Act II. For the scene between Beaumelle and her maids is substituted

another coloquy of similar import but chastened tone. A brief scene

of no especial significance is inserted at the beginning of Act III,

in the interval between which and the preceding Act three weeks

are supposed to have elapsed; the rest of Act III follows much the

same course as the original, save that the application of Romont to

Rochfort and his foiling by the stratagem of Beaumelle and Bellapert

are omitted. A really notable departure is found in the discovery of

the amour by Charalois. According to Sheil, Novall Junior and his

mistress attempt to elope, but the note which appoints their rendezvous

falls into Charalois’ hands, and he waits for the lovers and surprises

them, killing Novall off-stage. The Fifth Act opens with a scene of

a few lines only, in which Beaumont bears to Rochfort a request from

Charalois to meet him in the church yard. Then follows a lugubrious

scene in the dead of night beside the tomb of the hero’s father,

to which place are transferred the reconciliation between Charalois

and Romont, and the judgment of Rochfort! Beaumelle, however, does

not appear during the trial, and upon the paternal sentence of doom,

Charalois reveals her body, slain already by his hand. To the father

he vindicates his action in much the same words as in Massinger’s

last court-room scene, and then, on the appearance of Novall Senior

clamoring for vengeance and accompanied by the minions of the law,

stabs himself.

The version of Sheil follows with but occasional exceptions the

language of the original wherever possible. It makes some slight

changes in the minor characters.

Sheil’s redaction was also presented at Bath on February 18 and 21,

Romont being acted by Hamblin, Charalois by Warde, Beaumelle by Miss E.

Tree. “Hamblin never appeared to so much advantage--in the scene with

Novall he reminded one strongly of John Kemble,” says Genest (_Hist.

Dra. and Stage in Eng._, IX, 322).

At Sadler’s Wells, Samuel Phelps, who at that time was reviving a

number of the old dramas, took the stage in _The Fatal Dowry_ on August

27, 1845. This, however, was Sheil’s version, and not the original

play of Massinger and Field, as has been sometimes supposed. It ranked

as one of his four chief productions of that year. He, too, chose for

himself the part of Romont, which was considered by many his greatest

quasi-tragic role. Marston appeared as Charalois, G. Bennett as

Rochfort, and Miss Cooper as Beaumelle.

_The Fatal Dowry_ in substantially its own proper form does not appear

ever to have been acted after Jacobean times.

* * * * *

If the stage career of _The Fatal Dowry_ has been meagre, not so the

extent of its influence. Its literary parenthood begins before “the

closing of the theatres” and continues even to our own day. As early as

1638 it was echoed in _The Lady’s Trial_ of Ford. Here the figures of

Auria, Adurni, Aurelio, and Spinella correspond roughly with Charalois,

young Novall, Romont, and Beaumelle respectively. Auria has gone

to the wars, and in his absence his wife is pursued by Adurni, who

sits at table with her in private, when Aurelio breaks in upon them,

bursting open the doors. Spinella bitterly resents the intrusion and

the aspersions of the intruder, and when, on the return home of Auria,

Aurelio accuses her to him, it is without shaking his faith in her

loyalty. Here the analogy ends: spite of Auria’s incredulousness there

is no rupture between the friends; Spinella establishes her innocence;

and Adurni, while guilty enough in his intent against her, shows

himself thereafter to be an essentially noble youth, who will defend

to any length the lady’s honor which has become subject to question

through fault of his, and for this gallant reparation, is not only

forgiven, but even cherished ever after by the husband he had sought to

wrong.

The more steadily one regards the man John Ford and his work, the more

probable does it appear that the relationship between _The Fatal Dowry_

and _The Lady’s Trial_ is not one of mere reminiscence or influence,

but of direct parentage. That strange and baleful figure, who seems

almost a modern Decadent born out of his time, had a profound interest

in moral problems, to the study of which he brought morbid ethical

sensibilities scarce matched before the latter nineteenth century.

(Witness his conception, in _The Broken Heart_, of a loveless marriage

as tantamount to adultery.) Ford’s talent for invention was deficient

to the extent that he was hard put to it for plots. It is not at all

unlikely that he surveyed the Massingerian tragedy, and, repelled by

the conduct of its figures, exclaimed to himself: “I will write a play

to centre around a situation as incriminating as that of Act III of

_The Fatal Dowry_; but my personages will be worthier characters; I

will show a lady who, spite of appearances, is of stainless innocence

and vindicates her husband’s trust in the face of evidence; I will show

a friendship strong enough to endure an honestly mistaken aspersion put

upon the chastity of a wife, though the charge is not for one moment

credited; I will show that even the would-be seducer may be a fine

fellow at bottom, and set forth a generous emulation in magnanimity

between him and the husband. See how finely everything would work out

with the _right_ sort of people!” It is at least a plausible hypothesis.

Nicholas Rowe, who was the first modern editor of Shakespeare,

contemplated also an edition of Massinger, but gave up the project that

he might more safely plunder one of his plays. Rowe’s famous tragedy,

_The Fair Penitent_, was deliberately stolen from _The Fatal Dowry_.

It appeared in 1703, and spite of a ludicrous accident[13] which cut

short its first run, took rank as one of the most celebrated dramas of

the English stage. Rowe lived during the vogue of the “She-tragedy,”

while the canons of literary criticism of his day demanded a “regular,”

pseudo-classical form and a sententious tone. Accordingly, in his hands

the chief figure in the play, as is evidenced by the change in title,

becomes the guilty wife, here called Calista, who is “now the evil

queen of the heroic plays; now the lachrymose moralizer;” the theme is

indeed _her_ story, not Altamont’s (Charalois)--her seduction (prior

to the nuptuals and before the opening of the play), her grief, her

plight, her exposure, her death;--she holds the centre of the stage

to the very end. The number of the _dramatis personae_ is cut down

to eight; all touches of comedy are excised; and the double plot of

the original is unified by the bold stroke of throwing back to a time

before the opening of the play the entire episode of the unburied

corpse and the origin of the hero’s friendship with the father of the

heroine.

Discussions of the relative merits of _The Fair Penitent_ and its

source have been almost invariably acrimonious. Nor is this to be

wondered at, for after reading the old tragedy with its severe

dignity and noble restraint, one can scarce peruse without irritation

the cloyingly melifluous, emasculated verse of Rowe--by turns

grandiloquent and sentimental. The characterization of _The Fair

Penitent_ is, in the main, insipid, and while Rowe’s heroine holds a

commanding place in her drama to which Beaumelle does not pretend, the

latter is a great deal more natural, and indeed, for that matter, far

more truly a “penitent.” An exception to the general insipidity is

Lothario, who is the analogue of the insignificant Novall Junior--“the

gay Lothario”--whose very name has been ever since a synonym for

the graceful, graceless, devil-may-care libertine--whose figure has

been the prototype of a long line of similar characters in English

literature, beginning with Richardson’s Lovelace and not yet closed

with Anthony Hope’s Rupert of Hentzau. Beside this striking creation,

the seducer of Beaumelle shows poorly indeed; but it is doubtful if the

old dramatists would have consented to paint such an attractive rogue,

had they been able; they wanted their Novall to be just the cowardly,

dandyfied thing they made him. Beyond the portrait of Lothario, small

ground for praise can be found in _The Fair Penitent_. That part of the

action of _The Fatal Dowry_ which under Rowe’s treatment antedates the

rise of the curtain is narrated in the most stiffly mechanical sort

of exposition; the action is developed by such threadbare theatrical

devices as a lost letter and an overheard conversation; the voluble

speeches of the several characters are, throughout, declamatory

effusions almost unbelievably divorced from the apposite utterance of

any rational human being under the circumstances. An Altamont who has

been assured and reassured from his bride’s own lips of her aversion

for him can fling himself from a quarrel with his life-long friend in

hysterical defence of her, to seek solace in her arms--

_There if in any pause of love I rest

Breathless with bliss upon her panting breast,

In broken, melting accents I will swear,

Henceforth to trust my heart with none save her;_

a Sciolto who has given his daughter a dagger with which to end her

shame, and then has arrested her willing arm with the prayer that she

will not dispatch herself until he is gone from the sight of her, can

thereupon take leave of her with the statement:

_There is I know not what of sad presage

That tells me I shall never see thee more._

The play, which enjoyed an immense fame, high contemporary

appreciation, and a long career on the stage, remains a curious

memorial of the taste of a bygone day.

It is noteworthy that in _The Fair Penitent_ Horatio, as Romont in

all modern reproductions of _The Fatal Dowry_, is the great acting

part--not the husband.

In 1758 was produced at the Hay market a drama entitled _The Insolvent

or Filial Piety_, from the pen of Aaron Hill. In the preface it is

said--according to Genest (IV, 538)--“Wilks about 30 years before gave

an old manuscript play, called the _Guiltless Adulteress_, to Theo.

Cibber who was manager of what then was the Summer Company--after an

interval of several years this play was judged to want a revisal to

fit it for representation--Aaron Hill at the request of Theo. Cibber

almost new wrote the whole, and the last act was entirely his in

conduct, sentiment and diction.” In reality, _The Insolvent_ is _The

Fatal Dowry_ over again, altered to tragicomedy, and with the names of

the characters changed. The first two Acts of Hill’s play proceed much

after the manner of its prototype, with close parallels in language.

From thenceforward, however, the action diverges. The bride, Amelia,

resists the further attentions of her former sweetheart. They are none

the less observed and suspected by her husband’s friend, who speaks

of the matter to both her father and her lord. The former promises

to observe her with watchful eye; Chalons, the husband, is at first

resentful of the imputation, but presently yields to his friend’s

advice, that he pretend a two-days’ journey, from which he will return

unexpectedly. During his absence, his wife’s maid introduces the lover

into her mistress’ chamber while Amelia sleeps. There Chalons surprises

him kneeling beside the bed, and kills him. Amelia stabs herself, but

the confession of her maid reveals her innocence, and her wound is

pronounced not mortal.

It has been suggested (_Biographia Dramatica_, II, 228--quoted by

Phelan, p. 59, and Schwarz, p. 74) that in Hill’s _Zara_ (adaptation

of the _Zaire_ of Voltaire), also, Nerestan’s voluntary return to

captivity in order to end that of his friends, whom he lacked the means

to ransom with gold, was suggested by the behavior of Charalois; but

this can be no more than a coincidence, as it here but reproduces what

is in the French original.

A long interval, and finally, in the dawn of the twentieth century,

there appeared the next and latest recrudescence of _The Fatal

Dowry_. This was _Der Graf von Charolais, ein Trauerspiel_, by

Richard Beer-Hofmann, disciple of the Neo-Romantic School or

_Vienna Decadents_, a coterie built about the leadership of Hugo

von Hofmannsthal. Beer-Hofmann’s play--a five-Act tragedy in blank

verse--was produced for the first time at the Neue Theatre, Berlin, on

December 24, 1904, and was received with considerable acclaim. Unlike

Rowe, he gives full credit to his source, from which he has drawn no

less extensively than the author of _The Fair Penitent_. Unlike Rowe,

he goes back to the old dramatists in the matter of construction,

placing upon the stage once more the episode of the unburied corpse

and the noble son; he even outdoes _The Fatal Dowry_ in this respect,

by allowing the first half of his plot three Acts instead of two, with

only two Acts for the amour and its tragic consequences. In his hands

the hero again becomes the central figure; in fact, the three principal

versions of this _donnee_ suggest by their titles their respective

viewpoints: _The Fatal Dowry_; _The Fair Penitent_; _Der Graf von

Charolais_. DER GRAF VON CHAROLAIS, be it observed;--this new redaction

is no longer the tale of a “fatal dowry;” no longer is the first part

of the dual theme merely introductory and accessory--it is coördinate

with the second. Beer-Hofmann has sought to achieve a kind of unity

from his double plot by making his fundamental theme not the adulterous

intrigue, but _the destiny of Charolais_, thus converting the play

into a Tragedy of Fate, which pursues the hero inexorably through all

his life. This strictly classical _motif_ animating the _donnee_ of a

Jacobean play reproduced in the twentieth century presents, as might

be expected, the aspect of an exotic growth, which is not lessened by

the extreme sensuousness of treatment throughout, such as has always

been one of the cardinal and distinctive qualities of the Decadent

School the world over. But as a contrast in the dramatic technique

and verse of Jacobean and modern times, _Der Graf von Charolais_ is

extremely interesting. The difference is striking between the severe

simplicity of three centuries ago, and the elaborate stagecraft of

to-day, its insistence on detail, and studied care in the portraiture

of minor characters. Yet minutia do not make tragedy, and while their

superficial realism and the congeniality of the contemporary point of

view undeniably lend to Beer-Hofmann’s redaction a palatability and a

power to interest and appeal which its original does not possess to

the modern reader, yet a discriminating critic will turn back to the

old play with a feeling that, for all its stiffness and conventions,

he breathes there a more vital air. To the enrichment of his theme

Beer-Hofmann contributes every ingenious effect possible to symbolism,

delicate suggestion, and scenic device; this exterior decoration is

gorgeous in its color and seductive warmth, but no amount of such stuff

can compensate for the fundamental flaw in the crucial episode of

his tragedy. In spite of the care which he has lavished on the scene

between his heroine and her seducer, the surrender of the wife--three

years married, a mother, and loving both husband and child--remains

insufficiently motivated and sheerly inexplicable, and by this vital,

inherent defect the play must fall. Moreover, it lacks a hero. Romont

can no longer play the main part he did in former versions; he is

reduced to a mere shadow. In a tragedy of Fate, which blights a man’s

career, phase by phase, with persistent, relentless hand, that man

must necessarily be the central figure, and, of right, _should_ be an

imposing figure--a protagonist at once gigantic and appealing, who will

draw all hearts to him in pity and terror at the helpless, hopeless

struggle of over-matched greatness and worth; whereas Charolais--

The case of Charolais is peculiar. _A priori_ we should expect him

to be just such a personage, yet his conduct throughout is best

explainable as that of a man dominated, not by noble impulses,

but by an extreme egoism--a man acutely responsive alike to his

sense-impressions and his feverish imagination, and possessed of an

exaggerated squeamishness towards the ugly and the unpleasant. When,

in the First Act, he bursts into tears, he confesses it is not for his

father that he weeps, but for his own hard lot; he suffers from his

repugnance to the idea of his father’s corpse rotting above ground--a

repugnance so intolerable to him that he will yield his liberty to

escape it. He purposes to cashier the innkeeper because the sight of

the lecherous patrons of his hostelry has disgusted him, and he alters

his resolve and forgives the fellow, not from any considerations of

mercy, but because the mental picture of the man’s distress tortures

him. And by similar personal repugnances reacting on egoism is his

behavior in the denouement to be accounted for, and in this light

becomes logically credible and clearly understood. Few practices are

more hazardous or unjust than judging an artist by his objective

creations; but an ignoble protagonist, as Charolais is represented,

is in such ill accord with any conceivable purpose on the part of

Beer-Hofmann, and so unlikely to have been intended by him, that one

cannot help strongly suspecting that the author unconsciously projected

himself into the character and thus revealed his own nature and point

of view. In any case he has presented for his hero a whimperer who can

command neither our sympathy nor our respect when he cries above the

bodies of his benefactor and her who is that benefactor’s daughter, his

own wife, and the mother of his child:

_Ist dies Stück denn aus,

Weil jene starb? Und ich? An mich denkt keiner?_

We have come a long way from Massinger and Field and the early

seventeenth century. The shadow of the old dramatists reaches far,

even to our own time; we have seen their play redeveloped, but never

improved upon, by pseudo-classicist, and popularizer, and Decadent

hyper-aesthete. That which was the vulnerable point in the original

production--its two-fold plot--has been still for every imitator a

stone of stumbling. Rowe tried to escape it by the suppression of the

antecedent half, and the fraction which remained in his hand was an

artificial thing without the breath of life, that had to be attenuated

and padded out with speechifying to fill the compass of its five Acts.

Beer-Hofmann tried to escape it by superimposing an idea not proper

to the story, and beneath the weight of this his tragedy collapsed in

the middle, for its addition over-packed the drama, and left him not

room enough to make convincing the conduct of his characters. The first

essayers, who attacked in straightforward fashion their unwieldy theme,

succeeded best; all attempts to obviate its essential defect have

marred rather than mended. Perhaps the theme is by its nature unsuited

to dramatic treatment, and yet there is much that is dramatic about

that theme, as is evinced by the fact that playwrights have been unable

to let it lie.

EDITOR’S NOTE ON TEXT

The present text aims to reproduce exactly the Quarto edition of 1632,

retaining its punctuation, spelling, capitals, italics, and stage

directions--amending only the metrical alignment.[14] Mere mistakes

of printing--inverted and broken letters--are restored, but are duly

catalogued in the foot notes. The division into scenes, as made by

Gifford, and his affixment of the _locus_ of each, are inserted into

the text, inclosed in brackets. In the foot notes are recorded all

variants of all subsequent editions. Differences of punctuation are

given, if they could possibly alter the meaning, but not otherwise--nor

mere differences _in wording_ of stage directions, nor differences in

spelling, nor elision for metre. In the Quarto the elder Novall is

sometimes designated before his lines as _Novall Senior_, sometimes

merely as _Novall_--no confusion is possible, since he and his son are

never on the stage at the same time. Gifford and Symons always write

_Novall Senior_, while Coxeter and Mason write _Novall_ alone in I, i,

and _Novall Senior_ thereafter. I have not thought it worth while to

note the variants of the several texts on this point.

Q.--The Quarto--1632

C.--Coxeter’s edition, 1759

M.--Monck Mason’s edition, 1779

G.--Gifford’s [2nd.] edition, 1813

S.--Symons’ (Mermaid) edition, 1893

f.--and all later editions

s.d.--stage direction

THE FATALL DOWRY:

A TRAGEDY:

_As it hath beene often Acted at the Priuate

House in Blackefryers, by his

Maiesties Seruants._

_Written by P. M. and N. F._

LONDON,

Printed by IOHN NORTON, for FRANCIS

CONSTABLE, and are to be iold at his

shop at the _Crane_, in _Pauls Churchyard_.

1632.

_Charalois._

_Romont._

_Charmi._

_Nouall Sen._

_Liladam._

_DuCroy._

_Rochfort._

_Baumont._

_Pontalier._

_Malotin._

_Beaumelle._

_Florimel._ }

_Bellapert._}

_Aymer._

_Nouall Jun._

_Aduocates._

_Creditors 3._

_Officers._

_Priest._

_Taylor._

_Barber._

_Perfumer._

[Page.]

[Presidents, Captains, Soldiers, Mourners, Gaoler, Bailiffs,

Servants.]

The Fatall Dowry:

A Tragedy:

_Act. primus._

_Scaena prima:_

[_A Street before the Court of Justice_]

_Enter_ Charaloyes _with a paper_, Romont, Charmi.

_Charmi_ Sir, I may moue the Court to serue your will,

But therein shall both wrong you and my selfe.

_Rom._ Why thinke you so sir?

_Charmi._ ’Cause I am familiar

With what will be their answere: they will say,

’Tis against law, and argue me of Ignorance 5

For offering them the motion.

_Rom._ You know not, Sir,

How in this cause they may dispence with Law,

And therefore frame not you their answere for them,

But doe your parts.

_Charmi._ I loue the cause so well,

As I could runne, the hazard of a checke for ’t. 10

_Rom._ From whom?

_Charmi._ Some of the bench, that watch to give it,

More then to doe the office that they fit for:

But giue me (sir) my fee.

_Rom._ Now you are Noble.

_Charmi._ I shall deserue this better yet, in giuing

My Lord some counsell, (if he please to heare it) 15

Then I shall doe with pleading.

_Rom._ What may it be, sir?

_Charmi._ That it would please his Lordship, as the presidents,

And Counsaylors of Court come by, to stand

Heere, and but shew your selfe, and to some one

Or two, make his request: there is a minute 20

When a mans presence speakes in his owne cause,

More then the tongues of twenty aduocates.

_Rom._ I haue vrg’d that.

_Enter_ Rochfort: _DuCroye_.

_Charmi._ Their Lordships here are coming,

I must goe get me a place, you’l finde me in Court,

And at your seruice

_Exit Charmi._

_Rom._ Now put on your Spirits. 25

_Du Croy._ The ease that you prepare your selfe, my Lord,

In giuing vp the place you hold in Court,

Will proue (I feare) a trouble in the State,

And that no slight one.

_Roch._ Pray you sir, no more.

_Rom._ Now sir, lose not this offerd means: their lookes 30

Fixt on you, with a pittying earnestnesse,

Inuite you to demand their furtherance

To your good purpose.--This such a dulnesse

So foolish and vntimely as--

_Du Croy._ You know him.

_Roch._ I doe, and much lament the sudden fall 35

Of his braue house. It is young _Charloyes_.

Sonne to the Marshall, from whom he inherits

His fame and vertues onely.

_Rom._ Ha, they name you.

_Du Croye._ His father died in prison two daies since.

_Roch._ Yes, to the shame of this vngrateful State; 40

That such a Master in the art of warre,

So noble, and so highly meriting,

From this forgetfull Country, should, for want

Of meanes to satisfie his creditors,

The summes he tooke vp for the generall good, 45

Meet with an end so infamous.

_Rom._ Dare you euer

Hope for like opportunity?

_Du Croye._ My good Lord!

_Roch._ My wish bring comfort to you.

_Du Croye._ The time calls vs.

_Roch._ Good morrow Colonell.

_Exeunt Roch. Du Croye._

_Rom._ This obstinate spleene,

You thinke becomes your sorrow, and sorts wel 50

With your blacke suits: but grant me wit, or iudgement,

And by the freedome of an honest man,

And a true friend to boote, I sweare ’tis shamefull.

And therefore flatter not your selfe with hope,

Your sable habit, with the hat and cloake, 55

No though the ribons helpe, haue power to worke ’em

To what you would: for those that had no eyes,

To see the great acts of your father, will not,

From any fashion sorrow can put on,

Bee taught to know their duties.

_Char._ If they will not, 60

They are too old to learne, and I too young

To giue them counsell, since if they partake

The vnderstanding, and the hearts of men,

They will preuent my words and teares: if not,

What can perswasion, though made eloquent 65

With griefe, worke vpon such as haue chang’d natures

With the most sauage beast? Blest, blest be euer

The memory of that happy age, when iustice

Had no gards to keepe off wrongd innocence,

From flying to her succours, and in that 70

Assurance of redresse: where now (_Romont_)

The damnd, with more ease may ascend from Hell,

Then we ariue at her. One Cerberus there

Forbids the passage, in our Courts a thousand,

As lowd, and fertyle headed, and the Client 75

That wants the sops, to fill their rauenous throats,

Must hope for no accesse: why should I then

Attempt impossibilities: you friend, being

Too well acquainted with my dearth of meanes,

To make my entrance that way?

_Rom._ Would I were not. 80

But Sir, you haue a cause, a cause so iust,

Of such necessitie, not to be deferd,

As would compell a mayde, whose foot was neuer

Set ore her fathers threshold, nor within

The house where she was borne, euer spake word, 85

Which was not vshered with pure virgin blushes,

To drowne the tempest of a pleaders tongue,

And force corruption to giue backe the hire

It tooke against her: let examples moue you.

You see great men in birth, esteeme and fortune, 90

Rather then lose a scruple of their right,

Fawne basely vpon such, whose gownes put off,

They would disdaine for Seruants.

_Char._ And to these

Can I become a suytor?

_Rom._ Without losse,

Would you consider, that to game their fauors, 95

Our chastest dames put off their modesties,

Soldiers forget their honors, vsurers

Make sacrifice of Gold, poets of wit,

And men religious, part with fame, and goodnesse?

Be therefore wonne to vse the meanes, that may 100

Aduance your pious ends.

_Char._ You shall orecome.

_Rom._ And you receiue the glory, pray you now practise.

’Tis well.

_Enter Old Nouall, Liladam, & 3 Creditors._

_Char._ Not looke on me!

_Rom._ You must haue patience----

Offer’t againe.

_Char._ And be againe contemn’d?

_Nou._ I know whats to be done.

_1 Cred._ And that your Lordship 105

Will please to do your knowledge, we offer, first

Our thankefull hearts heere, as a bounteous earnest

To what we will adde.

_Nou._ One word more of this

I am your enemie. Am I a man

Your bribes can worke on? ha?

_Lilad._ Friends, you mistake 110

The way to winne my Lord, he must not heare this,

But I, as one in fauour, in his sight,

May harken to you for my profit. Sir,

I pray heare em.

_Nou._ Tis well.

_Lilad._ Obserue him now.

_Nou._ Your cause being good, and your proceedings so, 115

Without corruption; I am your friend,

Speake your desires.

_2 Cred._ Oh, they are charitable,

The Marshall stood ingag’d vnto vs three,

Two hundred thousand crownes, which by his death

We are defeated of. For which great losse 120

We ayme at nothing but his rotten flesh,

Nor is that cruelty.

_1 Cred._ I haue a sonne,

That talkes of nothing but of Gunnes and Armors,

And sweares hee’ll be a soldier, tis an humor

I would diuert him from, and I am told 125

That if I minister to him in his drinke

Powder, made of this banquerout Marshalls bones,

Provided that the carcase rot aboue ground

’Twill cure his foolish frensie.

_Nou._ You shew in it

A fathers care. I haue a sonne my selfe, 130

A fashionable Gentleman and a peacefull:

And but I am assur’d he’s not so giuen,

He should take of it too, Sir what are you?

_Char._ A Gentleman.

_Nou._ So are many that rake dunghills.

If you haue any suit, moue it in Court. 135

I take no papers in corners.

_Rom._ Yes

As the matter may be carried, and hereby

To mannage the conuayance----Follow him.

_Lil._ You are rude. I say, he shall not passe.

_Exit Nouall, Char: and Aduocates_

_Rom._ You say so.

On what assurance? 140

For the well cutting of his Lordships cornes,

Picking his toes, or any office else

Neerer to basenesse!

_Lil._ Looke vpon mee better,

Are these the ensignes of so coorse a fellow?

Be well aduis’d.

_Rom._ Out, rogue, do not I know, (_Kicks him_) 145

These glorious weedes spring from the sordid dunghill

Of thy officious basenesse? wert thou worthy

Of anything from me, but my contempt,

I would do more then this, more, you Court-spider.

_Lil._ But that this man is lawlesse;

he should find that I am valiant. 150

_1 Cred._ If your eares are fast,

Tis nothing. Whats a blow or two? As much--

_2 Cred._ These chastisements, as vsefull are as frequent

To such as would grow rich.

_Rom._ Are they so Rascals?

I will be-friend you then.

_1 Cred._ Beare witnesse, Sirs. 155

_Lil._ Trueth, I haue borne my part already, friends.

In the Court you shall haue more.

_Exit._

_Rom._ I know you for

The worst of spirits, that striue to rob the tombes

Of what is their inheritance, from the dead.

For vsurers, bred by a riotous peace: 160

That hold the Charter of your wealth & freedome,

By being Knaues and Cuckolds that ne’re prayd,

But when you feare the rich heires will grow wise,

To keepe their Lands out of your parchment toyles:

And then, the Diuell your father’s cald vpon, 165

To inuent some ways of _Luxury_ ne’re thought on.

Be gone, and quickly, or Ile leaue no roome

Vpon your forhead for your hornes to sprowt on,

Without a murmure, or I will vndoe you;

For I will beate you honest.

_1 Cred._ Thrift forbid. 170

We will beare this, rather then hazard that.

_Ex: Creditor._

_Enter Charloyes._

_Rom._ I am some-what eas’d in this yet.

_Char._ (Onely friend)

To what vaine purpose do I make my sorrow,

Wayte on the triumph of their cruelty?

Or teach their pride from my humilitie, 175

To thinke it has orecome? They are determin’d

What they will do: and it may well become me,

To robbe them of the glory they expect

From my submisse intreaties.

_Rom._ Thinke not so, Sir,

The difficulties that you incounter with, 180

Will crowne the vndertaking--Heaven! you weepe:

And I could do so too, but that I know,

Theres more expected from the sonne and friend

Of him, whose fatall losse now shakes our natures,

Then sighs, or teares, (in which a village nurse 185

Or cunning strumpet, when her knaue is hangd,

May ouercome vs.) We are men (young Lord)

Let vs not do like women. To the Court,

And there speake like your birth: wake sleeping justice,

Or dare the Axe. This is a way will sort 190

With what you are. I call you not to that

I will shrinke from my selfe, I will deserue

Your thankes, or suffer with you--O how bravely

That sudden fire of anger shewes in you!

Give fuell to it, since you are on a shelfe, 195

Of extreme danger suffer like your selfe.

_Exeunt._

[SCENE II]

[_The Court of Justice_]

_Enter Rochfort_, _Nouall Se. Charmi_, _Du Croye_,

_Aduocates_, _Baumont_, _and Officers_, _and 3. Presidents_.

_Du Croye._ Your Lordship’s seated. May this meeting proue prosperous

to vs, and to the generall good

Of _Burgundy_.

_Nou. Se._ Speake to the poynt.

_Du Croy._ Which is,

With honour to dispose the place and power

Of primier President, which this reuerent man 5

Graue _Rochfort_, (whom for honours sake I name)

Is purpos’d to resigne a place, my Lords,

In which he hath with such integrity,

Perform’d the first and best parts of a Iudge,

That as his life transcends all faire examples 10

Of such as were before him in _Dijon_,

So it remaines to those that shall succeed him,

A President they may imitate, but not equall.

_Roch._ I may not sit to heare this.

_Du Croy._ Let the loue

And thankfulnes we are bound to pay to goodnesse, 15

In this o’recome your modestie.

_Roch._ My thankes

For this great fauour shall preuent your trouble.

The honourable trust that was impos’d

Vpon my weaknesse since you witnesse for me,

It was not ill discharg’d, I will not mention, 20

Nor now, if age had not depriu’d me of

The little strength I had to gouerne well,

The Prouince that I vndertooke, forsake it.

_Nou._ That we could lend you of our yeeres.

_Du Croy._ Or strength.

_Nou._ Or as you are, perswade you to continue 25

The noble exercise of your knowing iudgement.

_Roch._ That may not be, nor can your Lordships goodnes,

Since your imployments haue confer’d vpon me

Sufficient wealth, deny the vse of it,

And though old age, when one foot’s in the graue, 30

In many, when all humors else are spent

Feeds no affection in them, but desire

To adde height to the mountaine of their riches:

In me it is not so, I rest content

With the honours, and estate I now possesse, 35

And that I may haue liberty to vse,

What Heauen still blessing my poore industry,

Hath made me Master of: I pray the Court

To ease me of my burthen, that I may

Employ the small remainder of my life, 40

In liuing well, and learning how to dye so.

_Enter Romont, and Charalois._

_Rom._ See sir, our Aduocate.

_Du Croy._ The Court intreats,

Your Lordship will be pleasd to name the man,

Which you would haue your successor, and in me,

All promise to confirme it.

_Roch._ I embrace it, 45

As an assurance of their fauour to me,

And name my Lord Nouall.

_Du Croy._ The Court allows it.

_Roch._ But there are suters waite heere, and their causes

May be of more necessity to be heard,

And therefore wish that mine may be defer’d, 50

And theirs haue hearing.

_Du Croy._ If your Lordship please

To take the place, we will proceed.

_Charm._ The cause

We come to offer to your Lordships censure,

Is in it selfe so noble, that it needs not

Or Rhetorique in me that plead, or fauour 55

From your graue Lordships, to determine of it.

Since to the prayse of your impartiall iustice

(Which guilty, nay condemn’d men, dare not scandall)

It will erect a trophy of your mercy

With married to that Iustice.

_Nou. Se._ Speaks to the cause. 60

_Charm._ I will, my Lord: to say, the late dead Marshall

The father of this young Lord heer, my Clyent,

Hath done his Country great and faithfull seruice,

Might taske me of impertinence to repeate,

What your graue Lordships cannot but remember, 65

He in his life, become indebted to

These thriftie men, I will not wrong their credits,

By giuing them the attributes they now merit,

And fayling by the fortune of the warres,

Of meanes to free himselfe, from his ingagements, 70

He was arrested, and for want of bayle

Imprisond at their suite: and not long after

With losse of liberty ended his life.

And though it be a Maxime in our Lawes,

All suites dye with the person, these mens malice 75

In death find matter for their hate to worke on,

Denying him the decent Rytes of buriall,

Which the sworne enemies of the Christian faith

Grant freely to their slaues; may it therefore please

Your Lordships, so to fashion your decree, 80

That what their crueltie doth forbid, your pittie

May giue allowance to.

_Nou. Se._ How long haue you Sir

Practis’d in Court?

_Charmi._ Some twenty yeeres, my Lord.

_Nou. Se._ By your grosse ignorance it should appeare,

Not twentie dayes.

_Charmi._ I hope I haue giuen no cause 85

In this, my Lord--

_Nou. Se._ How dare you moue the Court,

To the dispensing with an Act confirmd

By Parlament, to the terror of all banquerouts?

Go home, and with more care peruse the Statutes:

Or the next motion fauoring of this boldnesse, 90

May force you to leape (against your will)

Ouer the place you plead at.

_Charmi._ I foresaw this.

_Rom._ Why does your Lordship thinke, the mouing of

A cause more honest then this Court had euer

The honor to determine, can deserue 95

A checke like this?

_Nou. Se._ Strange boldnes!

_Rom._ Tis fit freedome:

Or do you conclude, an aduocate cannot hold

His credit with the Iudge, vnlesse he study

His face more then the cause for which he pleades?

_Charmi._ Forbeare.

_Rom._ Or cannot you, that haue the power 100

To qualifie the rigour of the Lawes,

When you are pleased, take a little from

The strictnesse of your fowre decrees, enacted

In fauor of the greedy creditors

Against the orethrowne debter?

_Nou. Se._ Sirra, you that prate 105

Thus sawcily, what are you?

_Rom._ Why Ile tell you,

Thou purple-colour’d man, I am one to whom

Thou owest the meanes thou hast of sitting there

A corrupt Elder.

_Charmi._ Forbeare.

_Rom._ The nose thou wearst, is my gift, and those eyes 110

That meete no obiect so base as their Master,

Had bin, long since, torne from that guiltie head,

And thou thy selfe slaue to some needy Swisse,

Had I not worne a sword, and vs’d it better

Then in thy prayers thou ere didst thy tongue. 115

_Nou. Se._ Shall such an Insolence passe vnpunisht?

_Charmi._ Heere mee.

_Rom._ Yet I, that in my seruice done my Country,

Disdaine to bee put in the scale with thee,

Confesse my selfe vnworthy to bee valued

With the least part, nay haire of the dead Marshall, 120

Of whose so many glorious vndertakings,

Make choice of any one, and that the meanest

Performd against the subtill Fox of France,

The politique _Lewis_, or the more desperate Swisse,

And ’twyll outwaygh all the good purpose, 125

Though put in act, that euer Gowneman practizd.

_Nou. Se._ Away with him to prison.

_Rom._ If that curses,

Vrg’d iustly, and breath’d forth so, euer fell

On those that did deserue them; let not mine

Be spent in vaine now, that thou from this instant 130

Mayest in thy feare that they will fall vpon thee,

Be sensible of the plagues they shall bring with them.

And for denying of a little earth,

To couer what remaynes of our great soldyer:

May all your wiues proue whores, your factors theeues, 135

And while you liue, your riotous heires vndoe you,

And thou, the patron of their cruelty.

Of all thy Lordships liue not to be owner

Of so much dung as will conceale a Dog,

Or what is worse, thy selfe in. And thy yeeres, 140

To th’ end thou mayst be wretched, I wish many,

And as thou hast denied the dead a graue,

May misery in thy life make thee desire one,

Which men and all the Elements keepe from thee:

I haue begun well, imitate, exceed. 145

_Roch._ Good counsayle were it, a prayse worthy deed.

_Ex. Officers with Rom._

_Du Croye._ Remember what we are.

_Chara._ Thus low my duty

Answeres your Lordships counsaile. I will vse

In the few words (with which I am to trouble

Your Lordships eares) the temper that you wish mee. 150

Not that I feare to speake my thoughts as lowd,

And with a liberty beyond _Romont_:

But that I know, for me that am made vp

Of all that’s wretched, so to haste my end,

Would seeme to most, rather a willingnesse 155

To quit the burthen of a hopelesse life,

Then scorne of death, or duty to the dead.

I therefore bring the tribute of my prayse

To your seueritie, and commend the Iustice,

That will not for the many seruices 160

That any man hath done the Common wealth

Winke at his least of ills: what though my father

Writ man before he was so, and confirmd it,

By numbring that day, no part of his life,

In which he did not seruice to his Country; 165

Was he to be free therefore from the Lawes,

And ceremonious forme in your decrees?

Or else because he did as much as man

In those three memorable ouerthrowes

At _Granson_, _Morat_, _Nancy_, where his Master, 170

The warlike _Charloyes_ (with whose misfortunes

I beare his name) lost treasure, men and life,

To be excus’d, from payment of those summes

Which (his owne patri mony spent) his zeale,

To serue his Countrey, forc’d him to take vp? 175

_Nou. Se._ The president were ill.

_Chara._ And yet, my Lord, this much

I know youll grant; After those great defeatures,

Which in their dreadfull ruines buried quick, _Enter officers._

Courage and hope, in all men but himselfe,

He forst the proud foe, in his height of conquest, 180

To yield vnto an honourable peace.

And in it saued an hundred thousand liues,

To end his owne, that was sure proofe against

The scalding Summers heate, and Winters frost,

Illayres, the Cannon, and the enemies sword, 185

In a most loathsome prison.

_Du Croy._ Twas his fault

To be so prodigall.

_Nou. Se._ He had frô the state

Sufficent entertainment for the Army.

_Char._ Sufficient? My Lord, you sit at home,

And though your fees are boundlesse at the barre: 190

Are thriftie in the charges of the warre,

But your wills be obeyd. To these I turne,

To these soft-hearted men, that wisely know

They are onely good men, that pay what they owe.

_2 Cred._ And so they are.

_1 Cred._ ’Tis the City Doctrine, 195

We stand bound to maintaine it.

_Char._ Be constant in it,

And since you are as mercilesse in your natures,

As base, and mercenary in your meanes

By which you get your wealth, I will not vrge

The Court to take away one scruple from 200

The right of their lawes, or one good thought

In you to mend your disposition with.

I know there is no musique in your eares

So pleasing as the groanes of men in prison,

And that the teares of widows, and the cries 205

Of famish’d Orphants, are the feasts that take you.

That to be in your danger, with more care

Should be auoyded, then infectious ayre,

The loath’d embraces of diseased women,

A flatterers poyson, or the losse of honour. 210

Yet rather then my fathers reuerent dust

Shall want a place in that faire monument,

In which our noble Ancestors lye intomb’d,

Before the Court I offer vp my selfe

A prisoner for it: loade me with those yrons 215

That haue worne out his life, in my best strength

Ile run to th’ incounter of cold hunger,

And choose my dwelling where no Sun dares enter,

So he may be releas’d.

_1 Cred._ What meane you sir?

_2 Aduo._ Onely your fee againe: ther’s so much sayd 220

Already in this cause, and sayd so well,

That should I onely offer to speake in it,

I should not bee heard, or laught at for it.

_1 Cred._ ’Tis the first mony aduocate ere gaue backe,

Though hee sayd nothing.

_Roch._ Be aduis’d, young Lord, 225

And well considerate, you throw away

Your liberty, and ioyes of life together:

Your bounty is imployd vpon a subiect

That is not sensible of it, with which, wise man

Neuer abus’d his goodnesse; the great vertues 230

Of your dead father vindicate themselues,

From these mens malice, and breake ope the prison,

Though it containe his body.

_Nou. Se._ Let him alone,

If he loue Lords, a Gods name let him weare ’em,

Prouided these consent.

_Char._ I hope they are not 235

So ignorant in any way of profit,

As to neglect a possibility

To get their owne, by seeking it from that

Which can returne them nothing, but ill fame,

And curses for their barbarous cruelties. 240

_3 Cred._ What thinke you of the offer?

_2 Cred._ Very well.

_1 Cred._ Accept it by all meanes: let’s shut him vp,

He is well-shaped and has a villanous tongue,

And should he study that way of reuenge,

As I dare almost sweare he loues a wench, 245

We haue no wiues, nor neuer shall get daughters

That will hold out against him.

_Du Croy._ What’s your answer?

_2 Cred._ Speake you for all.

_1 Cred._ Why let our executions

That lye vpon the father, bee return’d

Vpon the sonne, and we release the body. 250

_Nou. Se._ The Court must grant you that.

_Char._ I thanke your Lordships,

They haue in it confirm’d on me such glory,

As no time can take from me: I am ready,

Come lead me where you please: captiuity

That comes with honour, is true liberty. 255

_Exit Charmi, Cred. & Officers._

_Nou. Se._ Strange rashnesse.

_Roch._ A braue resolution rather,

Worthy a better fortune, but howeuer

It is not now to be disputed, therefore

To my owne cause. Already I haue found

Your Lordships bountifull in your fauours to me; 260

And that should teach my modesty to end heere

And presse your loues no further.

_Du Croy._ There is nothing

The Court can grant, but with assurance you

May aske it and obtaine it.

_Roch._ You incourage

A bold Petitioner, and ’tis not fit 265

Your fauours should be lost. Besides, ’tas beene

A custome many yeeres, at the surrendring

The place I now giue vp, to grant the President

One boone, that parted with it. And to confirme

Your grace towards me, against all such as may 270

Detract my actions, and life hereafter,

I now preferre it to you.

_Du Croy._ Speake it freely.

_Roch._ I then desire the liberty of _Romont_,

And that my Lord _Nouall_, whose priuate wrong

Was equall to the iniurie that was done 275

To the dignity of the Court, will pardon it,

And now signe his enlargement.

_Nou. Se._ Pray you demand

The moyety of my estate, or any thing

Within my power, but this.

_Roch._ Am I denyed then--

My first and last request?

_Du Croy._ It must not be. 280

_2 Pre._ I haue a voyce to giue in it.

_3 Pre._ And I.

And if perswasion will not worke him to it,

We will make knowne our power.

_Nou. Se._ You are too violent,

You shall haue my consent--But would you had

Made tryall of my loue in any thing 285

But this, you should haue found then--But it skills not.

You haue what you desire.

_Roch._ I thanke your Lordships.

_Du Croy._ The court is vp, make way.

_Ex. omnes, praeter Roch. & Beaumont._

_Roch._ I follow you--_Baumont_.

_Baum._ My Lord.

_Roch._ You are a scholler, _Baumont_,

And can search deeper into th’ intents of men, 290

Then those that are lesse knowing--How appear’d

The piety and braue behauior of

Young _Charloyes_ to you?

_Baum._ It is my wonder,

Since I want language to expresse it fully;

And sure the Collonell--

_Roch._ Fie! he was faulty-- 295

What present mony haue I?

_Baum._ There is no want

Of any summe a priuate man has use for.

_Roch._ ’Tis well:

I am strangely taken with this _Charaloyes_;

Me thinkes, from his example, the whole age

Should learne to be good, and continue so. 300

Vertue workes strangely with vs: and his goodnesse

Rising aboue his fortune, seemes to me

Princelike, to will, not aske a courtesie.

_Exeunt._

_Act. secundus._

_Scæna prima:_

[_A Street before the Prison_]

_Enter Pontalier_, _Malotin_, _Baumont_.

_Mal._ Tis strange.

_Baum._ Me thinkes so.

_Pont._ In a man, but young,

Yet old in iudgement, theorique, and practicke

In all humanity (and to increase the wonder)

Religious, yet a Souldier, that he should

Yeeld his free liuing youth a captiue, for 5

The freedome of his aged fathers Corpes,

And rather choose to want lifes necessaries,

Liberty, hope of fortune, then it should

In death be kept from Christian ceremony.

_Malo._ Come, ’Tis a golden president in a Sonne, 10

To let strong nature haue the better hand,

(In such a case) of all affected reason.

What yeeres sits on this Charolois?

_Baum._ Twenty eight,

For since the clocke did strike him 17 old

Vnder his fathers wing, this Sonne hath fought, 15

Seru’d and commanded, and so aptly both,

That sometimes he appear’d his fathers father,

And neuer lesse then’s sonne; the old man’s vertues

So recent in him, as the world may sweare,

Nought but a faire tree, could such fayre fruit beare. 20

_Pont._ But wherefore lets he such a barbarous law,

And men more barbarous to execute it,

Preuaile on his soft disposition,

That he had rather dye aliue for debt

Of the old man in prison, then he should 25

Rob him of Sepulture, considering

These monies borrow’d bought the lenders peace,

And all their meanes they inioy, nor was diffus’d

In any impious or licencious path?

_Bau._ True: for my part, were it my fathers trunke, 30

The tyrannous Ram-heads, with their hornes should gore it,

Or, cast it to their curres (than they) lesse currish,

Ere prey on me so, with their Lion-law,

Being in my free will (as in his) to shun it.

_Pont._ Alasse! he knowes him selfe (in pouerty) lost: 35

For in this parciall auaricious age

What price beares Honor? Vertue? Long agoe

It was but prays’d, and freez’d, but now a dayes

’Tis colder far, and has, nor loue, nor praise,

Very prayse now freezeth too: for nature 40

Did make the heathen, far more Christian then,

Then knowledge vs (lesse heathenish) Christian.

_Malo._ This morning is the funerall.

_Pont._ Certainely!

And from this prison ’twas the sonnes request

That his deare father might interment haue. 45

_Recorders Musique,_

See, the young sonne interd a liuely graue.

_Baum._ They come, obserue their order.

_Enter Funerall. Body borne by 4. Captaines and Souldiers,

Mourners, Scutchions, and very good order. Charolois, and Romont

meet it. Char. speaks. Rom. weeping, solemne Musique, 3 Creditors._

_Char._ How like a silent streame shaded with night,

And gliding softly with our windy sighes;

Moues the whole frame of this solemnity! 50

Teares, sighs, and blackes, filling the simily,

Whilst I the onely murmur in this groue

Of death, thus hollowly break forth! Vouchsafe

To stay a while, rest, rest in peace, deare earth,

Thou that brought’st rest to their vnthankfull lyues, 55

Whose cruelty deny’d thee rest in death:

Heere stands thy poore Executor thy sonne,

That makes his life prisoner, to bale thy death;

Who gladlier puts on this captiuity,

Then Virgins long in loue, their wedding weeds: 60

Of all that euer thou hast done good to,

These onely haue good memories, for they

Remember best, forget not gratitude.

I thanke you for this last and friendly loue.

And tho this Country, like a viperous mother, 65

Not onely hath eate vp vngratefully

All meanes of thee her sonne, but last thy selfe,

Leauing thy heire so bare and indigent,

He cannot rayse thee a poore Monument,

Such as a flatterer, or a vsurer hath. 70

Thy worth, in euery honest brest buyldes one,

Making their friendly hearts thy funerall stone.

_Pont._ Sir.

_Char._ Peace, O peace, this sceane is wholy mine.

What weepe ye, souldiers? Blanch not, _Romont_ weepes. 75

Ha, let me see, my miracle is eas’d,

The iaylors and the creditors do weepe;

Euen they that make vs weepe, do weepe themselues.

Be these thy bodies balme: these and thy vertue

Keepe thy fame euer odoriferous, 80

Whilst the great, proud, rich, vndeseruing man,

Aliue stinkes in his vices, and being vanish’d,

The golden calfe that was an Idoll dect

With marble pillars Iet, and Porphyrie,

Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, 85

Though wrapt in lead, spice, Searecloth and perfume

_1 Cred._ Sir.

_Char._ What! Away for shame: you prophane rogues

Must not be mingled with these holy reliques:

This is a Sacrifice, our showre shall crowne 90

His sepulcher with Oliue, Myrrh and Bayes

The plants of peace, of sorrow, victorie,

Your teares would spring but weedes.

_1 Cred._ Would they not so?

Wee’ll keepe them to stop bottles then:

_Rom._ No; keepe ’em

For your owne sins, you Rogues, till you repent: 95

You’ll dye else and be damn’d.

_2 Cred._ Damn’d, ha! ha, ha.

_Rom._ Laugh yee?

_3 Cred._ Yes faith, Sir, weel’d be very glad

To please you eyther way.

_1 Cred._ Y’are ne’re content,

Crying nor laughing.

_Rom._ Both with a birth shee rogues.

_2 Cred._ Our wiues, Sir, taught vs. 100

_Rom._ Looke, looke, you slaues, your thanklesse cruelty

And sauage manners, of vnkind _Dijon_,

Exhaust these flouds, and not his fathers death.

_1 Cred._ Slid, Sir, what would yee, ye’are so cholericke?

_2 Cred._ Most soldiers are so yfaith, let him alone: 105

They haue little else to liue on, we haue not had

A penny of him, haue we?

_3 Cred._ ’Slight, wo’d you haue our hearts?

_1 Cred._ We haue nothing but his body heere in durance

For all our mony.

_Priest._ On.

_Char._ One moment more,

But to bestow a few poore legacyes, 110

All I haue left in my dead fathers rights,

And I haue done. Captaine, weare thou these spurs

That yet ne’re made his horse runne from a foe.

Lieutenant, thou, this Scarfe, and may it tye

Thy valor, and thy honestie together: 115

For so it did in him. Ensigne, this Curace

Your Generalls necklace once. You gentle Bearers,

Deuide this purse of gold, this other, strow

Among the poore: tis all I haue. _Romont_,

(Weare thou this medall of himselfe) that like 120

A hearty Oake, grew’st close to this tall Pine,

Euen in the wildest wildernese of war,

Whereon foes broke their swords, and tyr’d themselues;

Wounded and hack’d yee were, but neuer fell’d.

For me my portion prouide in Heauen: 125

My roote is earth’d, and I a desolate branch

Left scattered in the high way of the world,

Trod vnder foot, that might haue bin a Columne,

Mainly supporting our demolish’d house,

This would I weare as my inheritance. 130

And what hope can arise to me from it,

When I and it are both heere prisoners?

Onely may this, if euer we be free,

Keepe, or redeeme me from all infamie.

_Song. Musicke._

_1 Cred._ No farther, looke to ’em at your owne perill. 135

_2 Cred._ No, as they please: their Master’s a good man.

I would they were the _Burmudas_.

_Saylor._ You must no further.

The prison limits you, and the Creditors

Exact the strictnesse.

_Rom._ Out you wooluish mungrells!

Whose braynes should be knockt out, like dogs in Iuly, 140

Leste your infection poyson a whole towne.

_Char._ They grudge our sorrow: your ill wills perforce

Turnes now to Charity: they would not haue vs

Walke too farre mourning, vsurers reliefe

Grieues, if the Debtors haue too much of griefe. 145

_Exeunt._

[SCENE II]

[_A Room in Rochfort’s House._]

_Enter Beaumelle_: _Florimell_: _Bellapert_.

_Beau._ I prithee tell me, _Florimell_, why do women marry?

_Flor._ Why truly Madam, I thinke, to lye with their husbands.

_Bella._ You are a foole: She lyes, Madam, women marry husbands,

To lye with other men. 5

_Flor._ Faith eene such a woman wilt thou make. By this

light, Madam, this wagtaile will spoyle you, if you take

delight in her licence.

_Beau._ Tis true, _Florimell_: and thou wilt make me too good

for a yong Lady. What an electuary found my father out for 10

his daughter, when hee compounded you two my women?

for thou, _Florimell_, art eene a graine to heauy, simply for a

wayting Gentlewoman.

_Flor._ And thou _Bellapert_, a graine too light.

_Bella._ Well, go thy wayes goodly wisdom, whom no body 15

regards. I wonder, whether be elder thou or thy hood: you

thinke, because you serue my Laydes mother, are 32 yeeres

old which is a peepe out, you know.

_Flor._ Well sayd, wherligig.

_Bella._ You are deceyu’d: I want a peg ith’ middle. 20

Out of these Prerogatiues! you thinke to be mother of the

maydes heere, & mortifie em with prouerbs: goe, goe, gouern

the sweet meates, and waigh the Suger, that the wenches

steale none: say your prayers twice a day, and as I take it, you

haue performd your function. 25

_Flor._ I may bee euen with you.

_Bell._ Harke, the Court’s broke vp. Goe helpe my old Lord

out of his Caroch, and scratch his head till dinner time.

_Flor._ Well.

_Exit._

_Bell._ Fy Madam, how you walke! By my mayden-head 30

you looke 7 yeeres older then you did this morning: why,

there can be nothing vnder the Sunne vanuable, to make you

thus a minute.

_Beau._ Ah my sweete Bellapert thou Cabinet

To all my counsels, thou dost know the cause 35

That makes thy Lady wither thus in youth.

_Bel._ Vd’d-light, enioy your wishes: whilst I liue,

One way or other you shall crowne your will.

Would you haue him your husband that you loue,

And can’t not bee? he is your seruant though, 40

And may performe the office of a husband.

_Beau._ But there is honor, wench.

_Bell._ Such a disease

There is in deed, for which ere I would dy.--

_Beau._ Prethee, distinguish me a mayd & wife.

_Bell._ Faith, Madam, one may beare any mans children, 45

Tother must beare no mans.

_Beau._ What is a husband?

_Bell._ Physicke, that tumbling in your belly, will make you

sicke ith’ stomacke: the onely distinction betwixt a husband

and a seruant is: the first will lye with you, when he please;

the last shall lye with you when you please. Pray tell me, 50

Lady, do you loue, to marry after, or would you marry, to

loue after.

_Beau._ I would meete loue and marriage both at once.

_Bell._ Why then you are out of the fashion, and wilbe contemn’d;

for (Ile assure you) there are few women i’th world, 55

but either they haue married first, and loue after, or loue

first, and marryed after: you must do as you may, not as you

would: your fathers will is the Goale you must fly to: if a

husband approach you, you would haue further off, is he your

loue? the lesse neere you. A husband in these days is but a 60

cloake to bee oftner layde vpon your bed, then in your

bed.

_Baum._ Humpe.

_Bell._ Sometimes you may weare him on your shoulder,

now and then vnder your arme: but seldome or neuer let him 65

couer you: for ’tis not the fashion.

_Enter y. Nouall_, _Pontalier_, _Malotin_, _Lilladam_, _Aymer_.

_Nou._ Best day to natures curiosity,

Starre of _Dijum_, the lustre of all _France_,

Perpetuall spring dwell on thy rosy cheekes,

Whose breath is perfume to our Continent, 70

See _Flora_ turn’d in her varieties.

_Bell._ Oh diuine Lord!

_Nou._ No autumne, nor no age euer approach

This heauenly piece, which nature hauing wrought,

She lost her needle and did then despaire, 75

Euer to work so liuely and so faire.

_Lilad._ Vds light, my Lord one of the purles of your band

is (without all discipline falne) out of his ranke.

_Nou._ How? I would not for a 1000 crownes she had seen’t.

Deare _Liladam_, reforme it. 80

_Bell._ O Lord: _Per se_, Lord, quintessence of honour,

shee walkes not vnder a weede that could deny thee any

thing.

_Baum._ Prethy peace, wench, thou dost but blow the fire,

that flames too much already. 85

_Lilad. Aym. trim Nouall, whilst Bell her Lady._

_Aym._ By gad, my Lord, you haue the diuinest

Taylor of Christendome; he hath made

you looke like an Angell in your cloth of Tissue doublet.

_Pont._ This is a three-leg’d Lord, ther’s a fresh assault, oh

that men should spend time thus! 90

See see, how her blood driues to her heart, and straight

vaults to her cheekes againe.

_Malo._ What are these?

_Pont._ One of ’em there the lower is a good, foolish, knauish

sociable gallimaufry of a man, and has much taught 95

my Lord with singing, hee is master of a musicke house: the

other is his dressing blocke, vpon whom my Lord layes all

his cloathes, and fashions, ere he vouchsafes ’em his owne

person; you shall see him i’th morning in the Gally-foyst, at

noone in the Bullion, i’th euening in Quirpo, and all night 100

in--

_Malo._ A Bawdy house.

_Pont._ If my Lord deny, they deny, if hee affirme, they affirme:

they skip into my Lords cast skins some twice a yeere,

and thus they liue to eate, eate to liue, 105

and liue to prayfe my Lord.

_Malo._ Good sir, tell me one thing.

_Pont._ What’s that?

_Malo._ Dare these men euer fight, on any cause?

_Pont._ Oh no, ’t would spoyle their cloathes, and put their 110

bands out of order.

_Nou._ _Mrs_, you heare the news: your father has resign’d

his Presidentship to my Lord my father.

_Malo._ And Lord Charolois vndone foreuer.

_Pont._ Troth, ’tis pity, sir.

A brauer hope of so assur’d a father 115

Did neuer comfort _France_.

_Lilad._ A good dumbe mourner.

_Aym._ A silent blacke.

As if he had come this Christmas from St. _Omers_.

_Nou._ Oh fie vpon him, how he weares his cloathes!

To see his friends, and return’d after Twelfetyde. 120

_Lilad._ His Colonell lookes fienely like a drouer.

_Nou._ That had a winter ly’n perdieu i’th rayne.

_Aym._ What, he that weares a clout about his necke,

His cuffes in’s pocket, and his heart in’s mouth?

_Nou._ Now out vpon him!

_Beau._ Seruant, tye my hand. 125

How your lips blush, in scorne that they should pay

Tribute to hands, when lips are in the way!

_Nou._ I thus recant, yet now your hand looks white

Because your lips robd it of such a right.

_Mounsieur Aymour_, I prethy sing the song 130

Deuoted to my _Mrs._

_Cant._ _Musicke._

_After the Song, Enter Rochfort, & Baumont._

_Baum._ Romont will come, sir, straight.

_Roch._ ’Tis well.

_Beau._ My Father.

_Nouall._ My honorable Lord.

_Roch._ My Lord _Nouall_ this is a vertue in you.

So early vp and ready before noone, 135

That are the map of dressing through all _France_.

_Nou._ I rise to say my prayers, sir, heere’s my Saint.

_Roch._ Tis well and courtly; you must giue me leaue,

I haue some priuate conference with my daughter,

Pray vse my garden, you shall dine with me. 140

_Lilad._ Wee’l waite on you.

_Nou._ Good morne vnto your Lordship,

Remember what you haue vow’d----to his _Mrs._

_Exeunt omnes praeter Roch. Daug._

_Beau._ Performe I must.

_Roch._ Why how now _Beaumelle_, thou look’st not well.

Th’ art sad of late, come cheere thee, I haue found

A wholesome remedy for these mayden fits, 145

A goodly Oake whereon to twist my vine,

Till her faire branches grow vp to the starres.

Be neere at hand, successe crowne my intent,

My businesse fills my little time so full,

I cannot stand to talke: I know, thy duty 150

Is handmayd to my will, especially

When it presents nothing but good and fit.

_Beau._ Sir, I am yours. Oh if my teares proue true, _Exit Daug_

Fate hath wrong’d loue, and will destroy me too.

_Enter Romont keeper_

_Rom._ Sent you for me, sir?

_Roch._ Yes.

_Rom._ Your Lordships pleasure? 155

_Roch._ Keeper, this prisoner I will see forth comming

Vpon my word--Sit downe good Colonell. _Exit keeper._

Why I did wish you hither, noble sir,

Is to aduise you from this yron carriage,

Which, so affected, _Romont_, you weare, 160

To pity and to counsell yee submit

With expedition to the great _Nouall_:

Recant your sterne contempt, and slight neglect

Of the whole Court, and him, and opportunity,

Or you will vndergoe a heauy censure 165

In publique very shortly.

_Rom._ Hum hum: reuerend sir,

I haue obseru’d you, and doe know you well,

And am now more affraid you know not me,

By wishing my submission to _Nouall_,

Then I can be of all the bellowing mouthes 170

That waite vpon him to pronounce the censure,

Could it determine me torments, and shame.

Submit, and craue forgiuenesse of a beast?

Tis true, this bile of state weares purple Tissue.

Is high fed, proud: so is his Lordships horse, 175

And beares as rich Caparisons. I know,

This Elephant carries on his back not onely

Towres, Castles, but the ponderous republique,

And neuer stoops for’t, with his strong breath trunk

Snuffes others titles, Lordships, Offices, 180

Wealth, bribes, and lyues, vnder his rauenous iawes.

Whats this vnto my freedome? I dare dye;

And therefore aske this Cammell, if these blessings

(For so they would be vnderstood by a man)

But mollifie one rudenesse in his nature, 185

Sweeten the eager relish of the law,

At whose great helme he sits: helps he the poore

In a iust businesse? nay, does he not crosse

Euery deserued souldier and scholler,

As if when nature made him, she had made 190

The generall Antipathy of all vertue?

How sauagely, and blasphemously hee spake

Touching the Generall, the graue Generall dead,

I must weepe when I thinke on’t.

_Roch._ Sir

_Rom._ My Lord,

I am not stubborne, I can melt, you see, 195

And prize a vertue better then my life:

For though I be not learnd, I euer lou’d

That holy Mother of all issues, good,

Whose white hand (for a Scepter) holds a File

To pollish roughest customes, and in you 200

She has her right: see, I am calme as sleepe,

But when I thinke of the grosse iniuries

The godlesse wrong done, to my Generall dead,

I raue indeed, and could eate this Nouall

A lsoule-esse Dromodary.

_Roch._ Oh bee temperate, 205

Sir, though I would perswade, I’le not constraine:

Each mans opinion freely is his owne,

Concerning any thing or any body,

Be it right or wrong, tis at the Iudges perill.

_Enter Baumond,_

_Bau._ These men, Sir, waite without, my Lord is come too. 210

_Roch._ Pay ’em those summes vpon the table, take

Their full releases: stay, I want a witnesse:

Let mee intreat you Colonell, to walke in,

And stand but by, to see this money pay’d,

It does concerne you and your friends, it was 215

The better cause you were sent for, though sayd otherwise.

The deed shall make this my request more plaine.

_Rom._ I shall obey your pleasure Sir, though ignorant

To what is tends?

_Exit Seruant: Romont. Enter Charolois_

_Roch._ Worthiest Sir, 220

You are most welcome: fye, no more of this:

You haue out-wept a woman, noble Charolois.

No man but has, or must bury a father.

_Char._ Graue Sir, I buried sorrow, for his death,

In the graue with him. I did neuer thinke 225

Hee was immortall, though I vow I grieue,

And see no reason why the vicious,

Vertuous, valiant and vnworthy man

Should dye alike.

_Roch._ They do not.

_Char._ In the manner

Of dying, Sir, they do not, but all dye, 230

And therein differ not: but I haue done.

I spy’d the liuely picture of my father,

Passing your gallery, and that cast this water

Into mine eyes: see, foolish that I am,

To let it doe so.

_Roch._ Sweete and gentle nature, 235

How silken is this well comparatiuely

To other men! I haue a suite to you Sir.

_Char._ Take it, tis granted.

_Roch._ What?

_Char._ Nothing, my Lord.

_Roch._ Nothing is quickly granted.

_Char._ Faith, my Lord,

That nothing granted, is euen all I haue, 240

For (all know) I haue nothing left to grant.

_Roch._ Sir, ha’ you any suite to me? Ill grant

You something, any thing.

_Char._ Nay surely, I that can

Giue nothing, will but sue for that againe. 245

No man will grant mee any thing I sue for.

But begging nothing, euery man will giue’t.

_Roch._ Sir, the loue I bore your father, and the worth

I see in you, so much resembling his.

Made me thus send for you. And tender heere 250

_Drawes a Curtayne._

What euer you will take, gold, Iewels, both,

All, to supply your wants, and free your selfe.

Where heauenly vertue in high blouded veines

Is lodg’d, and can agree, men should kneele downe,

Adore, and sacrifice all that they haue; 255

And well they may, it is so seldome seene.

Put off your wonder, and heere freely take

Or send your seruants. Nor, Sir, shall you vse

In ought of this, a poore mans fee, or bribe,

Vniustly taken of the rich, but what’s 260

Directly gotten, and yet by the Law.

_Char._ How ill, Sir, it becomes those haires to mocke?

_Roch._ Mocke? thunder strike mee then.

_Char._ You doe amaze mee:

But you shall wonder too, I will not take

One single piece of this great heape: why should I 265

Borrow, that haue not meanes to pay, nay am

A very bankerupt, euen in flattering hope

Of euer raysing any. All my begging,

Is _Romonts_ libertie.

_Enter Romont. Creditors loaden with mony. Baumont._

_Roch._ Heere is your friend,

Enfranchist ere you spake. I giue him you, 270

And Charolois. I giue you to your friend

As free a man as hee; your fathers debts

Are taken off.

_Char._ How?

_Rom._ Sir, it is most true.

I am the witnes.

_1 Cred._ Yes faith, wee are pay’d.

_2 Cred._ Heauen blesse his Lordship, I did thinke him wiser. 275

_3 Cred._ He a states-man, he an asse Pay other mens debts?

_1 Cred._ That he was neuer bound for.

_Rom._ One more such

Would saue the rest of pleaders.

_Char._ _Honord Rochfort._

Lye still my toung and bushes, cal’d my cheekes,

That offter thankes in words, for such great deeds. 280

_Roch._ Call in my daughter: still I haue a suit to you.

_Baum. Exit._

Would you requite mee.

_Rom._ With his life, assure you.

_Roch._ Nay, would you make me now your debter, Sir.

This is my onely child: what shee appeares, _Enter Baum. Beau._

Your Lordship well may see her education 285

Followes not any: for her mind, I know it

To be far fayrer then her shape, and hope

It will continue so: if now her birth

Be not too meane for Charolois, take her

This virgin by the hand, and call her wife, 290

Indowd with all my fortunes: blesse me so,

Requite mee thus, and make mee happier,

In ioyning my poore empty name to yours,

Then if my state were multiplied ten fold.

_Char._ Is this the payment, Sir, that you expect? 295

Why, you participate me more in debt,

That nothing but my life can euer pay,

This beautie being your daughter, in which yours

I must conceiue necessitie of her vertue

Without all dowry is a Princes ayme, 300

Then, as shee is, for poore and worthlesse I,

How much too worthy! Waken me, _Romont_,

That I may know I dream’t and find this vanisht

_Rom._ Sure, I sleepe not.

_Roch._ Your sentence life or death.

_Char._ Faire Beaumelle, can you loue me?

_Beau._ Yes, my Lord. 305

_Enter Nouall, Ponta. Malotine, Lilad. Aymer. All salute_

_Char._ You need not question me, if I can you.

You are the fayrest virgin in _Digum_,

And _Rochfort_ is your father.

_Nou._ What’s this change?

_Roch._ You met my wishes, Gentlemen.

_Rom._ What make

These dogs in doublets heere?

_Beau._ A Visitation, Sir. 310

_Char._ Then thus, Faire _Beaumelle_, I write my faith

Thus seale it in the sight of Heauen and men.

Your fingers tye my heart-strings with this touch

In true-loue knots, which nought but death shall loose.

And yet these eares (an Embleme of our loues) 315

Like Cristall riuers indiuidually

Flow into one another, make one source,

Which neuer man distinguish, lesse deuide:

Breath, marry, breath, and kisses, mingle soules

Two hearts, and bodies, heere incorporate: 320

And though with little wooing I haue wonne

My future life shall be a wooing tyme.

And euery day, new as the bridall one.

Oh Sir I groane vnder your courtesies,

More then my fathers bones vnder his wrongs, 325

You _Curtius_-like, haue throwne into the gulfe,

Of this his Countries foule ingratitude,

Your life and fortunes, to redeeme their shames.

_Roch._ No more, my glory, come, let’s in and hasten

This celebration.

_Rom. Mal. Pont. Bau._ All faire blisse vpon it. 330

_Exeunt Roch. Char. Rom. Bau. Mal._

_Nou._ Mistresse.

_Beau._ Oh seruant, vertue strengthen me.

Thy presence blowes round my affections vane:

You will vndoe me, if you speake againe.

_Exit Beaum._

_Lilad. Aym._ Heere will be sport for you. This workes.

_Exeunt Lilad. Aym._

_Nou._ Peace, peace,

_Pont._ One word, my Lord _Nouall_.

_Nou._ What, thou wouldst mony; there. 335

_Pont._ No, Ile none, Ile not be bought a slaue,

A Pander, or a Parasite, for all

Your fathers worth, though you haue sau’d my life,

Rescued me often from my wants, I must not

Winke at your follyes: that will ruine you. 340

You know my blunt way, and my loue to truth:

Forsake the pursuit of this Ladies honour,

Now you doe see her made another mans,

And such a mans, so good, so popular,

Or you will plucke a thousand mischiefes on you. 345

The benefits you haue done me, are not lost,

Nor cast away, they are purs’d heere in my heart,

But let me pay you, sir, a fayrer way

Then to defend your vices, or to sooth ’em.

_Nou._ Ha, ha, ha, what are my courses vnto thee? 350

Good Cousin _Pontalier_, meddle with that

That shall concerne thyselfe.

_Exit Nouall._

_Pont._ No more but scorne?

Moue on then, starres, worke your pernicious will.

Onely the wise rule, and preuent your ill.

_Exit. Hoboyes._

_Here a passage ouer the Stage, while the Act is playing for the

Marriage of Charalois with Beaumelle, &c._

_Actus tertius._

_Scaena prima._

[_A Room in Charalois’ House_]

_Enter Nouall Iunior, Bellapert._

_Nou. Iu._ Flie not to these excuses: thou hast bin

False in thy promise, and when I haue said

Vngratefull, all is spoke.

_Bell._ Good my Lord,

But heare me onely.

_Nou._ To what purpose, trifler?

Can anything that thou canst say, make voyd 5

The marriage? or those pleasures but a dreame,

Which _Charaloyes_ (oh _Venus_) hath enioyd?

_Bell._ I yet could say that you receiue aduantage,

In what you thinke a losse, would you vouchsafe me

That you were neuer in the way till now 10

With safety to arriue at your desires,

That pleasure makes loue to you vnattended

By danger or repentance?

_Nou._ That I could.

But apprehend one reason how this might be,

Hope would not then forsake me.

_Bell._ The enioying 15

Of what you most desire, I say th’ enioying

Shall, in the full possession of your wishes,

Confirme that I am faithfull.

_Nou._ Giue some rellish

How this may appeare possible.

_Bell._ I will

Rellish, and taste, and make the banquet easie: 20

You say my Ladie’s married. I confesse it,

That Charalois hath inioyed her, ’tis most true

That with her, hee’s already Master of

The best part of my old Lords state. Still better,

But that the first, or last, should be your hindrance, 25

I vtterly deny: for but obserue me:

While she went for, and was, I sweare, a Virgin,

What courtesie could she with her honour giue

Or you receiue with safety--take me with you,

When I say courtesie, doe not think I meane 30

A kisse, the tying of her shoo or garter,

An houre of priuate conference: those are trifles.

In this word courtesy, we that are gamesters point at

The sport direct, where not alone the louer

Brings his Artillery, but vses it. 35

Which word expounded to you, such a courtesie

Doe you expect, and sudden.

_Nou._ But he tasted

The first sweetes, _Bellapert_.

_Bell._ He wrong’d you shrewdly,

He toyl’d to climbe vp to the _Phoenix_ nest,

And in his prints leaues your ascent more easie. 40

I doe not know, you that are perfect Crittiques

In womens bookes, may talke of maydenheads.

_Nou._ But for her marriage.

_Bell._ ’Tis a faire protection

’Gainst all arrests of feare, or shame for euer.

Such as are faire, and yet not foolish, study 45

To haue one at thirteene; but they are mad

That stay till twenty. Then sir, for the pleasure,

To say Adulterie’s sweeter, that is stale.

This onely is not the contentment more,

To say, This is my Cuckold, then my Riuall. 50

More I could say--but briefly, she doates on you,

If it proue otherwise, spare not, poyson me

With the next gold you giue me.

_Enter Beaumely_

_Beau._ Hows this seruant,

Courting my woman?

_Bell._ As an entrance to

The fauour of the mistris: you are together 55

And I am perfect in my qu.

_Beau._ Stay _Bellapert_.

_Bell._ In this I must not with your leaue obey you.

Your Taylor and your Tire-woman waite without

And stay my counsayle, and direction for

Your next dayes dressing. I haue much to doe, 60

Nor will your Ladiship know, time is precious,

Continue idle: this choise Lord will finde

So fit imployment for you.

_Exit Bellap._

_Beau._ I shall grow angry.

_Nou._ Not so, you haue a iewell in her, Madam.

_Enter againe._

_Bell._ I had forgot to tell your Ladiship 65

The closet is priuate and your couch ready:

And if you please that I shall loose the key,

But say so, and tis done.

_Exit Bellap._

_Baum._ You come to chide me, seruant, and bring with you

Sufficient warrant, you will say and truely, 70

My father found too much obedience in me,

By being won too soone: yet if you please

But to remember, all my hopes and fortunes

Had reuerence to this likening: you will grant

That though I did not well towards you, I yet 75

Did wisely for my selfe.

_Nou._ With too much feruor

I haue so long lou’d and still loue you, Mistresse,

To esteeme that an iniury to me

Which was to you conuenient: that is past

My helpe, is past my cure. You yet may, Lady, 80

In recompence of all my dutious seruice,

(Prouided that your will answere your power)

Become my Creditresse.

_Beau._ I vnderstand you,

And for assurance, the request you make

Shall not be long vnanswered. Pray you sit, 85

And by what you shall heare, you’l easily finde,

My passions are much fitter to desire,

Then to be sued to.

_Enter Romont and Florimell._

_Flor._ Sir, tis not enuy

At the start my fellow has got of me in

My Ladies good opinion, thats the motiue 90

Of this discouery; but due payment

Of what I owe her Honour.

_Rom._ So I conceiue it.

_Flo._ I haue obserued too much, nor shall my silence

Preuent the remedy--yonder they are,

I dare not bee seene with you. You may doe 95

What you thinke fit, which wil be, I presume,

The office of a faithfull and tryed friend

To my young Lord.

_Exit Flori._

_Rom._ This is no vision: ha!

_Nou._ With the next opportunity.

_Beau._ By this kisse,

And this, and this.

_Nou._ That you would euer sweare thus. 100

_Rom._ If I seeme rude, your pardon, Lady; yours

I do not aske: come, do not dare to shew mee

A face of anger, or the least dislike.

Put on, and suddaily a milder looke,

I shall grow rough else.

_Nou._ What haue I done, Sir, 105

To draw this harsh vnsauory language from you?

_Rom._ Done, Popinjay? why, dost thou thinke that if

I ere had dreamt that thou hadst done me wrong,

Thou shouldest outliue it?

_Beau._ This is something more

Then my Lords friendship giues commission for. 110

_Nou._ Your presence and the place, makes him presume

Vpon my patience.

_Rom._ As if thou ere wer’t angry

But with thy Taylor, and yet that poore shred

Can bring more to the making vp of a man,

Then can be hop’d from thee: thou art his creature, 115

And did hee not each morning new create [thee]

Thou wouldst stinke and be forgotten. Ile not change

On syllable more with thee, vntill thou bring

Some testimony vnder good mens hands,

Thou art a Christian. I suspect thee strongly, 120

And wilbe satisfied: till which time, keepe from me.

The entertaiment of your visitation

Has made what I intended on a businesse.

_Nou._ So wee shall meete--Madam.

_Rom._ Vse that legge again,

And Ile cut off the other.

_Nou._ Very good. 125

_Exit Nouall._

_Rom._ What a perfume the Muske-cat leaues behind him!

Do you admit him for a property,

To saue you charges, Lady.

_Beau._ Tis not vselesse,

Now you are to succeed him.

_Rom._ So I respect you,

Not for your selfe, but in remembrance of, 130

Who is your father, and whose wife you now are,

That I choose rather not to vnderstand

Your nasty scoffe then,--

_Beau._ What, you will not beate mee,

If I expound it to you. Heer’s a Tyrant

Spares neyther man nor woman.

_Rom._ My intents 135

Madam, deserue not this; nor do I stay

To be the whetstone of your wit: preserue it

To spend on such, as know how to admire

Such coloured stuffe. In me there is now speaks to you

As true a friend and seruant to your Honour, 140

And one that will with as much hazzard guard it,

As euer man did goodnesse.--But then Lady,

You must endeauour not alone to bee,

But to appeare worthy such loue and seruice.

_Beau._ To what tends this?

_Rom._ Why, to this purpose, Lady, 145

I do desire you should proue such a wife

To _Charaloys_ (and such a one hee merits)

As Caesar, did hee liue, could not except at,

Not onely innocent from crime, but free

From all taynt and suspition.

_Beau._ They are base 150

That iudge me otherwise.

_Rom._ But yet bee carefull.

Detraction’s a bold monster, and feares not

To wound the fame of Princes, if it find

But any blemish in their liues to worke on.

But Ile bee plainer with you: had the people 155

Bin learnd to speake, but what euen now I saw,

Their malice out of that would raise an engine

To ouerthrow your honor. In my fight

(With yonder pointed foole I frighted from you)

You vs’d familiarity beyond 160

A modest entertaynment: you embrac’d him

With too much ardor for a stranger, and

Met him with kisses neyther chaste nor comely:

But learne you to forget him, as I will

Your bounties to him, you will find it safer 165

Rather to be vncourtly, then immodest.

_Beau._ This prety rag about your necke shews well,

And being coorse and little worth, it speakes you,

As terrible as thrifty.

_Rom._ Madam.

_Beau._ Yes.

And this strong belt in which you hang your honor 170

Will out-last twenty scarfs.

_Rom._ What meane you, Lady?

_Beau._ And all else about you Cap a pe

So vniforme in spite of handsomnesse,

Shews such a bold contempt of comelinesse,

That tis not strange your Laundresse in the League, 175

Grew mad with loue of you.

_Rom._ Is my free counsayle

Answerd with this ridiculous scorne?

_Beau._ These obiects

Stole very much of my attention from me,

Yet something I remember, to speake truth,

Deceyued grauely, but to little purpose, 180

That almost would haue made me sweare, some Curate

Had stolne into the person of _Romont_,

And in the praise of goodwife honesty,

Had read an homely.

_Rom._ By thy hand.

_Beau._ And sword,

I will make vp your oath, twill want weight else. 185

You are angry with me, and poore I laugh at it.

Do you come from the Campe, which affords onely

The conuersation of cast suburbe whores,

To set downe to a Lady of my ranke,

Lymits of entertainment? 190

_Rom._ Sure a Legion has possest this woman.

_Beau._ One stampe more would do well: yet I desire not

You should grow horne-mad, till you haue a wife.

You are come to warme meate, and perhaps cleane linnen:

Feed, weare it, and bee thankefull. For me, know, 195

That though a thousand watches were set on mee,

And you the Master-spy, I yet would vse,

The liberty that best likes mee. I will reuell,

Feast, kisse, imbreace, perhaps grant larger fauours:

Yet such as liue vpon my meanes, shall know 200

They must not murmur at it. If my Lord

Bee now growne yellow, and has chose out you

To serue his Iealouzy that way, tell him this,

You haue something to informe him:

_Exit Beau._

_Rom._ And I will.

Beleeue it wicked one I will. Heare, Heauen, 205

But hearing pardon mee: if these fruts grow

Vpon the tree of marriage, let me shun it,

As a forbidden sweete. An heyre and rich,

Young, beautifull, yet adde to this a wife,

And I will rather choose a Spittle sinner 210

Carted an age before, though three parts rotten,

And take it for a blessing, rather then

Be fettered to the hellish slauery

Of such an impudence.

_Enter Baumont with writings._

_Bau._ Collonell, good fortune

To meet you thus: you looke sad, but Ile tell you 215

Something that shall remoue it. Oh how happy

Is my Lord _Charaloys_ in his faire bride!

_Rom._ A happy man indeede!--pray you in what?

_Bau._ I dare sweare, you would thinke so good a Lady,

A dower sufficient.

_Rom._ No doubt. But on. 220

_Bau._ So faire, so chaste, so vertuous: so indeed

All that is excellent.

_Rom._ Women haue no cunning

To gull the world.

_Bau._ Yet to all these, my Lord

Her father giues the full addition of

All he does now possesse in _Burgundy_: 225

These writings to confirme it, are new seal’d

And I most fortunate to present him with them,

I must goe seeke him out, can you direct mee?

_Rom._ You’l finde him breaking a young horse.

_Bau._ I thanke you.

_Exit Baumont._

_Rom._ I must do something worthy _Charaloys_ friendship. 230

If she were well inclin’d to keepe her so,

Deseru’d not thankes: and yet to stay a woman

Spur’d headlong by hot lust, to her owne ruine,

Is harder then to prop a falling towre

With a deceiuing reed.

_Enter Rochfort._

_Roch._ Some one seeke for me, 235

As soone as he returnes.

_Rom._ Her father! ha?

How if I breake this to him? sure it cannot

Meete with an ill construction. His wisedome

Made powerfull by the authority of a father,

Will warrant and giue priuiledge to his counsailes. 240

It shall be so--my Lord.

_Roch._ Your friend _Romont_:

Would you ought with me?

_Rom._ I stand so engag’d

To your so many fauours, that I hold it

A breach in thankfulnesse, should I not discouer,

Though with some imputation to my selfe, 245

All doubts that may concerne you.

_Roch._ The performance

Will make this protestation worth my thanks.

_Rom._ Then with your patience lend me your attention

For what I must deliuer, whispered onely

You will with too much griefe receiue.

_Enter Beaumelle, Bellapert._

_Beau._ See wench! 250

Vpon my life as I forespake, hee’s now

Preferring his complaint: but be thou perfect,

And we will fit him.

_Bell._ Feare not mee, pox on him:

A Captaine turne Informer against kissing?

Would he were hang’d vp in his rusty Armour: 255

But if our fresh wits cannot turne the plots

Of such a mouldy murrion on it selfe;

Rich cloathes, choyse faire, and a true friend at a call,

With all the pleasures the night yeelds, forsake vs.

_Roch._ This in my daughter? doe not wrong her.

_Bell._ Now. 260

Begin. The games afoot, and wee in distance.

_Beau._ Tis thy fault, foolish girle, pinne on my vaile,

I will not weare those iewels. Am I not

Already matcht beyond my hopes? yet still

You prune and set me forth, as if I were 265

Againe to please a suyter.

_Bell._ Tis the course

That our great Ladies take.

_Rom._ A weake excuse.

_Beau._ Those that are better seene, in what concernes

A Ladies honour and faire same, condemne it.

You waite well, in your absence, my Lords friend 270

The vnderstanding, graue and wise _Romont_.

_Rom._ Must I be still her sport?

_Beau._ Reproue me for it.

And he has traueld to bring home a iudgement

Not to be contradicted. You will say

My father, that owes more to yeeres then he, 275

Has brought me vp to musique, language, Courtship,

And I must vse them. True, but not t’offend,

Or render me suspected.

_Roch._ Does your fine story

Begin from this?

_Beau._ I thought a parting kisse

From young _Nouall_, would haue displeasd no more 280

Then heretofore it hath done; but I finde

I must restrayne such fauours now; looke therefore

As you are carefull to continue mine,

That I no more be visited. Ile endure

The strictest course of life that iealousie 285

Can thinke secure enough, ere my behauiour

Shall call my fame in question.

_Rom._ Ten dissemblers

Are in this subtile deuill. You beleeue this?

_Roch._ So farre that if you trouble me againe

With a report like this, I shall not onely 290

Iudge you malicious in your disposition,

But study to repent what I haue done

To such a nature.

_Rom._ Why, ’tis exceeding well.

_Roch._ And for you, daughter, off with this, off with it:

I haue that confidence in your goodnesse, I, 295

That I will not consent to haue you liue

Like to a Recluse in a cloyster: goe

Call in the gallants, let them make you merry,

Vse all fit liberty.

_Bell._ Blessing on you.

If this new preacher with the sword and feather 300

Could proue his doctrine for Canonicall,

We should haue a fine world.

_Exit Bellapert._

_Roch._ Sir, if you please

To beare your selfe as fits a Gentleman,

The house is at your seruice: but if not,

Though you seeke company else where, your absence 305

Will not be much lamented--

_Exit Rochfort._

_Rom._ If this be

The recompence of striuing to preserue

A wanton gigglet honest, very shortly

’Twill make all mankinde Panders--Do you smile,

Good Lady Loosenes? your whole sex is like you, 310

And that man’s mad that seekes to better any:

What new change haue you next?

_Beau._ Oh, feare not you, sir,

Ile shift into a thousand, but I will

Conuert your heresie.

_Rom._ What heresie? Speake.

_Beau._ Of keeping a Lady that is married, 315

From entertayning seruants.--

_Enter Nouall Iu._ _Malatine_, _Liladam_, _Aymer_, _Pontalier_.

O, you are welcome,

Vae any meanes to vexe him,

And then with welcome follow me.

_Exit Beau_

_Nou._ You are tyr’d

With your graue exhortations, Collonell.

_Lilad._ How is it? Fayth, your Lordship may doe well, 320

To helpe him to some Church-preferment: ’tis

Now the fashion, for men of all conditions,

How euer they haue liu’d; to end that way.

_Aym._ That face would doe well in a surplesse.

_Rom._ Rogues,

Be silent--or--

_Pont._ S’death will you suffer this? 325

_Rom._ And you, the master Rogue, the coward rascall,

I shall be with you suddenly.

_Nou._ _Pontallier_,

If I should strike him, I know I shall kill him:

And therefore I would haue thee beate him, for

Hee’s good for nothing else.

_Lilad._ His backe 330

Appeares to me, as it would tire a Beadle,

And then he has a knotted brow, would bruise

A courtlike hand to touch it.

_Aym._ Hee lookes like

A Curryer when his hides grown deare.

_Pont._ Take heede

He curry not some of you.

_Nou._ Gods me, hee’s angry. 335

_Rom._ I breake no Iests, but I can breake my sword

About your pates.

_Enter Charaloyes and Baumont._

_Lilad._ Heeres more.

_Aym._ Come let’s bee gone,

Wee are beleaguerd.

_Nou._ Looke they bring vp their troups.

_Pont._ Will you sit downe

With this disgrace? You are abus’d most grosely. 340

_Lilad._ I grant you, Sir, we are, and you would haue vs

Stay and be more abus’d.

_Nou._ My Lord, I am sorry,

Your house is so inhospitable, we must quit it.

_Exeunt. Manent. Char. Rom._

_Cha._ Prethee _Romont_, what caus’d this vprore?

_Rom._ Nothing.

They laugh’d and vs’d their scuruy wits vpon mee. 345

_Char._ Come, tis thy Iealous nature: but I wonder

That you which are an honest man and worthy,

Should softer this suspition: no man laughes;

No one can whisper, but thou apprehend’st

His conference and his scorne reflects on thee: 350

For my part they should scoffe their thin wits out,

So I not heard ’em, beate me, not being there.

Leaue, leaue these fits, to conscious men, to such

As are obnoxious, to those foolish things

As they can gibe at.

_Rom._ Well, Sir.

_Char._ Thou art know’n 355

Valiant without detect, right defin’d

Which is (as fearing to doe iniury,

As tender to endure it) not a brabbler,

A swearer.

_Rom._ Pish, pish, what needs this my Lord?

If I be knowne none such, how vainly, you 360

Do cast away good counsaile? I haue lou’d you,

And yet must freely speake; so young a tutor,

Fits not so old a Souldier as I am.

And I must tell you, t’was in your behalfe

I grew inraged thus, yet had rather dye, 365

Then open the great cause a syllable further.

_Cha._ In my behalfe? wherein hath _Charalois_

Vnfitly so demean’d himselfe, to giue

The least occasion to the loosest tongue,

To throw aspersions on him, or so weakely 370

Protected his owne honor, as it should

Need a defence from any but himselfe?

They are fools that iudge me by my outward seeming,

Why should my gentlenesse beget abuse?

The Lion is not angry that does sleepe 375

Nor euery man a Coward that can weepe.

For Gods sake speake the cause.

_Rom._ Not for the world.

Oh it will strike disease into your bones

Beyond the cure of physicke, drinke your blood,

Rob you of all your rest, contract your sight, 380

Leaue you no eyes but to see misery,

And of your owne, nor speach but to wish thus

Would I had perish’d in the prisons iawes:

From whence I was redeem’d! twill weare you old,

Before you haue experience in that Art, 385

That causes your affliction.

_Cha._ Thou dost strike

A deathfull coldnesse to my hearts high heate,

And shrinkst my liuer like the _Calenture_.

Declare this foe of mine, and lifes, that like

A man I may encounter and subdue it 390

It shall not haue one such effect in mee,

As thou denouncest: with a Souldiers arme,

If it be strength, Ile meet it: if a fault

Belonging to my mind, Ile cut it off

With mine owne reason, as a Scholler should 395

Speake, though it make mee monstrous.

_Rom._ Ile dye first.

Farewell, continue merry, and high Heauen

Keepe your wife chaste.

_Char._ Hump, stay and take this wolfe

Out of my brest, that thou hast lodg’d there, or

For euer lose mee.

_Rom._ Lose not, Sir, your selfe. 400

And I will venture--So the dore is fast. _Locke the dore._

Now noble _Charaloys_, collect your selfe,

Summon your spirits, muster all your strength

That can belong to man, sift passion,

From euery veine, and whatsoeuer ensues, 405

Vpbraid not me heereafter, as the cause of

Iealousy, discontent, slaughter and ruine:

Make me not parent to sinne: you will know

This secret that I burne with.

_Char._ Diuell on’t,

What should it be? _Romont_, I heare you wish 410

My wifes continuance of Chastity.

_Rom._ There was no hurt in that.

_Char._ Why? do you know

A likelyhood or possibility vnto the contrarie?

_Rom._ I know it not, but doubt it, these the grounds

The seruant of your wife now young _Nouall_, 415

The sonne vnto your fathers Enemy

(Which aggrauates my presumption the more)

I haue been warnd of, touching her, nay, seene them

Tye heart to heart, one in anothers armes,

Multiplying kisses, as if they meant 420

To pose Arithmeticke, or whose eyes would

Bee first burnt out, with gazing on the others.

I saw their mouthes engender, and their palmes

Glew’d, as if Loue had lockt them, their words flow

And melt each others, like two circling flames, 425

Where chastity, like a Phoenix (me thought) burn’d,

But left the world nor ashes, nor an heire.

Why stand you silent thus? what cold dull flegme,

As if you had no drop of choller mixt

In your whole constitution, thus preuailes, 430

To fix you now, thus stupid hearing this?

_Cha._ You did not see ’em on my Couch within,

Like George a horse-backe on her, nor a bed?

_Rom._ Noe.

_Cha._ Ha, ha.

_Rom._ Laugh yee? eene so did your wife,

And her indulgent father.

_Cha._ They were wife. 435

Wouldst ha me be a foole?

_Rom._ No, but a man.

_Cha._ There is no dramme of manhood to suspect,

On such thin ayrie circumstance as this

Meere complement and courtship. Was this tale

The hydeous monster which you so conceal’d? 440

Away, thou curious impertinent

And idle searcher of such leane nice toyes.

Goe, thou sedicious sower of debate:

Fly to such matches, where the bridegroome doubts:

He holds not worth enough to counteruaile 445

The vertue and the beauty of his wife.

Thou buzzing drone that ’bout my eares dost hum,

To strike thy rankling sting into my heart,

Whose vemon, time, nor medicine could asswage.

Thus doe I put thee off, and confident 450

In mine owne innocency, and desert,

Dare not conceiue her so vnreasonable,

To put _Nouall_ in ballance against me,

An vpstart cran’d vp to the height he has.

Hence busiebody, thou’rt no friend to me, 455

That must be kept to a wiues iniury,

_Rom._ Ist possible? farewell, fine, honest man,

Sweet temper’d Lord adieu: what Apoplexy

Hath knit fence vp? Is this _Romonts_ reward?

Beare witnes the great spirit of my father, 460

With what a healthfull hope I administer

This potion that hath wrought so virulently,

I not accuse thy wife of act, but would

Preuent her _Praecipuce_, to thy dishonour,

Which now thy tardy sluggishnesse will admit. 465

Would I had seene thee grau’d with thy great Sire,

Ere liue to haue mens marginall fingers point

At Charaloys, as a lamented story.

An Emperour put away his wife for touching

Another man, but thou wouldst haue thine tasted 470

And keepe her (I thinke.) Puffe. I am a fire

To warme a dead man, that waste out myselfe.

Bleed--what a plague, a vengeance i’st to mee,

If you will be a Cuckold? Heere I shew

A swords point to thee, this side you may shun, 475

Or that: the perrill, if you will runne on,

I cannot helpe it.

_Cha._ Didst thou neuer see me

Angry, _Romont_?

_Rom._ Yes, and pursue a foe

Like lightening

_Char._ Prethee see me so no more.

I can be so againe. Put vp thy sword, 480

And take thy selfe away, lest I draw mine.

_Rom._ Come fright your foes with this: sir, I am your friend,

And dare stand by you thus.

_Char._ Thou art not my friend,

Or being so, thou art mad, I must not buy

Thy friendship at this rate; had I iust cause, 485

Thou knowst I durst pursue such iniury

Through fire, ayre, water, earth, nay, were they all

Shuffled againe to _Chaos_, but ther’s none.

Thy skill, _Romont_, consists in camps, not courts.

Farewell, vnciuill man, let’s meet no more. 490

Heere our long web of friendship I vntwist.

Shall I goe whine, walke pale, and locke my wife

For nothing, from her births free liberty,

That open’d mine to me? yes; if I doe

The name of cuckold then, dog me with scorne. 495

I am a _Frenchman_, no _Italian_ borne.

_Exit._

_Rom._ A dull _Dutch_ rather: fall and coole (my blood)

Boyle not in zeal of thy friends hurt, so high,

That is so low, and cold himselfe in’t. Woman,

How strong art thou, how easily beguild? 500

How thou dost racke vs by the very hornes?

Now wealth I see change manners and the man:

Something I must doe mine owne wrath to asswage,

And note my friendship to an after-age.

_Exit._

_Actus quartus._

_Scaena prima._

[_A Room in Nouall’s House_]

_Enter Nouall Iunior, as newly dressed, a Taylor, Barber, Perfumer,

Liladam, Aymour, Page._

_Nou._ Mend this a little: pox! thou hast burnt me. oh fie

vpon’t, O Lard, hee has made me smell (for

all the world) like a flaxe, or a red headed womans chamber:

powder, powder, powder.

_Perf._ Oh sweet Lord! 5

_Nouall sits in a chaire,_

_Page._ That’s his Perfumer.

_Barber orders his haire,_

_Tayl._ Oh deare Lord,

_Perfumer giues powder,_

_Page._ That’s his Taylor.

_Taylor sets his clothese._

_Nou._ Monsieur _Liladam_, _Aymour_, how allow you the

modell of these clothes? 10

_Aym._ Admirably, admirably, oh sweet Lord! assuredly

it’s pity the wormes should eate thee.

_Page._ Here’s a fine Cell; a Lord, a Taylor, a Perfumer, a

Barber, and a paire of Mounsieurs: 3 to 3, as little will in the

one, as honesty in the other. S’foote ile into the country 15

againe, learne to speake truth, drinke Ale, and conuerse with

my fathers Tenants; here I heare nothing all day, but

vpon my soule as I am a Gentleman, and an honest

man.

_Aym._ I vow and affirme, your Taylor must needs be an expert 20

Geometrician, he has the Longitude, Latitude, Altitude,

Profundity, euery Demension of your body, so exquisitely,

here’s a lace layd as directly, as if truth were a

Taylor.

_Page._ That were a miracle. 25

_Lila._ With a haire breadth’s errour, ther’s a shoulder

piece cut, and the base of a pickadille in _puncto_.

_Aym._ You are right, Mounsieur his vestaments fit: as if

they grew vpon him, or art had wrought ’em on the same

loome, as nature fram’d his Lordship as if your Taylor were 30

deepely read in Astrology, and had taken measure of your

honourable body, with a _Iacobs_ staffe, an _Ephimerides_.

_Tayl._ I am bound t’ee Gentlemen.

_Page._ You are deceiu’d, they’ll be bound to you, you must 35

remember to trust ’em none.

_Nou._ Nay, fayth, thou art a reasonable neat Artificer, giue

the diuell his due.

_Page._ I, if hee would but cut the coate according to the

cloth still. 40

_Nou._ I now want onely my misters approbation, who is

indeed, the most polite punctuall Queene of dressing in all

_Burgundy_. Pah, and makes all other young Ladies appeare,

as if they came from boord last weeke out of the country,

Is’t not true, Liladam? 45

_Lila._ True my Lord, as if any thing your Lordship could

say, could be othewrise then true.

_Nou._ Nay, a my soule, ’tis so, what fouler obiect in the

world, then to see a young faire, handsome beauty, vnhandsomely

dighted and incongruently accoutred; or a hopefull 50

_Cheualier_, vnmethodically appointed, in the externall ornaments

of nature? For euen as the Index tels vs the contents

of stories, and directs to the particular Chapters, euen so

does the outward habit and superficiall order of garments

(in man or woman) giue vs a tast of the spirit, and 55

demonstratiuely poynt (as it were a manuall note from the margin)

all the internall quality, and habiliment of the soule, and

there cannot be a more euident, palpable, grosse manifestation

of poore degenerate dunghilly blood, and breeding, then

rude, vnpolish’d, disordered and slouenly outside. 60

_Page._ An admirable! lecture. Oh all you gallants, that hope

to be saued by your cloathes, edify, edify.

_Aym._ By the Lard, sweet Lard, thou deseru’st a pension

o’ the State.

_Page._ O th’ Taylors, two such Lords were able to spread 65

Taylors ore the face of a whole kingdome.

_Nou._ Pox a this glasse! it flatters, I could find in my heart

to breake it.

_Page._ O saue the glasse my Lord, and breake their heads,

they are the greater flatterers I assure you. 70

_Aym._ Flatters, detracts, impayres, yet put it by,

Lest thou deare Lord (_Narcissus_-like) should doate

Vpon thyselfe, and dye; and rob the world

Of natures copy, that she workes forme by.

_Lila._ Oh that I were the Infanta Queene of Europe, 75

Who (but thy selfe sweete Lord) shouldst marry me.

_Nou._ I marry? were there a Queene oth’ world, not I.

Wedlocke? no padlocke, horselocke, I weare spurrs _He capers._

To keepe it off my heeles; yet my _Aymour_,

Like a free wanton iennet i’th meddows, 80

I looke aboute, and neigh, take hedge and ditch,

Feede in my neighbours pastures, picke my choyce

Of all their faire-maind-mares: but married once,

A man is stak’d, or pown’d, and cannot graze

Beyond his owne hedge.

_Enter Pontalier, and Malotin._

_Pont._ I haue waited, sir, 85

Three hours to speake w’ee, and not take it well,

Such magpies are admitted, whilst I daunce

Attendance.

_Lila._ Magpies? what d’ee take me for?

_Pont._ A long thing with a most vnpromising face.

_Aym._ I’ll ne’re aske him what he takes me for?

_Mal._ Doe not, sir, 90

For hee’l goe neere to tell you.

_Pont._ Art not thou

A Barber Surgeon?

_Barb._ Yes sira why.

_Pont._ My Lord is sorely troubled with two scabs.

_Lila._ _Aym._ Humph--

_Pont._ I prethee cure him of ’em.

_Nou._ Pish: no more, 95

Thy gall sure’s ouer throwne; these are my Councell,

And we were now in serious discourse.

_Pont._ Of perfume and apparell, can you rise

And spend 5 houres in dressing talke, with these?

_Nou._ Thou ’idst haue me be a dog: vp, stretch and shake, 100

And ready for all day.

_Pont._ Sir, would you be

More curious in preseruing of your honour.

Trim, ’twere more manly. I am come to wake

Your reputation, from this lethargy

You let it sleep in, to perswade, importune, 105

Nay, to prouoke you, sir, to call to account

This Collonell _Romont_, for the foule wrong

Which like a burthen, he hath layd on you,

And like a drunken porter, you sleepe vnder.

’Tis all the towne talkes, and beleeue, sir, 110

If your tough sense persist thus, you are vndone,

Vtterly lost, you will be scornd and baffled

By euery Lacquay; season now your youth,

With one braue thing, and it shall keep the odour

Euen to your death, beyond, and on your Tombe, 115

Sent like sweet oyles and Frankincense; sir, this life

Which once you sau’d, I ne’re since counted mine,

I borrow’d it of you; and now will pay it;

I tender you the seruice of my sword

To beare your challenge, if you’ll write, your fate: 120

Ile make mine owne: what ere betide you, I

That haue liu’d by you, by your side will dye.

_Nou._ Ha, ha, would’st ha’ me challenge poore _Romont_?

Fight with close breeches, thou mayst think I dare not.

Doe not mistake me (cooze) I am very valiant, 125

But valour shall not make me such an Asse.

What vse is there of valour (now a dayes?)

’Tis sure, or to be kill’d, or to be hang’d.

Fight thou as thy minde moues thee, ’tis thy trade,

Thou hast nothing else to doe; fight with _Romont_? 130

No i’le not fight vnder a Lord.

_Pont._ Farewell, sir,

I pitty you.

Such louing Lords walke their dead honours graues,

For no companions fit, but fooles and knaues.

Come _Malotin_.

_Exeunt Pont. Mal._

_Enter Romont._

_Lila._ ’Sfoot, _Colbran_, the low gyant. 135

_Aym._ He has brought a battaile in his face, let’s goe.

_Page._ _Colbran_ d’ee call him? hee’l make some of you smoake,

I beleeue.

_Rom._ By your leaue, sirs.

_Aym._ Are you a Consort?

_Rom._ D’ee take mee

For a fidler? ya’re deceiu’d: Looke. Ile pay you.

_Kickes ’em._

_Page._ It seemes he knows you one, he bumfiddles you so. 140

_Lila._ Was there euer so base a fellow?

_Aym._ A rascall?

_Lila._ A most vnciuill Groome?

_Aym._ Offer to kicke a Gentleman, in a Noblemans chamber?

A pox of your manners. 145

_Lila._ Let him alone, let him alone, thou shalt lose thy

arme, fellow: if we stirre against thee, hang vs.

_Page._ S’foote, I thinke they haue the better on him,

though they be kickd, they talke so.

_Lila._ Let’s leaue the mad Ape. 150

_Nou._ Gentlemen.

_Lilad._ Nay, my Lord, we will not offer to dishonour you

so much as to stay by you, since hee’s alone.

_Nou._ Harke you.

_Aym._ We doubt the cause, and will not disparage you, so 155

much as to take your Lordships quarrel in hand. Plague on

him, how he has crumpled our bands.

_Page._ Ile eene away with ’em, for this souldier beates

man, woman, and child.

_Exeunt. Manent Nou. Rom._

_Nou._ What meane you, sir? My people.

_Rom._ Your boye’s gone. 160

_Lockes the doore._

And doore’s lockt, yet for no hurt to you,

But priuacy: call vp your blood againe, sir,

Be not affraid, I do beseach you, sir,

(And therefore come) without, more circumstance

Tell me how farre the passages haue gone 165

’Twixt you and your faire Mistresse _Beaumelle_,

Tell me the truth, and by my hope of Heauen

It neuer shall goe further.

_Nou._ Tell you why sir?

Are you my confessor?

_Rom._ I will be your confounder, if you doe not. 170

_Drawes a pocket dag._

Stirre not, nor spend your voyce.

_Nou._ What will you doe?

_Rom._ Nothing but lyne your brayne-pan, sir, with lead,

If you not satisfie me suddenly,

I am desperate of my life, and command yours.

_Nou._ Hold, hold, ile speake. I vow to heauen and you, 175

Shee’s yet vntouch’t, more then her face and hands:

I cannot call her innocent; for I yeeld

On my sollicitous wrongs she consented

Where time and place met oportunity

To grant me all requests.

_Rom._ But may I build 180

On this assurance?

_Nou._ As vpon your fayth.

_Rom._ Write this, sir, nay you must.

_Drawes Inkehorne and paper._

_Nou._ Pox of this Gunne.

_Rom._ Withall, sir, you must sweare, and put your oath

Vnder your hand, (shake not) ne’re to frequent

This Ladies company, nor euer send 185

Token, or message, or letter, to incline

This (too much prone already) yeelding Lady.

_Nou._ ’Tis done, sir.

_Rom._ Let me see, this first is right,

And heere you wish a sudden death may light

Vpon your body, and hell take your soule, 190

If euer more you see her, but by chance,

Much lesse allure. Now, my Lord, your hand.

_Nou._ My hand to this?

_Rom._ Your heart else I assure you.

_Nou._ Nay, there ’tis.

_Rom._ So keepe this last article

Of your fayth giuen, and stead of threatnings, sir, 195

The seruice of my sword and life is yours:

But not a word of it, ’tis Fairies treasure;

Which but reueal’d, brings on the blabbers, ruine.

Vse your youth better, and this excellent forme

Heauen hath bestowed vpon you. So good morrow to your Lordship. 200

_Nou._ Good diuell to your rogueship. No man’s safe:

Ile haue a Cannon planted in my chamber, _Exit._

Against such roaring roagues.

_Enter Bellapert._

_Bell._ My Lord away

The Coach stayes: now haue your wish, and iudge,

If I haue been forgetfull.

_Nou._ Ha?

_Bell._ D’ee stand 205

Humming and hawing now?

_Exit._

_Nou._ Sweet wench, I come.

Hence feare,

I swore, that’s all one, my next oath ’ile keepe

That I did meane to breake, and then ’tis quit.

No paine is due to louers periury. 210

If loue himselfe laugh at it, so will I.

_Exit Nouall._

_Scaena 2._

_Enter Charaloys, Baumont._

[_An outer Room in Aymer’s House_]

_Bau._ I grieue for the distaste, though I haue manners,

Not to inquire the cause, falne out betweene

Your Lordship and _Romont_.

_Cha._ I loue a friend,

So long as he continues in the bounds

Prescrib’d by friendship, but when he vsurpes 5

Too farre on what is proper to my selfe,

And puts the habit of a Gouernor on,

I must and will preserue my liberty.

But speake of something, else this is a theame

I take no pleasure in: what’s this _Aymeire_, 10

Whose voyce for Song, and excellent knowledge in

The chiefest parts of Musique, you bestow

Such prayses on?

_Bau._ He is a Gentleman,

(For so his quality speakes him) well receiu’d

Among our greatest Gallants; but yet holds 15

His maine dependance from the young Lord _Nouall_:

Some tricks and crotchets he has in his head,

As all Musicians haue, and more of him

I dare not author: but when you haue heard him,

I may presume, your Lordship so will like him, 20

That you’l hereafter be a friend to Musique.

_Cha._ I neuer was an enemy to’t, _Baumont_,

Nor yet doe I subscribe to the opinion

Of those old Captaines, that thought nothing musicall,

But cries of yeelding enemies, neighing of horses, 25

Clashing of armour, lowd shouts, drums, and trumpets:

Nor on the other side in fauour of it,

Affirme the world was made by musicall discord,

Or that the happinesse of our life consists

In a well varied note vpon the Lute: 30

I loue it to the worth of it, and no further.

But let vs see this wonder.

_Bau._ He preuents

My calling of him.

_Aym._ Let the Coach be brought _Enter Aymiere._

To the backe gate, and serue the banquet vp:

My good Lord _Charalois_, I thinke my house 35

Much honor’d in your presence.

_Cha._ To haue meanes

To know you better, sir, has brought me hither

A willing visitant, and you’l crowne my welcome

In making me a witnesse to your skill,

Which crediting from others I admire. 40

_Aym._ Had I beene one houre sooner made acquainted

With your intent my Lord, you should haue found me

Better prouided: now such as it is,

Pray you grace with your acceptance.

_Bau._ You are modest.

Begin the last new ayre.

_Cha._ Shall we not see them? 45

_Aym._ This little distance from the instruments

Will to your eares conuey the harmony

With more delight.

_Cha._ Ile not consent.

_Aym._ Y’are tedious,

By this meanes shall I with one banquet please

Two companies, those within and these Guls heere. 50

_Song aboue._

_Musique and a Song, Beaumelle within--ha, ha, ha._

_Cha._ How’s this? It is my Ladies laugh! most certaine

When I first pleas’d her, in this merry language,

She gaue me thanks.

_Bau._ How like you this?

_Cha._ ’Tis rare,

Yet I may be deceiu’d, and should be sorry 55

Vpon vncertaine suppositions, rashly

To write my selfe in the blacke list of those

I haue declaym’d against, and to _Romont_.

_Aym._ I would he were well of--perhaps your Lordship

Likes not these sad tunes, I haue a new Song 60

Set to a lighter note, may please you better;

Tis cal’d The happy husband.

_Cha._ Pray sing it.

_Song below. At the end of the Song, Beaumelle within._

_Beau._ Ha, ha, ’tis such a groome.

_Cha._ Doe I heare this,

And yet stand doubtfull?

_Exit Chara._

_Aym._ Stay him I am vndone,

And they discouered.

_Bau._ Whats the matter?

_Aym._ Ah! 65

That women, when they are well pleas’d, cannot hold,

But must laugh out.

_Enter Nouall Iu. Charaloys, Beaumley, Bellapert_.

_Nou._ Helpe, saue me, murrher, murther.

_Beau._ Vndone foreuer.

_Cha._ Oh, my heart!

Hold yet a little--doe not hope to scape

By flight, it is impossible: though I might 70

On all aduantage take thy life, and iustly;

This sword, my fathers sword, that nere was drawne,

But to a noble purpose, shall not now

Doe th’ office of a hangman, I reserue it

To right mine honour, not for a reuenge 75

So poore, that though with thee, it should cut off

Thy family, with all that are allyed

To thee in lust, or basenesse, ’twere still short of

All termes of satisfaction. Draw.

_Nou._ I dare not,

I haue already done you too much wrong, 80

To fight in such a cause.

_Cha._ Why, darest thou neyther

Be honest, coward, nor yet valiant, knaue?

In such a cause come doe not shame thy selfe:

Such whose bloods wrongs, or wrong done to themselues

Could neuer heate, are yet in the defence 85

Of their whores, daring looke on her againe.

You thought her worth the hazard of your soule,

And yet stand doubtfull in her quarrell, to

Venture your body.

_Bau._ No, he feares his cloaths,

More then his flesh

_Cha._ Keepe from me, garde thy life, 90

Or as thou hast liu’d like a goate, thou shalt

Dye like a sheepe.

_Nou._ Since ther’s no remedy

_They fight, Nouall is slaine._

Despaire of safety now in me proue courage.

_Cha._ How soone weak wrong’s or’throwne! lend me your hand,

Beare this to the Caroach--come, you haue taught me 95

To say you must and shall: I wrong you not,

Y’are but to keepe him company you loue.

Is’t done? ’tis well. Raise officers, and take care,

All you can apprehend within the house

May be forth comming. Do I appeare much mou’d? 100

_Bau._ No, sir.

_Cha._ My griefes are now, Thus to be borne.

Hereafter ile finde time and place to mourne.

_Exeunt._

_Scaena 3._

_Enter Romont, Pontalier._

[_A Street_]

_Pont._ I was bound to seeke you, sir.

_Rom._ And had you found me

In any place, but in the streete, I should

Haue done,--not talk’d to you. Are you the Captaine?

The hopefull _Pontalier_? whom I haue seene

Doe in the field such seruice, as then made you 5

Their enuy that commanded, here at home

To play the parasite to a gilded knaue,

And it may be the Pander.

_Pont._ Without this

I come to call you to account, for what

Is past already. I by your example 10

Of thankfulnesse to the dead Generall

By whom you were rais’d, haue practis’d to be so

To my good Lord _Nouall_, by whom I liue;

Whose least disgrace that is, or may be offred,

With all the hazzard of my life and fortunes, 15

I will make good on you, or any man,

That has a hand in’t; and since you allowe me

A Gentleman and a souldier, there’s no doubt

You will except against me. You shall meete

With a faire enemy, you vnderstand 20

The right I looke for, and must haue.

_Rom._ I doe,

And with the next dayes sunne you shall heare from me.

_Exeunt._

_Scaena 4._

_Enter Charalois with a casket, Beaumelle, Baumont._

[_A Room in_ Charalois’ _House_]

_Cha._ Pray beare this to my father, at his leasure

He may peruse it: but with your best language

Intreat his instant presence: you haue sworne

Not to reueale what I haue done.

_Bau._ Nor will I--

But--

_Cha._ Doubt me not, by Heauen, I will doe nothing 5

But what may stand with honour: Pray you leaue me

To my owne thoughts. If this be to me, rise;

I am not worthy the looking on, but onely

To feed contempt and scorne, and that from you

Who with the losse of your faire name haue caus’d it, 10

Were too much cruelty.

_Beau._ I dare not moue you

To heare me speake. I know my fault is farre

Beyond qualification, or excuse,

That ’tis not fit for me to hope, or you

To thinke of mercy; onely I presume 15

To intreate, you would be pleas’d to looke vpon

My sorrow for it, and beleeue, these teares

Are the true children of my griefe and not

A womans cunning.

_Cha._ Can you _Beaumelle_,

Hauing deceiued so great a trust as mine, 20

Though I were all credulity, hope againe

To get beleefe? no, no, if you looke on me

With pity or dare practise any meanes

To make my sufferings lesse, or giue iust cause

To all the world, to thinke what I must doe 25

Was cal’d vpon by you, vse other waies,

Deny what I haue seene, or iustifie

What you haue done, and as you desperately

Made shipwracke of your fayth to be a whore,

Vse th’ armes of such a one, and such defence, 30

And multiply the sinne, with impudence,

Stand boldly vp, and tell me to my teeth,

You haue done but what’s warranted,

By great examples, in all places, where

Women inhabit, vrge your owne deserts, 35

Or want of me in merit; tell me how,

Your dowre from the lowe gulfe of pouerty,

Weighed vp my fortunes, to what now they are:

That I was purchas’d by your choyse and practise

To shelter you from shame: that you might sinne 40

As boldly as securely, that poore men

Are married to those wiues that bring them wealth,

One day their husbands, but obseruers euer:

That when by this prou’d vsage you haue blowne

The fire of my iust vengeance to the height, 45

I then may kill you: and yet say ’twas done

In heate of blood, and after die my selfe,

To witnesse my repentance.

_Beau._ O my fate,

That neuer would consent that I should see,

How worthy thou wert both of loue and duty 50

Before I lost you; and my misery made

The glasse, in which I now behold your vertue:

While I was good, I was a part of you,

And of two, by the vertuous harmony

Of our faire minds, made one; but since I wandred 55

In the forbidden Labyrinth of lust,

What was inseparable, is by me diuided.

With iustice therefore you may cut me off,

And from your memory, wash the remembrance

That ere I was like to some vicious purpose 60

Within your better iudgement, you repent of

And study to forget.

_Cha._ O _Beaumelle_,

That you can speake so well, and doe so ill!

But you had been too great a blessing, if

You had continued chast: see how you force me 65

To this, because my honour will not yeeld

That I againe should loue you.

_Beau._ In this life

It is not fit you should: yet you shall finde,

Though I was bold enough to be a strumpet,

I dare not yet liue one: let those fam’d matrones 70

That are canoniz’d worthy of our sex,

Transcend me in their sanctity of life,

I yet will equall them in dying nobly,

Ambitious of no honour after life,

But that when I am dead, you will forgiue me. 75

_Cha._ How pity steales vpon me! should I heare her

But ten words more, I were lost--one knocks, go in.

_Knock within. Exit Beaumelle. Enter Rochfort._

That to be mercifull should be a sinne.

O, sir, most welcome. Let me take your cloake,

I must not be denyed--here are your robes, 80

As you loue iustice once more put them on:

There is a cause to be determind of

That doe’s require such an integrity,

As you haue euer vs’d--ile put you to

The tryall of your constancy, and goodnesse: 85

And looke that you that haue beene Eagle-eyd

In other mens affaires, proue not a Mole

In what concernes your selfe. Take you your seate:

I will be for you presently.

_Exit._

_Roch._ Angels guard me,

To what strange Tragedy does this destruction 90

Serue for a Prologue?

_Enter Charaloys with Nouals body. Beaumelle, Baumont._

_Cha._ So, set it downe before

The Iudgement seate, and stand you at the bar:

For me? I am the accuser.

_Roch._ _Nouall_ slayne,

And _Beaumelle_ my daughter in the place

Of one to be arraign’d.

_Cha._ O, are you touch’d? 95

I finde that I must take another course,

Feare nothing. I will onely blind your eyes,

For Iustice should do so, when ’tis to meete

An obiect that may sway her equall doome

From what it should be aim’d at.--Good my Lord, 100

A day of hearing.

_Roch._ It is granted, speake--

You shall haue iustice.

_Cha._ I then here accuse,

Most equall Iudge, the prisoner your faire Daughter,

For whom I owed so much to you: your daughter,

So worthy in her owne parts: and that worth 105

Set forth by yours, to whose so rare perfections,

Truth witnesse with me, in the place of seruice

I almost pay’d Idolatrous sacrifice

To be a false advltresse.

_Roch._ With whom?

_Cha._ With this _Nouall_ here dead.

_Roch._ Be wel aduis’d 110

And ere you say adultresse againe,

Her fame depending on it, be most sure

That she is one.

_Cha._ I tooke them in the act.

I know no proofe beyond it.

_Roch._ O my heart.

_Cha._ A Iudge should feele no passions.

_Roch._ Yet remember 115

He is a man, and cannot put off nature.

What answere makes the prisoner?

_Beau._ I confesse

The fact I am charg’d with, and yeeld my selfe

Most miserably guilty.