University of Virginia Library

ACT SECOND.

SCENE I.

Benendine Castle.
Moore, Faucet, Collier.
Fau.
I give you joy, noble Sir Anthony,
Of those high honours, lands, and offices,
The king hath heap'd on you.

Moore.
I'll none of them;
Those that are wrested from the house of Cecil
Shall ne'er by me be own'd.

Fau.
By whom then shall they?
Cecil hath forfeited, and by the king
Those lands to you are gifted—they are yours;
And think you Cecil will accept these lands
As largess from a Moore, or hold them so?
No, trust me, were he begging out the way,
Want-worn and weary, you the while low kneeling,
And proffering him a kingdom, he would spurn you;
Ay, with his foot he'd spurn you and pass on.

Moore.
He is a great man fallen; and his high spirit,
Unknowing how to stoop, outbears itself,
And hate and rage ungovern'd on him prey.
I pity him.—O he does wrong me much
In weening I have wrought this dire disgrace
Unto his house.—'Tis true that I have risen
Over his head—upon his ruin risen—
But never by plot of mine.

Fau.
(Aside.)
Some plotted for you, knight,
And that right deeply.

Moore.
In spite of all the opprobrious names
That he bestows on me, I love old Cecil.
O there's a secret charm that binds me to him;
A tie so delicate, so undefinable,
I know not how to name it.—I could even kneel
And clasp his knees, though he should spurn me thence.
If he would smile on me, and shake my hand,
And call me son, and give me son's applause,
My feelings might be envied.—Have you heard
Of my late venture in the realm of love,
And of my goodly prize?

Fau.
Partly I have, but nought distinctly learn'd.

Moore.
Why do you not, then, give me joy on that,
Dearer to me than wealth and titles are?
And you too, Collier, when I told you of it,
You seem'd astounded.—Wherefore this reserve?

Fau.
I know of no event so requisite
As union of your house with that of Cecil.

Moore.
Ha? Say'st thou so?—Give me thy hand, brave Faucet.
Thy valour only parallels thy wisdom.
Thou never said'st a word in all thy life
I loved so well to hear.—I rightly judged
That thy discernment could not overlook
This high impediment to England's weal.

Fau.
The reconcilement's much to be desired;
And any way but this I would support it
With all my power—but 'tis impossible!—
Would I had ne'er been born, rather than known
That I do know, and hear what now I hear!

Moore.
Impossible!—How is't impossible?—
What hast thou known and heard?—Am I in truth
In my right mind? And do I hear and see
As I was wont?—Do I look Barnard Faucet,
My dearest friend, i'the face, and hear him speak?
If so, I comprehend no share of it.

Fau.
Knight, thou hast done a deed the most unmeet—
The most pernicious to thy peace and honour,
That headlong passion could have urged thee to.
We'll talk no more on't—'Tis a theme that bars
All patient converse; the bare mention of it
Wounds in the tenderest part—name it no more.

Moore.
Ay, but we must, and shall talk on it, Faucet;
For thou hast touch'd the tenderest chord that breathes
Its music to the soul, which, when 'tis jarr'd,
It is not to be borne.

Fau.
If we must talk on't,
Prithee, not seriously, but let us turn it
To what I ween it is, a goodly jest.

Moore.
Thy words are dreams to me; I cannot grasp
In them substantial object, nor discern
The slightest shade or outline of their tendence.—
Can'st thou, Sir Richard, give me cue to them?

(Collier shakes his head and turns away.— Moore looks confounded.—Pause.)
Fau.
Come let's be gay on't.—If you'll not look gay,
And laugh, and jest, I bar all farther converse.
That thing that finally must be a jest,
The sooner so the better.—Say, Sir Anthony,
How brook'st thou wedlock?—Is the golden chain
So rivetted it galls and festers thee?
Or hangs it on thy neck so loose that thou
Can'st slip the noose, and run whene'er thou wilt?
It must do so; I need not ask that question.—
Still in the clouds?—Why starest thou so, Sir Anthony?
I'm serious now; whene'er I jest I'm serious.
I give you joy of your right gleesome spouse,
And much I'm sure you found, for you had vantage
That many a good man lacks.

Moore.
Prithee be plain;
Thy friend requests it.—What advantage mean'st thou?

Fau.
Thou had'st not to o'ercome that bashful modesty;
That trifling, trembling, teazing delicacy,
That many an honest man full sore hath plagued,
For thou didst clasp a right complaisant bride.

Moore.
No more, I say.—If thou presumest to vend
More of such garbage counterfeit, I'll pay it
In coin thou hast not palm'd.

Fau.
Nay, then I'm dumb.
If you'll be serious on so light a subject,
I've done with it.—But if you'll laugh as I do,
And you must shortly do, why then I'll tell you
A secret—a most nice and witching secret—
A bride-bed secret.—I'll give you the words,
The very words, and manner of those words
Which one address'd to you—But in your ear,
(He mutters in Moore's ear, who starts in astonishment, and puts his hand several times on his sword.)
And when she said thus, she did throw her arms
Around your neck, and kiss'd you; and you trow'd
These words had never before been said to man,
Nor such a kiss bestow'd, and it did melt you.
Once she misnamed you, seeming as she ween'd
You other man; that somewhat startled you,
But it was soon forgot.—Is this not true?—
Patience—No blustering nor rage, I say.
Speak as I speak to you—Is this not truth?

Moore.
Beshrew my heart, but what thou say'st is true,
As far as memory gathers to a grain.
How thou hast come possest, is far beyond
The fathom of my mind.—But this to me
Thou shalt explain.

Fau.
Shalt!—None of your Shalts.
Say—“Please Sir Barnard Faucet to explain
This point obscure,” or mystery, you may call it.
Yes, call it mystery, or motley jest,
Or some such matter beg me to explain;
But do it cheerly, else you never shall
Learn farther.—List to me, Sir Anthony:—
If I can prove the feeling scene just named,
Which so affected you, was then enacted,
Though not with you—say for the eightieth,
Or for the hundredth time, will you then laugh
At your right gleesome and ridiculous match?

Moore.
Wretch!—Villain! if thou darest insinuate
One other shade of such blasphemous hue,
Thou speak'st thy doom or mine.

Fau.
I'm dumb.
I've said too much, if thou indeed art serious.

Moore.
Serious! Sir Knight—The name of Caroline
To me is sacred; for her spotless honour
I'll brave the proudest eye o'erlooks a beard.

Fau.
'Tis a bold threat, but safe; for well I ween
There's none will lift the quarrel.—I'll not do it.
Fight for the honour of Dame Caroline,
And that to blood!—No, by the scarlet queen
That rests upon the waters!—For 'tis more
Than she herself e'er proffer'd—though I've braved
That honour's creamy front oftener than reckon'd.
Come, Collier, come; our foes advance apace,
And we have much at stake.—We came not here
To rail and banter about woman's honour;
Sir Anthony, who values it, may claim
My right in the fee simple of the whole
For three brass Edwards.—He who throws the glove
In guard of that, will have warm work of it
And stunted thanks.—I'll fight for woman's life,
Her freedom, and her rights, even to a tittle;
But not her honour!—
I will fight for aught,
Even to a grey stone or an English heath-bush,—
But not for women's honour!—No!—

(Exit Faucet.—Moore lays hold of Collier, who is following.)
Moore.
O Collier, stay—allay this burning heat
By some solution cool and rational.
Does Faucet rave?—Or whereto bears his scorn,
Unfold to me, Sir Richard.

Col.
I may not say
Even that I know of this.—My heart's more wrung
Than yours by the event; but question not,
For I'll not answer further word than this,
Would it had been to do!
(Exit Collier.)

Moore.
Would it had been to do!—He may not say
Even what he knows of it!—Such hints I've had,
So broad and so dismantled, that my mind
Stares on a blank.—Our closest bride-bed converse
Mouth'd in foul jest!—Ye fountain-springs of madness!
What does this mean?—I need not pause, nor scan,
Nor lay position, for my mind's benumb'd,—
The very dwarfs of calculation flout me.
I see before me only sterile void,
A waste of misery and despair, that leads
Either to nothingness in mind's avail,
Or something worse which language has not term'd.
I'll seek those knights again—I know their love
Unbiass'd and sincere—and force them speak
All that they know.—I'll rather feign to laugh,
And turn it to a jest, than suffer thus.

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

An Apartment in a Castle.
Cecil sitting on a Chair guarded—his Sons standing by him, one on each side.
Geo.
Pardon, my loved and ever honour'd father,
This harsh entreatment—other course was not
To bar thee from a deed most impious.

Cecil.
Thou puny passive surcle, darest thou say
I had not right and ample cause to slay her?

Geo.
Haply, my lord, they both meant honourably,
And ween'd their marriage might unite our houses,
Whose rivalry has caused such grievous woes.

Cecil.
Such word to me again, thou shallow dunce,
And I'll dislodge thy being—Ay, though prison'd,
The man who speaks of union with the Moore
To me, I'll crush him—with my foot I'll crush him.
And for prevention I will have her life;
I say I'll have my daughter's life.

Geo.
Rather we'll hold thee
Immured or bound for ever—Could you see
Our darling Caroline bathed in her blood
By her own father's hand, and her dim eye
Turn'd to the heaven to seek forgiveness there?
Even for her murderer to ask forgiveness?
Ah! could you bear that sight? Or could the afterthought
By man be suffer'd?

Cecil.
Thank you, Sir Priest,
For that divine and beautiful remark.
Damn'd chattering sycophant!—thank you, sir—
I'm much beholden to you—pray go on—
Bestow thy sage advice on me, and say
What's due to Caroline?

Geo.
Turn her from hence a beggar—
Disown her—suffer none to shelter her.
Let her go seek her Moore, since she preferr'd him
To him who gave her life and loved her so.
If he acknowledge her as his true spouse,
And lady of his princely fair domains,
Why, he deserves her—and, I needs must say,
Claims our respect—But should he shun, or flout,
Or finally reject her, then he shows
In his true colours to the world—a wretch!
And all the power of England shall not shroud him.

Cecil.
By heaven and earth, boy, thou say'st notably,
Moth, pedant as thou art. Straight go and see
This executed with the utmost rigour.
And that old hag, her nurse and tutoress—
O lash me her!—I thirst to see the crone
Scourged to a gangrene—and her very tongue—
Enter Esther suddenly.
In hell's name, where goest thou?

Est.
Ah! Is he confined?

Cecil.
No, he's not confined—
He's at thy ears—thy throat, old night-mare!
Avaunt, thou portrait of pollution!

Est.
Alas! my lord,
Till all was done, I nothing knew of this.

Cecil.
Thou did'st, thou did'st, thou did'st, thou knew'st it all,
Plann'd, urged the encounter, and enjoy'd the fall
Of innocence, as thy great master did
When mask'd in Eden—All of it was thine,
The scheme and the fulfilment!—O thou brand!
Thou hemlock hag! I'll have thee sear'd and toasted
To a pure mummy, and preserved in oil,
That not one atom of thy guilty frame
Be lacking at the doom—O for this deed,
Thou yet shall steep in the blue depth of hell,
The sport of scavengers!—Let me come at her.
I ask but of the witch one twist.
(They hold him and make signs to her—She runs off—They lead him off at the opposite side— saying, as he retires,)
She knew it all—she knew it all, &c.

(Growling.)
(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

A Grove.
Collier, Faucet.
Col.
Faucet, this is the most outrageous wrong
That ever on two honest hearts was practised.

Fau.
Yes, and it grieves me; but thou art aware
Our final ruin is the consequence
Of such unition.

Col.
It is too apparent.

Fau.
Therefore it us behoves with all our power
To frustrate and undo the fatal match.

Col.
It is a most cruel and unfriendly game!

Fau.
Ay, but the stake we play for, think of that,
And judge if woman's sighs are countervail.
A maid's regret is quickly overpast.
I love Sir Anthony, nor would do aught
Against his good—but I avouch this step
Tends neither to his honour nor his peace—
He's safer far without her—Keep we there.

Col.
Thou did'st astonish me not less than him—
How camest thou by their secret chamber converse?

Fau.
I have a cue none wots of; and, besides,
So long an inmate of her father's house,
I know her bye-words and her pretty oaths,
And all the sly unmeaning terms that hang
Upon her flexile tongue, and nothing lack
But syllables to give them birth in music.
A woman's tongue's the mere machine of feeling;
Nor motive needs of ripen'd thought to move it—
It wags of will—so well I know all this,
She could not in nice circumstance be placed,
That I would not recite some words she utter'd.
Though not precisely, he was then in mood
To have believed it, whether true or not.
Words said in transport barely are remember'd—
I knew I could give that would make the whole
Like truth direct.

Col.
Whom do you mean to blame
As her seducer? Will you criminate
A stranger, or yourself?

Fau.
Nay you, perhaps;
If you affect, you shall the honours wear
Of this high envied prize.

Col.
I would rather not,
If you so please— (Bowing.)
—I humbly thank you, knight.

Fau.
But here the hero comes in woeful guise;
Leave it to me, Sir Richard.

Col.
I do most cordially.

Enter Moore.
Moore.
You left me too abruptly, brother warriors—
You do not wish that women thus should part us?

Fau.
Therefore we left you.

Moore.
Thou wast short, my Faucet,
Obscure, and harsh, and I must beg thee solve
Thy hideous riddle, for its folds have nigh
Reft me of reason.

Fau.
On my life, my lord,
This is too much!—I, in my turn, must beg
Of thee never to name the subject more.
Talk of aught else, of battles, or alarms,
And I'll consort thee, for such talk becomes us.
But thus to harp on such a theme as woman!
That puling, puking, garnish'd levity!
I hate them all, yet never so as now.

Moore.
Few words will serve:—In pity, Faucet, say
All that thou know'st, for something thou dost know
Of most vile import.

Fau.
Dost thou think I love thee?

Moore.
Did I e'er doubt it?

Fau.
I have set my life
On a dead hazard, even for thine honour;
Not once or twice, but often.

Moore.
Yes, thou hast.
My generous friend, I cannot doubt thy love.

Fau.
Then, in one word, this sickening love engagement
Must go no farther—It must either pass
For trick of gallantry, else you and I
Meet not again—The feeling's much beyond
What I can suffer—Must I tell you all?

Moore.
All, every thing—I am prepared for it.

Fau.
Thou know'st her chamber in the eastern turret,
And the fruit-ladder's needful aidance well?
Into that midnight chamber I've been welcomed,
I need not say how oft.
(Moore draws his sword slowly out of the sheath, eyeing him the while.)
Nay, strike, my lord;
If I have wrong'd thee, strike, for this is true.
Could I bear this?—Can I see you enthrall'd
By one that mocks you?—This is not the whole:
I have heard patterings at her window-board,
And her smooth sounding name breathed by the sash,
Soft as the whisper of the autumn breeze.
(Calls in a whisper)
“Caroline, Caroline—wakest thou, my Caroline?
“Chill hangs the night-dew on thy lover's cheek,
“And scarce a star peeps through the rack of heaven!
“O take him to thy bosom, Caroline!”
Did'st thou thyself aye gain admittance there?

Moore.
Damnation on't!
Why do you ask whether I did or not?

Fau.
Finding my conquest shared, I stranger grew;
But late, returning from the wars, I went
Unknowing aught of thee, and was received—

Moore.
Hold, hold! no more! I see it all, and know
How you possest our converse—Infamous!

Fau.
She told me all, and laugh'd at you—I fled
As from a serpent's touch—Am I to blame?

Moore.
No, no, in friendship thou art honourable.
Most infamous, abandon'd cub!—she shall
Pay dear for this!—Curse the whole sex!—I loathe them!
Faucet, think'st thou that hell had ever been
Unless for women?

Fau.
Pray view this as it is,
A jest—sheer gallantry!—Such things are done
In England every day.

Moore.
(Furiously.)
A jest, Sir Barnard!
Did'st thou say jest?—Now, by the soul of him that—
I was about to swear a dreadful oath,
But I'll not do it— (Feigns carelessness.)
—View it as a jest?
Why, so I do—it is a jest—Ha, ha!
(Laughs in his throat, then starts and looks serious.)
'Tis but a dream, a phantasy—but then
'Tis such a pressure on the soul—a blight
Upon the harvest of fair purposes,
The reaper's paralized—Did'st thou say jest?
Then 'tis no dream—Damn him that says it is
One or the other—he that ever said
Or framed such perilous blasphemy as this
Within his heart—Oh, I forgot;
It is a jest, ha, ha!—A goodly one
That soon will set mankind even to the lees,
Grinning like monkies!—Out upon them all,
The neighing chattering race—and you—and you!

(As they support him off, he alternately laughs franticly, and looks enraged.