University of Virginia Library

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.)