University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene 1.

Anne's bedchamber—early morning. She is lying asleep on the bed.
ANNE.
Oh, mercy, husband, mercy! do not murder me!
Alford, help, help me—I am drowning! Oh,
Thank Heaven! thank Heaven! I am awake—alive.
My husband does not know; I am not drowning;
'Tis daylight once again, and all is well.
That's false—all is not well; I know it is not,
Yet do not recollect what is amiss.
Let's see—let's see! I dreamt my husband came,
And frowning, thrust a knife into my heart.
I felt the cold sharp point of the steel go thro' me,
And then a heap of rushing waves came over me,
And I was choking—and upon the bank
There stood a devil laughing, with the eyes
Of—of—why, what? was he not here last night?
Last night! Was that a dream? Stood I not here,
Lost in tremendous thoughts of sin and death,
And came there not that man—that devil—who bade me
Stoop to the vilest shame that ere tongue utter'd,
Or thought conceived? Why, was that true indeed!
Did I consent, is't possible I did!
Is't possible, that here—that now—e'en now—
He may be coming,—nay, he may be come!
Oh! no, no, never! no, it is not true;
It was some hideous fancy, which in the night
Took up the wretched dreamings of the day,
And wrought it into shape. O Heaven! nor night
Nor day to taste of rest! but this most certainly
Was a bad dream—no doubt, an evil dream.
Nought else—nought else.
[She goes to the window; enter Sir John Forrester.
Oh, God! no! it was true.

FORRESTER.
I come not unexpected, nor unbidden,
O fairest lady! wherefore start you, then?
See, in my hand I hold the gracious words
That gave me leave to look upon your beauty,
And make my eyes and heart its slaves for ever.

ANNE.
Where am I fallen!

FORRESTER.
Oh, turn not thus away!
In nought have I deserved such cold reproof,
Save daring to admire you; yet yourself
In gentle bidding writ that I should come,
And I have flown. Nor was your hest forgotten;
I have not raised audacious hands, to draw
The curtain you have folded round yourself;
Blindfold, e'en as you bade, I here was brought;
I do not know the happy path that leads
To where you dwell,—I do not know your name,
Nor e'en the very house that holds you;—now,
This instant, in a chamber close at hand,
Were my eyes loosed from this enforced darkness,
And I stand dazzled as before the sun.
Look on me, lovely lady, that I may
Believe the image stamp'd upon my heart,
From the cold tablet of your counterfeit

ANNE.
I cannot breathe,—I sink with shame!

FORRESTER.
'Tis strange,
So coy a bearing! Nay, I woo too coldly;
And in your heart I know you laugh at me,
That I stand tamely gazing at you thus,
Nor seek to win you to a softer mood,
With more importunate wooing. Come, be kind
As you are fair, nor with cold winter now
Freeze up the hopes yourself have made to spring;
You did not summon me to mock at me.
Sweet one! let me touch your hand—

ANNE.
O Heaven!
Stand from me! let me go!

FORRESTER.
How now, fair dame?

ANNE.
For mercy's sake, sir!

FORRESTER.
Trembling, and in tears!

ANNE.
If you have yet a mother, for her sake!
If you've a virtuous sister!

FORRESTER.
Why, what's here!
Upon your finger a ring—a wedding ring!
Your gay attire, your blooming youth, forbid
To think you are a widow;—is it possible
You are—?

ANNE.
A wife! a wicked, wicked wife!
The shame and curse of a trusting noble husband.
O sir, if ever in your heart you held
The image of a chaste and holy woman,
If yet the honour'd life or memory
Of her who bore you lives within your mind,
If ever you desire to win a wife,
Whose love shall be a sacred sanctuary,
Open to you alone;—if e'er in woman
You hope for honour or for happiness,
Now turn from this foul suit, nor seek to sink
Yet deeper in iniquity a wretch
So lost as I!—for manhood's sake forbear!
Stretch not the advantage that you have o'er me;
Have pity, sir! have pity!

FORRESTER.
How deep we go
In the first step we take in sin, we know not.
Rise, lady! nor to such humility
Stoop that fair form. What shall I say to you?
You have no need to pray me to forbear;
Were you the fairest she that ever lived,
And I more madly lost in love with you,
Than ever man with woman was before,
Here is a spell of power to exorcise
The devil of unchaste thoughts and wild desires,
And make me blush I ever had such toward you.
And did the fellow of this wedded hand
Write this?

ANNE.
Nay, I will tell you all,—yes, all,
And trust your nobleness to pity me.
The man that brought you here found in my heart
An evil spot, which he hath spread so large,
That 'tis a plague infecting my whole body.
From the chaste duties of a wife I fell,
Lured by his arts, therefore I stand before you,
Bow'd down with shame, with sorrow, and repentance.
O worthy sir, forbear to spit on me,
But leave me mercifully, and forget
That e'er you saw or spoke with such a creature.

FORRESTER.
Double-dyed villain! but that dear respect
Of you and your sad secret hold me back,
I would requite these goodly dealings presently.

ANNE.
For Heaven's sake do not so! My husband yet
Knows not my guilt; and in the world's eye still
I am honour'd; do not tear away the veil
That keeps me from one universal hiss;
Say nothing,—oh, say nothing, but begone!

FORRESTER.
I will begone: I now perceive how far
The giving way to a licentious wish
Might have betray'd me into sinning. Madam,
Your beauty, which awoke those thoughts in me,
Now teaches me to feel you have but stray'd
Into sin's confines, and will straight turn back;
For good is sure your proper element.
You were not deck'd thus rarely, to become
A snare to those who look on you, but rather,
Believe it, and return to your right office,
To make all men in love with excellence,
Made fairer by your perfect loveliness.
Pardon me, gentle lady! but these tears,
These gracious drops, now falling from your eyes,
Make bold my heart with virtuous love for you.
Oh, trust your husband! do not any more
Deceive him, but with noble courage, seek
Forgiveness first from him, and then from Heaven.
Farewell, for ever! as I came, I go:
To the detested guidance of your enemy
I must commit myself, and bear awhile
His fellowship, with what patience I best may.
Blindfold, I will retrace my steps, nor seek
To know aught more than you have deign'd to tell me.
And be you sure of this, if e'er hereafter
I should encounter you, here or elsewhere—
As such a chance, perhaps, might yet befall me—
Neither by word, or look, or slightest sign,
Shall you be made to recollect by me
That ever I beheld your face before.
And so, farewell!

ANNE.
The blessings of a soul
Turn'd back from sinning, dwell with you for ever!

[Exit Forrester. Scene changes.

Scene 2.

Garden of Judge Winthrop's house. Mary discovered.
MARY.
The blossoms are all gone,—how soon they pass'd!
And now already can I spy the round
And downy shape of the half-formed fruit.
It looks no more so fair, nor smells so sweet,
Yet it has grown more worth; and the husbandman,
Tells how the promise of the flowers was true.
Methinks this tree speaks as a living voice,
And such a lesson as a maid may hearken to,
Who loves and dreams of marriage. It is now
With us, in our sweet hopes, and happy dreams,
The very hour of pleasant blossoming.
Love, joy, and youth, within our bosoms make
A sunny May-day; but the tree is full,
Full flush'd with flowers, all open, all wide blown.
Then what comes next? that they must fall,—'tis pity!
So turn we to the graver days of life,
Full of the sober happiness of duty;
And in the ripening sun of time, we grow
To a goodly prosperous autumn,—and what then?
Shall it be winter ever in our hearts?
O tree! how soon thou hast shed thy pleasant crown,
Which, ere thou wear again, thy fruit must drop,
Thy leaves grow withered, and thy sap run cold,
And thou be pinch'd in a stern and barren winter.
But not to such conclusion need we come,
While Love's sweet flower yet lives within our hearts,
And all our mellow golden autumn fruits
Are stored for the empty days which we will fill
With happy memories and blessed hopes.

[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Madam, from the fern knoll I can see Eustace
Hard riding to the house; the post is in.
[Exit Servant.

MARY.
Oh, he brings letters! Oh, he is too happy,
To hold in his hands the precious words of love
That make my heart dance!

[Enter Anne.
ANNE.
Here's your letter, Mary.
Oh, how your blood reads from your cheek this writing!
Will you not look inside?

MARY.
I am afraid;
The sight of the mere paper is a blessing,
But what's within I know not.

ANNE.
Shall I read it
For you?

MARY.
No, you shall not,—I thank you.

ANNE.
Here's one for my husband, in a character
I do not know,—and here is one from him.

MARY
(reading her letter).
O Heavens!

ANNE
(reading her letter).
What's the matter? Why, my husband
Must be e'en now at the gates; for this was writ
Yesterday, saying that he comes to-morrow,
By early morning;—what's the matter, Mary?
Ill news? say, dear,—is Master Forrester sick?
Hath aught befallen him?

MARY.
Oh, me! that ever
We should let steal our hearts out of our breasts,
And trust them in such cruel, careless keeping!
Thoughtless and thriftless!

ANNE.
What?

MARY.
He writes me here,
That dicing two nights back with the Lord Alford—
I hate that man! I always hated him!
From the first I thought he looked a very villain,
And now he's proved so!

ANNE.
What of him? go on.

MARY.
James Forrester has lost so deeply to him,
That he says he knows not how he e'er shall answer it,
Or when in this, his fortune's shatter'd plight,
He can fulfil his word, and marry me.
Oh! I was happy, happy, and contented
Before I knew him; but my peace is gone,
Gone, and for ever. This it is to love!

ANNE.
Oh, cheer thee, wench! the mischief may not be
So great; his brother's wealthy—

MARY.
What of that?
Shall his honourable brother bear the charge
Of his dishonest ventures?—'tis dishonest
To venture what one cannot want.

ANNE.
Lord Alford
Is his friend, and peradventure—

MARY.
More's the pity
That he's his friend! and is it a friend's office
To let him play himself beyond his depth,
And turn from friend to creditor? Out on it!
Is this the dealing of a friend or gentleman!

ANNE.
He will remit the debt, no doubt of it.

MARY.
But I do doubt it; and what if he did?
That's looking at the end, and not the action.
If he forgave him fifty fold his debt,
Does that undo his having risk'd so much?
Besides, I'm sure he will do no such thing.

ANNE.
Why are you sure?

MARY.
Because, from every word
I ever heard him speak, I judge him false.
I never could abide the look of his eyes;
But you, now I bethink me, seem'd to like him.

ANNE.
Who, I!—

MARY.
I thought you did, and marvell'd at it.
For you had heard, as well as I, the tales
Of wickedness, that ever, like foul shadows,
Follow'd his name; you knew his bad renown;
I wonder that my brother ever suffer'd him,
Or Master Forrester could call him friend.

ANNE.
You judge him hardly—

MARY.
Can he be so judged?
What, a heartless thief, who to the honest man
That opes his door to him holds out his hand,
And with the other stabs him in the back.
The cowardly tempter of frail women, one
Whose noblest trophies are a foul disgrace
To a true-born gentleman;—I would have such
Whipp'd through the land, as they do by common felons,
For daring so to smirch the name he bears,
The honour'd name of an English lord.

ANNE.
Good Heaven!
How like you look to your brother!

MARY.
Oh!
I am wrought beyond myself. Alas! and 'tis
Another who hath raised this tempest in me.
I am no more mine own! another's fate
Moves me to weep or smile; another's deeds
Make me rejoice or mourn,—this 'tis to love!
Two months agone what matter'd, what cared I
Who play'd, or who forbore, who lost, or won?
My thoughts ne'er wander'd from this pleasant home
Of cheerful, sweet monotony; but now—
A man has carried hence my heart with him;
I am in London, I am no more here,
And all save him is nothing; this it is
To love!

ANNE.
Poor child! she weeps! her tears
Are like clear drops from an overbrimming fountain,
Freshening whereon they fall; she does not know,
The tears that from the black well of remorse
Distil their bitter poison down one's cheeks,
Blistering and scorching furrows in one's soul.
Weep not, dear Mary.

MARY.
No,—'tis of no avail.
I will not weep; I will have patience, sister.
Sweet patience will come comfort me. My flowers
Look sick and silly, and I care for them no more;
But I'll go walk among them, and take counsel
Of their meek bowing when the hail-storms beat them.
Upon the road I hear the grating wheels;
'Tis my brother; I shall go, for if he sees
My eyes so red, he will be wroth, I know,
And speak hard words of Master Forrester,
And that would be the worst to bear of all.
[Exit Mary.

ANNE.
Oh, pure in spirit! as she passes by me
My heart shrinks back, instinct with its own foulness,
From her clear presence. Now my husband comes,
And I must utter all. Good Heaven, support me!

WINTHROP
(without).
What, wife! ho, wife!

ANNE.
I cannot; I shall die!
I cannot now; some other time I will.

[Enter Winthrop.
WINTHROP.
Dear wife! dear Anne! oh, I grow young again,
Whene'er from absence I return to thee!
Sweet is the air around one's home, and sweet
The light that shines upon it, and more sweet
The faithful love that, like a holy lamp,
Burns night and day within its sanctuary!

ANNE.
Good husband, welcome back!

WINTHROP.
As I rode up
The park, and o'er the lawny slopes, and through
The spreading chestnuts saw our pleasant house,
And thought within myself how you and Mary
Were waiting my return with loving eyes,
Oft looking toward my coming, beck'ning me
With your fond wishes—oh! I bless'd my God
Who made me capable of love, and gave me
Such precious things to spend that love upon.
Draw not away thine hands, nor drop thy lids;
But fix those eyes, clear windows of thy soul,
And my most comfortable stars, upon me.
O Anne!

ANNE.
What are you thinking of?

WINTHROP.
O wife!
How savage and how wild a deed is hers,
That woman's, who, with cursed and cruel hands,
Shatters the crystal vial of her faith,
And on the stony paths of life throws forth
Her husband's honour, peace, and happiness,
To bleed to death; oh! 'tis a sin unransom'd!

ANNE.
O Heavens! what put that thought into your head?

WINTHROP.
The sense of mine own wealth; the sight of thee,
My treasure! and the dismal fate of one,
A man I've seen of late, who hath been thus spoil'd
By the familiar devil that lay in his breast,
His wife—nay, but this story moves thee more
Than I could wish—what, pale, and trembling, love!
Come cheer, come cheer, let's speak of something else.
Where is the child? where is my darling Mary?

ANNE.
She has gone heavily into the house
With a letter from James Forrester.

WINTHROP.
Ha! poor wench!
She's yet to prove the wise man's saying true—
Who loves and longs in a single day grows old.
But what's the news? ill news?

ANNE.
I scarcely know,
She'll tell you all anon; here's a letter come for you,
I have something crush'd it—

WINTHROP.
Let us see, my dame.
Ho, wife, here is brave news! Hark thee, good Anne,
Hie thee, and presently deck up the best guest chamber,
Let the damask hangings be spread all around it,
And stick fair branches of the early flowers
About—and strew the ground with lavender,
And lay the fine holland woof upon the bed.
My dearest friend, a man you've heard me speak of
For ever with good words, comes here to-day;
He writes me thus:—‘Strange chances, to be told
Hereafter, when we meet, have brought me now,
Within six miles of you; and so I purpose,
As soon as that six miles may be gone o'er,
To lodge beneath your roof a night.’ Dear Anne,
This is John Forrester, whose name you know,
The one true friend good Heaven has blest me with.
Go in, dear, and make ready with best speed,
And with our primest cheer and warmest welcome
Prepare all things. Oh, I'm merry, dear;
He hath yet to know thee, yet to see thee, Anne.
I have commended thee full oft to him,
And wish'd he could but know how happily
I was wived; make thyself brave, and show
I was no braggart.

ANNE.
I shall do my best, sir.
[Exit Anne.

WINTHROP.
Let's see, six years, come Martinmas six years,
Since last we met; and he hath grown a baronet,
And I have married, and a thousand things
To gossip on have pass'd since then. I marvel
What chance he hints at brings him hitherwards;
The late Sir John's estates lie not this way;
He says no word of James, nor of the news
Mary has gotten from him; well, well, well,
'Twill all be told 'twixt this and eventide.
Ho! Walter!
[Enter Servant.
Get thee to the cellarage,
And draw from the best butt of Burgundy,
And let me have sack of the eldest Sherris,
And bid them lay before the fire the haunch
Of the lusty buck, brought in o'Tuesday last.
We will have cheer, and rouse.
[Exit Servant.
And if he's got
A title and estates, I have a wife,
A fair young wife!

[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
One Sir John Forrester would see your worship.

WINTHROP.
Where is he?

SERVANT.
Here at hand, sir, but new lighted;
He follows on my heels.

WINTHROP.
Oh, bring him straight!

[Exit Servant. Re-enter with Sir John Forrester.
WINTHROP.
Welcome, thrice welcome, and again most welcome,
Good John! Sir John, for new-made honour
Loves its own name.

FORRESTER.
The man who once
Hath call'd you friend can find no better title,
My worthy friend and master.

WINTHROP.
Heart of gold!
Give me your hand; it warms my blood to see you
Once more at home, in this my home.

FORRESTER.
It looks
Most pleasantly, and lovingly, dear Winthrop!
In its new green; the old trees, with their limbs
Not hidden yet by their tender veil of leaves.
How happy I have been here!

WINTHROP.
And you shall
Be just as happy.

FORRESTER.
You are married now.

WINTHROP.
What then! you are no raking, mad companion,
Such as good housewives hate, who waste the night
Draining of wine-pledges; and my good wife
Loves me enough to love my friends right heartily.

FORRESTER.
'Tis strange you should be married!

WINTHROP.
Why, I've writ
Often enough to thee about the matter
To make it no more strange. Why, you look gravely.
Are you weary with your riding?

FORRESTER.
Not a whit.

WINTHROP.
Yet you look gravely. Adso! tell me now
What chance 'twas brought you near me, that you writ of.

FORRESTER.
If I look gravely, 'tis that very chance.
'Tis a close secret, not mine own to tell,
But a lady's.

WINTHROP.
Ha, lad! sits the wind that way?
Art thou for wiving too?

FORRESTER.
I never
Was further from it yet. No, I do think,
If a wedlock prosperous beyond my hope,
In the virtue, beauty, nobleness, and wealth
Of a bride were offer'd me, I should turn loathing from it
As though in my wine-cup I should spy a toad.

WINTHROP.
Why, what's the matter?

FORRESTER.
Oh! I have seen the inside
Of such a thing! the seamy, foul inside
Of what was held, is held, a prosperous wedlock.
I have seen that which, while I live, I think,
Will make my heart heave at the thought of marrying.

WINTHROP.
Why this is strange! You make me muse: e'en now
I have returned home from a sad errand,
Between a noble pair about to part,
The lady having past all mercy sinn'd,
And wreck'd by her ill-government the vessel
Of their whole lives' peace. Can it be possible
This plague is growing with us?

FORRESTER.
God forbid!
And once again I say it, God forbid!
Not in her stormy girdle of proud waves,
Not in the rugged ramparts of her rocks,
Not in the winged fleets that fly around her,
Guarding her watery gates, lies the defence
Of our dear country; but within her homes,
The virtue and the truth upgarner'd there,
Lives the right strength of England. Let but once
Rottenness creep to this, the inward core
Of all true bravery, and we are nothing.
O my dear country! dearer now that I
Return from foreign lands, to breathe again
Thy purer air—far be the day from thee,
When the vile pest of strange licentiousness,
Shall, like a poison, course within thy veins,
Tainting thy wholesome body, and taking from thee
The crown that thou hast worn since the first day
The sea did homage to thy milky cliffs,
Emblems of power and purity within!

WINTHROP.
Well pray'd, good Englishman; amen! and now
Let's brush away these ill thoughts from our minds:
Let's not, for one deceitful marriage, think
All marriages accurst,—I cannot think so;
And hope again to make revive in thee
The honourable esteem thou once hadst for it.
That I am married moves your marvel, Forrester;
You will be wider yet amazed, to hear
My wife is little more than half my years;
She might have been my daughter. Shall I tell you
Of her beauty? No, you will see her presently.
Of her virtuous excellence, and modest worth,
Her noble gentleness, her temperate pride,
Her loftiness of spirit, that gives her the mien
And gait of a sovereign queen? My good young friend,
Think not I dote—my life has found its crown
In a fair woman—oh! such a woman, John!
By heaven! I am ashamed to speak my mind of her,
Or tell another man, how high I rate
My wife—

FORRESTER.
I am impatient to behold her.
[Enter Mary.
Is this your lady? No, this is your sister,
For softened in each feature, I behold
The image of your face. Your sister, Winthrop,
Is a fair glass, reflecting back yourself.
Lady, by your leave!

WINTHROP.
She has clean forgotten thee.
Will you not ask Sir John after his brother?
But you care nothing for him; I remember,
You heed not how he fares, you will not ask;
So tell me, when comes Master James among us?

FORRESTER.
I hope in two days hence. Sweet Mistress Mary,
I was your playfellow once on a while;
My brother holds a happier fellowship with you.

WINTHROP.
But come, come, come, 'tis dinner-time, ha, wife!
[Enter Anne.
Are you come at last! Now, sir, here is the lady.
Anne, this is Sir John Forrester, my friend;
So bid him welcome to my house, sweet Anne.

ANNE.
You are very welcome!—

WINTHROP.
What's the matter?

ANNE.
Nothing:
You are very welcome to my husband's house.

FORRESTER.
As your husband's friend, fair madam, let me thank you,
And call myself yours as well as his.

WINTHROP.
Come in;
I have ridden hard, and have a stomach brooks not
Too much nice ceremony. Forrester, come,
Take in my lady, and do thou, sweet Mary,
Give me thy hand—ha, fie! 'tis given already;
But let's go in to dinner for all that.

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene 3.

A room in Judge Winthrop's house. Servants carry in dishes, and place them on the table. Enter Forrester and Anne, Winthrop and Mary; they seat themselves.
WINTHROP.
For his good gifts be the Lord thank'd! Now wife,
Fall to, and let us eat. What, you look gravely;
And you too, Forrester, wear yet a cloud
More dark than was before upon your brow,
And Mary mopes for company—or lack of it.
Come, fill your glasses, I will give you a pledge;
Fill to the brim! the present and the absent!
I'm sorry I'm the only one amongst you
That seems in humour with my dinner.

FORRESTER.
This is
A pleasant house, madam, that you live in here;
Yon sloping upland, crowned with leafy garlands
Of rocking woods, and that clear brimming river,
Make a perpetual pageant to the eye.
Is that water deep?

ANNE.
Yes—no—

WINTHROP.
Ay, deep enough
To drown thee, little wife, if thou should'st try it.

MARY.
You do not eat, sir,

WINTHROP.
No, nor drink.

FORRESTER.
One might
Be happy here.

WINTHROP.
One might! aye, and one is.
I'll say it, though my wife will not; is one not
Happy here, Anne?

ANNE.
I hope you're happy, sir.

FORRESTER.
Like one athirst, who buries all his head
In the cup from which he drinks, nor breathes, nor stirs,
Till he has drain'd to the very end; so we,
Quaffing sweet happiness, raise not our eyes
Over the brim to look beyond.

WINTHROP.
How now!
How now! I wear the grey hair here, yet I
Alone am merry; why, my friend, is it
A sin to thank Heaven for my blessings?

FORRESTER.
No;
But they are Heaven's, not yours, remember it.

WINTHROP.
Why you amaze me! shall I look around,
And see my life crown'd with each several joy
That life may hold, and which for the most part
Are singly dealt to mortals, nor combined
Upon one head; shall I be rich, and honour'd,
And loved, nor know it, nor be thankful for it!
Go to! 'tis not thy grave face or grave words
Shall fright me from my mirth; and still I say,
There breathes no happier man in England now,
In England—in the world than I am!

[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Sir,
A rider who just spurred to the gate, threw this
Into my hands, and straight across the park
Gallop'd in foaming haste, shouting me back,
To put it in your worship's hands—none other.
It must be very urgent, for his horse
Was smoking with his speed, and from his mouth
Flew the white foam flakes, and his nostrils puff'd
With snorting breath the air, while his vein'd sides,
All dark with sweat, panted beneath his rider.
He did not stay a minute for his errand,
But wheel'd and fled, as one pursued for life.

WINTHROP
(opens the letter).
What!

[He starts up, they all rise.
ANNE.
What's the matter?

MARY.
Brother!

FORRESTER.
What is it?

WINTHROP.
Nothing; sit down!

ANNE.
For mercy's sake!

WINTHROP.
Sit down!
I say—none stir, that—sit—sit—sit ye down!
I will be back anon.
[Exit Winthrop.

ANNE.
Oh, I am lost!

Scene 4.

Judge Winthrop's garden. Enter Winthrop, hurriedly, with letters in his hand.
WINTHROP.
So—here is air—so—so—one may breathe here;
And daylight—I can see to read; and room
If I should swell with rage to bursting, or
Go mad, or rave like an unchain'd dog; but none
To bite; yet I will bite. Hell and its devils! here,
And here, and here—two, three, all hers—all writ by her.
Let's see, let's see—God give me patience! ‘Dearest,
He is from home to-night’—He! ha! ha! ha!
The dolt, the horned beast, led i' the noose,
And ridden by this piece of painted flesh—
‘He is from home to-night; he will be gone
For yet two days. Come, and be safe and happy.’
Let me not die, good Heaven! let me not!
A palsy shakes in my limbs, yet let me live
An hour—but one—to blast her. Devil! oh, devil!
‘The old man.’ Old! curst be thy poisonous youth!
Viper! forked viper! woman! wife! What, shame!
What, pointed at as I go thro' the streets
For her lewdness; the old doting fool, who kept
A wanton wife to cut his honour's throat,
And drive him raging mad into his grave!
I'll murder her, I will; now, now, with the knife
That lies on the table yonder! Better, better—
I'll have her dragg'd before the court; I'll have her
In a sheet, barefoot, walk thro' the public ways;
She shall be haul'd through the mud, and hooted at,
And hiss'd—my wife—my wife—ha! ha! ha! ha!
And I, the Judge, the—oh!

[Enter Mary.
MARY.
Good brother!—brother!
Why have you left the room so suddenly?

WINTHROP.
Where's Mistress Winthrop?—where's my wife?

MARY.
Within,
Much grieved at your distemperature.

WINTHROP.
Kind soul!
Sweet loving wife! what wonder'd, ha? and sigh'd,
What might the matter be? she did, did she?
Ha! ha! ha! ha!

MARY.
Come in.

WINTHROP.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!

MARY.
In God's name, what's the matter? brother—brother!

WINTHROP.
Is she alone? who's with her?

MARY.
Sir John Forrester.

WINTHROP.
What! did you leave her all alone with him—
Alone with a man?—did you not know she is—

MARY.
What?

WINTHROP.
Oh, a very modest woman, so make haste
And get to her again. Leave me, d'ye hear!
And send her to me.
[Exit Mary.
I am going mad:
Fire dances all about before my eyes,
And my blood bubbles boiling up and down,
And the air is hot as hell blasts. I will not—
I'll not go mad until I speak with her;
My brain shall hold, I will not drivel yet;
Not yet for one half hour, and then, great God!
Blot out my sense for ever! let me become
In all things as in this—a crazy idiot,
With eyes wide blind, and neither thought or memory.
No memory, good Heaven! no memory!

[Enter Anne.
ANNE.
The earth sinks in under my feet! I'm blind
With terror.

WINTHROP.
I do hear her feet, and the rustle
Of her clothes; she's coming near me; if she touches me
I shall surely murder her.

ANNE.
Sir, I am here.

WINTHROP.
Oh, are you so?

ANNE.
Mercy! oh, mercy, mercy!
You know it all.

WINTHROP.
What do I know?—say what?
What do I know? or rather, what know you,
That like a vile thing you lie there i' the dust,
Kissing my feet? Oh, for some ready weapon,
To let thy hot blood from thy veins!

ANNE.
Oh, husband!

WINTHROP.
Peace, devil! wilt thou utter such a word?
What is't? thy screen, thy cover-shame, thy curtain,
That decently keeps thy foulness from the world.
Infamous creature!

ANNE.
Oh, have mercy! help!

WINTHROP.
Close up thy lips! utter no sound! by Heaven,
If thou but breathe aloud I'll murder thee!
What, wilt thou raise the house, the neighbourhood?
Shall your servants and your gossips come to gape
Upon your shame?—perhaps they know it, though!
Perhaps your grooms, and footmen too, had word
Of when I lay from home. How many,—say,
How many hast thou entertain'd?

ANNE.
O God!

WINTHROP.
I'll have thee branded in the forehead, wanton!
Shalt thou walk forth with that white brow, and those
Blue eyes, that look like summer depths in Heaven.
And none know what's behind that goodly mask?
Thou shalt be labell'd, pointed at, as I am;
I'll have thee set i' the public pillory,
Thou shalt be spit at, grinn'd at, hooted at—
Thou shalt, thou shalt, though I die at the foot of it.

ANNE.
One word!—yet hear me!

WINTHROP.
Wilt thou touch me?

ANNE.
Mercy!

WINTHROP.
Hold off thy hands, or I will trample thee
Under my feet, here as thou liest! What's this?
Ha! ha! ha! ha! good wife! her wedding ring!
What dost thou wear this for? for sport? for mock?
Off with it!—off, I say! and find some badge
That fits thy liberal life; give it, I say!
Cursed be the day when first I put it on thee!
Oh, if there be a power that hears the curses
Of injured men, let it give ear to mine!
Mayst thou fall down from baseness unto baseness,
Till in the mud and filth of lowest infamy
Thou liest wallowing! May thy fatal beauty
Turn to a scarr'd and loathsome hideousness,
Thy lovers, who have fed upon thy wantonness,
Spurn at thee with abhorrence; mayst thou die,
Flung off like some foul rag, i' the common streets.
Mayst thou—

[He falls down.
ANNE.
Oh! he is dead! I've murder'd him! help! help!