_Enter_ Henrique, _and_ Violante.
_Viol_.
Is it my fault, _Don Henrique_, or my fate?
What's my offence? I came young to your bed,
I had a fruitfull Mother, and you met me
With equall ardour in your _May_ of blood;
And why then am I barren?
_Hen_.
'Tis not in Man
To yield a reason for the will of Heaven,
Which is inscrutable.
_Viol_.
To what use serve
Full fortunes, and the meaner sort of blessings,
When that, which is the Crown of all our wishes,
The period of humane happiness,
One only Child that may possess what's ours,
Is cruelly deni'd us?
_Hen_.
'Tis the curse
Of great Estates to want those Pledges, which
The poor are happy in: They in a Cottage,
With joy, behold the Models of their youth,
And as their Root decaies, those budding Branches
Sprout forth and flourish, to renew their age;
But this is the beginning, not the end
Of misery to me, that 'gainst my will
(Since Heaven denies us Issue of our own)
Must leave the fruit of all my care and travel
To an unthankfull Brother that insults
On my Calamity.
_Viol_.
I will rather choose
A Bastard from the Hospital and adopt him,
And nourish him as mine own.
_Hen_.
Such an evasion
(My _Violante_) is forbid to us;
Happy the Romane State, where it was lawfull,
(If our own Sons were vicious) to choose one
Out of a vertuous Stock, though of poor Parents,
And make him noble. But the laws of _Spain_,
(Intending to preserve all ancient Houses)
Prevent such free elections; with this, my Brother's
Too well acquainted, and this makes him bold to
Reign o're me, as a Master.
_Viol_.
I will fire
The Portion I brought with me, e're he spend
A Royal of it: no Quirck left? no Quiddit
That may defeat him?
_Hen_.
Were I but confirmed,
That you would take the means I use with patience,
As I must practise it with my dishonour,
I could lay level with the earth his hopes
That soar above the clouds with expectation
To see me in my grave.
_Viol_. Effect but this,
And our revenge shall be to us a Son
That shall inherit for us.
_Hen_.
Do not repent
When 'tis too late.
_Viol_.
I fear not what may fall
He dispossess'd that does usurp on all.
[_Exeunt_.
_Actus Secundus. Scena Prima_.
_Enter_ Leandro, (_with a letter writ out_) Milanes, _and_ Arsenio.
_Mil_.
Can any thing but wonder?
_Lea_.
Wonder on,
I am as ye see, and, what will follow, Gentlemen?
_Ars_.
Why dost thou put on this form? what can this do?
Thou lookest most sillily.
_Mil_.
Like a young Clerk,
A half pin'd-puppy that would write for a Royal.
Is this a commanding shape to win a beauty?
To what use, what occasion?
_Lean_.
Peace, ye are fools,
More silly than my out-side seems, ye are ignorant;
They that pretend to wonders must weave cunningly.
_Ars_.
What manner of access can this get? or if gotten
What credit in her eyes?
_Lean_.
Will ye but leave me?
_Mil_.
Me thinks a young man and a handsom Gentleman
(But sure thou art lunatick) me thinks a brave man
That would catch cunningly the beams of beauty,
And so distribute 'em unto his comfort,
Should like himself appear, young, high, and buxom,
And in the brightest form.
_Lean_.
Ye are cozen'd (Gentlemen)
Neither do I believe this, nor will follow it,
Thus as I am, I will begin my voyage.
When you love, lanch it out in silks and velvets,
I'le love in Serge, and will outgo your Sattins.
To get upon my great horse and appear
The sign of such a man, and trot my measures,
Or fiddle out whole frosty nights (my friends)
Under the window, while my teeth keep tune,
I hold no handsomness. Let me get in,
There trot and fiddle where I may have fair play.
_Ars_.
But how get in?
_Lean_.
Leave that to me, your patience,
I have some toyes here that I dare well trust to:
I have smelt a Vicar out, they call him _Lopez_.
You are ne're the nearer now.
_Mil_.
We do confess it.
_Lea_.
Weak simple men, this Vicar to this Lawyer
Is the most inward _Damon_.
_Ars_.
What can this do?
_Mil_.
We know the fellow, and he dwells there.
_Lean_. So.
_Ars_.
A poor, thin thief: he help? he? hang the Vicar,
Can reading of an ---- prefer thee?
Thou art dead-sick in love, and hee'l pray for thee.
_Lean_.
Have patience (Gentlemen) I say this Vicar,
This thing I say is all one with the Close _Bartolus_
(For so they call the Lawyer) or his nature
Which I have studied by relation:
And make no doubt I shall hit handsomly,
Will I work cunningly, and home: understand me.
_Enter_ Lopez, _and_ Diego.
Next I pray leave me, leave me to my fortune
_Difficilia pulchra_, that's my Motto (Gentlemen)
I'le win this Diamond from the rock and wear her,
Or--
_Mil_.
Peace, the Vicar: send ye a full sail, Sir.
_Ars_.
There's your Confessor, but what shall be your penance?
_Lean_.
A fools head if I fail, and so forsake me.
You shall hear from me daily.
_Mil_.
We will be ready.
[_Exeunt _Mil. Ars.
_Lop_.
Thin world indeed!
_Lean_.
I'le let him breath and mark him:
No man would think a stranger as I am
Should reap any great commodity from his pigbelly.
_Lop_.
Poor stirring for poor Vicars.
_Diego_. And poor Sextons.
_Lop_.
We pray and pray, but to no purpose,
Those that enjoy our lands, choak our Devotions.
Our poor thin stipends make us arrant dunces.
_Diego_.
If you live miserably, how shall we do (Master)
That are fed only with the sound of prayers?
We rise and ring the Bells to get good stomachs,
And must be fain to eat the ropes with reverence.
_Lop_.
When was there a Christning, _Diego_?
_Diego_.
Not this ten weeks:
Alas, they have forgot to get children (Master)
The Wars, the Seas, and usurie undoe us,
Takes off our minds, our edges, blunts our plough-shares.
They eat nothing here, but herbs, and get nothing but green sauce:
There are some poor Labourers, that perhaps
Once in seven year, with helping one another,
Produce some few pin'd-Butter-prints, that scarce hold
The christning neither.
_Lop_.
Your Gallants, they get Honour,
A strange fantastical Birth, to defraud the Vicar,
And the Camp Christens their Issues, or the Curtizans,
'Tis a lewd time.
_Die_.
They are so hard-hearted here too,
They will not dye, there's nothing got by Burials.
_Lop_.
_Diego_, the Air's too pure, they cannot perish.
To have a thin Stipend, and an everlasting Parish,
Lord what a torment 'tis!
_Die_.
Good sensible Master,
You are allow'd to pray against all weathers,
(Both foul, and fair, as you shall find occasion)
Why not against all airs?
_Lop_.
That's not i'th' Canons.
I would it had, 'tis out of our way forty pence.
_Die_.
'Tis strange, they are starv'd too yet they will not die here,
They will not earth: a good stout plague amongst 'em,
Or half a dozen new fantastical Fevers
That would turn up their heels by whole-sale (Master)
And take the Doctors too, in their grave Counsels,
That there might be no natural help for mony:
How merrily would my Bells goe then?
_Lop_. Peace _Diego_,
The Doctors are our friends, let's please them well.
For though they kill but slow, they are certain, _Diego_,
We must remove into a muddy Air,
A most contagious Climate.
_Die_.
We must certain,
An air that is the nursery of agues,
Such agues (Master) that will shake mens souls out,
Ne're stay for Possets, nor good old wives plasters.
_Lop_.
Gowts and dead Palsies.
_Die_.
The dead do's well at all times,
Yet Gowts will hang an arse a long time (Master)
The Pox, or English Surfeits if we had 'em;
Those are rich marle, they make a Church-yard fat,
And make the Sexton sing, they never miss, Sir.
_Lop_.
Then Wills and Funeral Sermons come in season,
And Feasts that make us frolick.
_Die_.
Would I could see 'em.
_Lop_.
And though I weep i'th' Pulpit for my Brother,
Yet (_Diego_) here I laugh.
_Die_.
The cause requires it.
_Lop_.
Since people left to die I am dunce, _Diego_.
_Die_. 'Tis a strange thing, I have forgot to dig too.
_Lea_.
A pretious pair of youths! I must make toward'em.
_Lop_.
Who's that? look it seems he would speak to us.
I hope a Marriage, or some Will to make, _Diego_.
_Die_.
My friend your business?
_Lea_.
'Tis to that grave Gentleman;
Bless your good learning, Sir.
_Lop_.
And bless you also,
He bears a promising face, there's some hope toward.
_Lea_.