, pardon me, I have not touched
A die for many years.

ALFORD.
Rare abstinence! a vow, perhaps?

FORRESTER.
Even so, my lord, a vow. When but a boy,
I threw, and won at once so large a stake,
That I thought the devil must be bribing me
To an ill course: and though so much the gainer,
I never since have given him leave to tempt me.

ALFORD.
(Aside)
—This is some man come from before the flood:
Who ever heard the like? (Aloud)
—Oh! you're to blame,
I find these little squares rare playfellows;
Your brother loves them well.

FORRESTER.
I fear, too well.
[Lord Alford drops the dice; in stooping to pick them up a picture falls from his dress; Sir John Forrester picks it up.
You have dropped something, sir; how beautiful!—
Pray pardon me, my lord.

ALFORD.
Nay, look at it
As much as you will: d'ye think it fair?

FORRESTER.
Oh, rare!
Most rare! you must forgive me, my good lord,—
Is there indeed a woman like to this?
Or is't a cunning sport of the painter's fancy?
It were great happiness to dream this face.

ALFORD.
Sir, 'tis no dream, but an indifferent copy
Of a lady's face, whom I am well acquainted with.

FORRESTER.
You know her?

ALFORD.
Very well.

FORRESTER.
And is it possible
She is as fair as this?

ALFORD.
As much more fair
As life to death, and nature's workmanship,
To the poor mimicry of art. These eyes,
And brows; that rosy mouth, and golden hair,
Are barren truths, which in the real woman,
Inform'd by the light of life's most subtle magic,
Become transfigured to a thing divine.

FORRESTER.
I can believe it; here it is, my Lord.

ALFORD.
Nay, do not stint yourself, if it pleases you;—
Are you satisfied with gazing?

FORRESTER
(retaining the picture and looking at it).
'Twere unsafe
Much longer to indulge such contemplation—
It seems to grow alive while I look at it.

ALFORD.
Why so it might. Would you care to know this lady?

FORRESTER.
I hardly care to own how much; you'll laugh,
And I feel as if a witchcraft had possess'd me.
It is most strange, but from these eyes a spell
Unutterable—a sudden, irresistible charm
Has seized upon my fancy; I shall offend you,
But I'd give—I know not what—to know her.

ALFORD
(aside).
Oh ho! there is a right string after all
To make the puppet dance; why, she shall do it.
(Aloud)
—Don't break your heart; I think that I can say
You shall see her.

FORRESTER.
How!

ALFORD.
And yet not pay that price—
I mean ‘you know not what’—for the privilege.
She might prove a dear beauty at that rate.

FORRESTER.
How say you?
That I may see this lady?

ALFORD.
Certainly;
And know her, and converse with her, and more
If it so like you.

FORRESTER.
Indeed! I'm sorry for it!

ALFORD.
Sorry! for what?

FORRESTER.
That she is such an one,
Methinks there shines a spirit in this face
Of inward purity; how sweet and sad
It is! Surely those heavenly eyes are not
Lights that betray men's souls!

ALFORD.
I cry your mercy!
Perhaps you have a vow too against this,
And will not go with me to see this lady?

FORRESTER.
I've no such virtue in me I confess,
But will be bounden to you to fulfil
Your promise to me. That fair countenance
Hath laid fast hold of my fancy. If that woman
Has a price—which yet 'tis pity that she has!—
Though 'twere my best estate I think I'd give it
To buy her favour

ALFORD.
Good Sir John, to-morrow
You shall strike your bargain for yourself.

FORRESTER.
To-morrow!
I did not think my first half day in England
Could have seem'd so long—

ALFORD.
See, where your brother comes,
Let us go meet him.

FORRESTER
(returning the picture).
You will certainly
To-morrow let me see her?

ALFORD.
Certainly
And if your speed in wooing match my wishes,
To-morrow you may call that lady yours.

[Exeunt.

Scene 3.

Anne's bedroom: she is discovered at the window.
ANNE.
The day goes down, and darkness comes apace,
To muffle up the wickedness and woe
That the light looks on. O that never more
Morning might rise upon the earth! that this
Fast gathering gloom might henceforth shroud the world,
And wrap my shame and sorrow up for ever!
But the hours will go upon their ceaseless errand;
The night will fold her wings, and rising up
Leave on the earth a new-hatch'd day of misery.
And I must wake from sleep, and feel my heart
Clutch'd by remorse and fear ere well I wake;
My dismal and inseparable fellows,
That still lie down, and still rise up with me.
And I am strong and young—great God!—and I
Must live through many, many, many days,
Before I die! Far down through the darkening fields
The river runs; deep, deep, and fast it runs,
And underneath each wave of it there lies
A bed for death. A moaning voice comes to me,
Calling me to lie down and sleep beneath
That glassy coverlid—it were soon done.
No more to fear; no more to think and suffer;
No more to know; no more to recollect.
O blessed fate! no more to recollect!
I'll do it: it grows night—no one will see me;
And far, far, when the cruel morning breaks,
My body will go tumbling on the waters
To the great sea—and where shall be my soul?
O terrible thought! I shall not die in drowning.
'Tis not my body suffers and remembers;
It is my soul, and that shall live for ever!
Perchance, too, as I leapt into the waters
The love of life might rush into my heart;
And while the choking waves were smothering me,
The sun, the light, might rise before my eyes,
And I might long to live; and if I call'd,
'Tis night, and none would hear: my husband's far,
And he is far. Oh, my heart dies away,
To think of him whom I did love so madly,
Whom now I fear and loathe so utterly!—
There was a sound without! Sure I heard footsteps,
And a rustling motion near,—O Heaven! 'tis he.
Oh, I am sick with horror!

[Enter at the window Alford.
ALFORD.
Ha, fair mistress!
You look'd like a star in the grey evening light;
You tremble, lady.

ANNE.
You—you make me shudder.

ALFORD.
Shudder—that's cold! trembling is not so cold:
You used to tremble when I met you first,
When first we spake, when first our fingers clasp'd;
But that was trembling full of blushes,—warm,
And not like this cold loathing death shiver.
What, you're not merry! What's the matter, sweetheart?

ANNE.
I am not merry! faith, 'tis strange I am not,
Having such cause! here do I stand beside
My husband's bed; here, in this sacred chamber,
To marriage vows holy and dedicate;
I, the most foul and falsest wife alive,
And you, whose arts have made me what I am,
The wretch, the creeping, starting, guilty wretch—
In faith, 'tis strange I am not merrier!

ALFORD.
Why come, you please me better now,— that's right!
I love to hear you talk, 'twill ease your heart too;
And for my part, I am willing to be rail'd at.
Luckily, ladies' scolding breaks no bones,
I should have scarcely had a whole one else
Anon you'll fall to weeping and be well:
Come, is it over?

ANNE.
Give me patience, Heaven!
To think is madness!—I, that was once so happy,
So good, so fair, so innocent,—and now!
And dost thou never think? hast thou no moment,
Not given up to wickedness, when thought
Lays hold of thee? Dost thou sometimes remember,
In the night, when sleep neglects to visit thee,
Or in some sudden pauses of thy passions,
Dost thou sometimes remember what I was,
And what thou'st made me?

ALFORD.
We've been often happy
Together, I remember that.

ANNE.
Oh, never!
Never, so hear me God! have I been happy,
While sinning with thee. One distracted dream
Of passion, and of guilt, of wild delusion
And horrible remorse, and clinging dread,
Of shame, that eats into my very soul,
This has been all my happiness with thee;
The damned need not have envied it!

ALFORD.
Come, come;
You have left out some pleasant hours we've had.
I thought them pleasant, so did you too once.

ANNE.
Utter them not! Yet are they register'd
Eternally in the great doomsday book;
Thence can no tears or prayers wipe them away;
They're there,—and thou and I shall read them there,
Before the whole assembled universe,
Upon the judgment day.

ALFORD.
Why, so we shall then:
In the meantime, since neither tears nor prayers
Can wipe them out, think thou no more of them,
But rather let us study to make sweet
This pleasant present life, nor heed the next.
Leave walking up and down so hurriedly.

ANNE.
Alas! 'tis thus with me for ever! rest
I know not, save in constant restlessness,
Nor joy save in my tears, nor hope, save in
My deep despair.

ALFORD.
Come sit ye down by me.

ANNE.
Oh, leave me! do not touch me, Alford! I know
Your little hour of love for me is past:
You have possess'd me, you have conquer'd me;
Such beauty as I had has been your prize;
My virtue and my peace are all your booty;
Your triumph's full,—you've done with me; for mercy
Have done with me indeed! and never more
Come hither where there's nothing left to tempt you;
Oh, let me go!

ALFORD.
Come, come, I say you shall;
What, coy with me? oh, pshaw! 'tis past the time.
Sit down: I've something I would say to you.

ANNE.
Be brief, or I shall grow to stone.

ALFORD.
'Tis pity now
That you should weep so much; your eyes were bright
When first I saw them—they were like the stars.

ANNE.
Have pity on me, Alford!

ALFORD.
Then your hair—
It was not wont to hang dishevell'd thus:
Fie! it looks slovenly; where are the braids,
The golden links, the shining glossy curls,
The billowy, glorious waves of floating hair,
That caught my fancy?

ANNE.
You are mocking me—
I am so miserable—I know you are;
And yet, I cannot think why you should torture me
So cruelly.

ALFORD.
Why, you were wont to be so brave,
That none came near you in your costliness;
I'd have you be the woman that you were.

ANNE.
Make me that woman, thou who hast unmade me;
Do it, oh, do it, if thou canst!

ALFORD.
Nay, hear me.
I'd have you look the laughing, lovely dame,
That once you look'd.

ANNE.
Wherefore?

ALFORD.
You're fair enough
Yet to catch hearts.

ANNE.
What mean you?

ALFORD.
And although
We two be no more lovers, there be some
Who would give much to win your favour, lady.

ANNE.
If thou wouldst have me not go mad at once,
Look not, and speak not thus, but let me go!

ALFORD.
No, no, you shall not go. I am a suitor to you;
Not for myself indeed, yet I have hope
That as I once prevail'd, another may
Prevail, for my sake, with you.

ANNE.
What?

ALFORD.
Have patience!

ANNE.
I will not hear!

ALFORD.
Oh yes, you will, and do it:
So hearken now, and leave this fooling, mistress!
I have a friend, a man whom I know well,
Who's a large fortune,—do you hear me?

ANNE.
Yes.

ALFORD.
Well, then, you know that I have no estate,
Nothing wherewith t'uphold the goodly show
I make, save debts that have been made by it.
You know this.

ANNE.
Yes.

ALFORD.
Good now, here's this to do:
Receive this man, this fool, this friend of mine.
Start not! but hear me: he is mad for thee!
A goodly fellow too, handsome, and tall;
This shall advantage thee, and from his wealth
We will together draw advantages;
For the which thou'lt pay him in the easy coin
Of kisses, and sweet looks. What, hast thou heard me?—
Art deaf? art dumb? art stone? art dead?

ANNE.
O God!
I'm choking! Can I not get from hence! O Alford!
Upon my knees, I beg, I do implore thee,
Make me not do this horrible wickedness!
By all that I have sacrificed to thee,
By any hope of good, or fear of evil,
Thou mayst acknowledge, make me not do this.
I, whom thou once didst feign to love and worship;
I kiss thy feet, trample upon me, kill me,
Spit on me, spurn me, only spare me this!

ALFORD.
Go to! you're mad! Get up and listen to me!
What more in loving him than loving me?

ANNE.
But him I do not know.

ALFORD.
Pshaw! never mind;
You'll make acquaintance with him presently.

ANNE.
Hear me, you man! I'm an adulteress,
A branded thing, for honest men to scorn,
And true wives to cry out on. This I know;
I do not wink at mine iniquity,
It glares upon me full, and it is monstrous!
But, if thou deem'st I am that shameless creature,
To turn from man to man, and sell my body
For price of money, 'tis not so I tell thee!
I loved thee, idiot! idiot that I was!
But I am not a common harlot yet!

ALFORD.
Another storm, and then another shower,
And then a little while of sunny weather.
What dost thou think that I intend to do,
If thou deniest me?

ANNE.
Do thy worst, and spare not
Thou'lt tell my husband—nay, I'll be before thee.
Let him but once return, and I lay down
The heavy load of all my sins before him;
If he do strike me dead, I'll bless him for't.

ALFORD.
And leave him, too, a fair inheritance,
A goodly name thro' all the country side,
A precious title added to his Judgeship.
Now, I am not so high heroical
To wish your husband's fair fame branded thus;
Methinks 'twere pity that the good Judge Winthrop
Should be a scoffing mark in the public streets.
And tho' if you were dead, you might not hear it;
You leave your husband but an ugly name.

ANNE.
O God, preserve me! I shall sure run mad.
What will become of me?

ALFORD.
Oh, why you'll be
The whole world's wonder for your truth-telling.

ANNE.
Devil! be quick and say what I must do?

ALFORD.
Write straight, and hither bid this gentleman.

ANNE.
When must I bid him?

ALFORD.
Bid him come to-morrow.

ANNE.
How must he come?

ALFORD.
Oh, by our own old way—
The yew-tree path, by the mossy orchard wall.

ANNE.
Shall he come that way? and will you show it him?

ALFORD.
I will; and now that you're so reasonable,
I will do more. He does not know your name,
Nor who you are, nor aught concerning you;
I'll bring him blindfold hither, and if you
Keep your own counsel, your good name may stand
As fair as ever. So farewell!

ANNE.
I thank you.

[She faints on the ground: he goes out.