Actus Quartus. Scæna Prima.
Enter Montague alone in mean habit.
Thy breeding, or thy bloud? here's a poor cloud
Eclipseth all thy splendor; who can read
In thy pale face, dead eye, or lenten shute,
The liberty thy ever-giving hand
Hath bought for others, manacling it self
In gyves of parchment indissoluble?
The greatest hearted man supplyed with means,
Nobility of birth and gentlest parts,
I thought the right hand of his Sovereign,
If virtue quit her seat in his high soul,
Glitters but like a Palace set on fire,
Whose glory whilst it shines, but ruins him,
And his bright show each hour to ashes tending
Shall at the last be rak'd up like a sparkle,
Unless mens lives and fortunes feed the flame.
Not for my own wants, though blame I my Stars,
But suffering others to cast love on me,
When I can neither take, nor thankful be.
My Ladies woman, fair and virtuous
Young as the present month, sollicites me
For love and marriage now being nothing worth—
Enter Veramour.
Good faith, I never joy'd out of your sight;
For Heavens sake, Sir, be merry, or else bear
The buffets of your fortunes with more scorn;
Do but begin to rail, teach me the way,
And I'll sit down, and help your anger forth:
I have known you wear a suit; full worth a Lordship,
Give to a man whose need ne'er frighted you
From calling of him friend, five hundred Crowns
E'er sleep had left your sences to consider
Your own important present uses; yet
Since I have seen you with a t[r]encher wait,
Void of all scorn, therefore I'll wait on you.
Servest for no wages, but for charity?
Thou dost surcharge me with thy plenteous love:
The goodness of thy virtue shown to me,
More opens still my disability
To quit thy pains: credit me loving boy,
A free and honest nature may be opprest,
Tir'd with courtesies from a liberal spirit,
When they exceed his means of gratitude.
Extends his love or duty.
Of virtue, why dost love and follow me?
I'll run (fast as I can) by your horse side,
I'll hold your stirrop when you do alight,
And without grudging, wait till you return:
I'll quit offer'd means, and expose my self
To cold and hunger, still to be with you;
Fearless I'll travel through a wilderness,
And when you are weary, I will lay me down
That in my bosom you may rest your head,
Where whilst you sleep, I'll watch, that no wild beast
Shall hurt or trouble you: and thus we'll breed a story
To make every hearer weep,
When they disco[u]rse our fortunes and our loves.
If they did know this boy? but my desire
Is, that thou wouldest not (as thou usest still:
When like a servant, I 'mong servants sit)
Wait on my Trencher, fill my cups with Wine:
Why should'st thou do this boy? prethee consider,
I am not what I was.
Ver. Curst be the day when I forget that Montague was my Lord, or not remember him my Master still.
So many hours, and yet untaught to live
By any worldly quality.
To cheat and cozen men with oaths and lies:
Those are the worldly qualities to live:
Some of our scarlet Gallants teach their boys
These worldly qualities.
Since stumbling fortune then leaves virtue thus
Let me leave fortune, e'r be vicious.
Good Master weep not, do you want aught, Sir?
Will you have any money, here's some Silver;
And here's a little Gold, 'twill serve to play,
And put more troublesome thoughts out of your mind:
I pray Sir take it, I'll get more with singing.
And then I'll bring it you, my Lady ga't me,
And—it was not covetousness,
But I forgot to tell you sooner on't.
And less to give it, buy thee Scarfs and Garters,
And when I have money, I will give thee a sword:
Nature made thee a beauteous Cabinet
To lock up [all] the goodness of the earth.
Enter Charlote.
Ver. I have lost my voice with the very sight of this Gentlewoman: good Sir steal away, you were wont to be a curious avoider of womens company.
Mont. Why boy, thou dar'st trust me any where, dar'st thou not?
Ver. I had rather trust you by a roaring Lion, than a ravening woman.
Mont. Why boy?
Ver. Why truly she devours more mans flesh—
Mont. I, but she roars not boy.
Ver. No Sir, why she is never silent but when her mouth is full.
Charl. Monsieur Montague.
Mont. My sweet fellow, since you please to call me so.
Ver. Ah my conscience, she wou'd be pleas'd well enough to call you bed-fellow: oh Master, do not hold her by the hand so: a woman is a Lime-bush, that catcheth all she toucheth.
Charl. I do most dangerously suspect this boy to be a wench; art thou not one? come hither, let me feel thee.
Ver. With all my heart.
Charl. Why dost thou pull off thy Glove?
Ver. Why, to feel whether you be a boy, or no.
Charl. Fie boy, go too. I'll not look your head, nor comb your locks any more, if you talk thus.
Ver. Why, I'll sing to you no more then.
Charl. Fie upon't, how sad you are! a young Gentleman that was the very Sun of France.
Mont. But I am in the eclipse now.
Cha[r]l. Suffer himself to be over-run with a Lethargy of melancholy and discontent! rouze up thy spirit, man, and shake it off:
That sleeps at Anchor when the Ocean's calm;
But when she rages, and the wind blows high,
He cuts his way with skill and Majesty.
I would turn a Fool, or Poet, or any thing, or marry, to
make you merry; prethee let's walk: good Veramour, leave
thy Master and me, I have earnest business with him.
Ver. Pray do you leave my Master, and me: we were very merry before you came, he does not covet womens company.
And I'll sing to you again:
I'faith his mind is stronger than to credit Womens vows, and too pure to be capable of their loves.
Charl. The boy is jealo[u]s, sweet lad leave us: my Lady call'd for you I swear: that's a good child, there's a piece of Gold for thee, go buy a Feather.
Ver. There's two pieces for you, do you go and buy one, or what you will, or nothing, so you go. Nay then I see you would have me go, Sir; why, I'faith I will, now I perceive you love her better than you do me; but [God] bless you whatever you do, or intend, I know you are a very honest man. [Exit.
I cannot, or I will not marry thee?
Why hast thou drawn the bloud out of my cheeks,
And given a quicker motion to my heart?
Oh thou hast bred a Feaver in my veins
Call'd love, which no Physitian can cure;
Have mercy on a Maid, whose simple youth—
A ceremonious Idolatry! [Kneels.
By all the joy of love, I love thee better,
Than I or any man can tell another;
And will express the mercy which thou crav'st,
I will forbear to marry thee: consider
Thou art Nature's heir in feature, and thy parents,
In fair Inheritances; rise with these thoughts,
And look on me; but with a womans eye,
A decaid fellow, void of means and spirit.
Forget my Fathers bloud, wait, and make legs,
Stain my best breeches, with the servile drops
That fall from others draughts.
Is perspective, to shew it plainlier.
This undervalue of thy life, is but
Because I should not buy thee, what more speaks
Greatness of man, than valiant patience,
That shrinks not under his fates strongest strokes?
These Roman deaths, as falling on a sword,
Opening of veins, with poison quenching thirst,
(Which we erroneously do stile the deeds
Of the heroick and magnanimous man)
Was dead-ey'd cowardize, and white-cheek'd fear,
Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under
Fortunes false Lottery, desperately run
To death, for dread of death; that soul's most stout,
That bearing all mischance, dares last it out;
Will you perform your word, and marry me,
When I shall call you to't?
Enter Longueville with a riding-rod.
Mont. I'faith I will.
Charl. Who's this alights here?
Long. With leave, fair creature, are you the Lady Mistriss of the house?
Charl. Her servant, Sir.
Long. I pray then favour me, to inform your Lady, and Duke Orleans wife,
And craves for speedy answer.
Charl. Are you in post, Sir?
Long. No, I am in Satin, Lady; I would you would be in post.
Charl. I will return, Sweet. [Exit.
Long. Honest friend, do you belong to the house? I pray be covered.
Mont. Yes Sir, I do.
Long. Ha, dream'st thou Longaville? sure 'tis not he: Sir I should know you.
But though thou know'st me, prethee Longaville,
Mock not my poverty, pray remember your self;
Shows it not strangely for thy cloaths to stand
Without a Hat to mine? mock me no more.
If ever I began to mock you yet.
The —— on me, why should I wear Velvet
And Silver Lace? —— I will tear it off.
---- I could break my head.
For holding eyes that knew not you at first:
But time and fortune run your courses with him,
He'll laugh and storm you, when you shew most hate.
Enter Lamira, Orlean's Lady, Laverdine, La Poop, Malycorn, Veramour, Charlot.
Cover your head sweet Mounsieur.
'Tis not to you, nor you, that I stand bare.
Pray hide your head, your gallants use to do't.
That cannot live without your mutual knaveries,
More than a Bawd, a Pandor, or a Whore
From one another; how dare you suspect
That I stand bare to you? what make you here?
Shift your house, Lady of 'em, for I know 'em,
They come to steal Napkins, and your Spoons;
Look to your Silver-bodkin, (Gentlewoman)
'Tis a dead Utensil, and Page 'ware your pockets;
My reverence is unto this man, my Master,
Whom you, with protestations, and oaths
As high as Heaven, as deep as Hell, which would
Deceive the wisest man of honest nature,
Have cozen'd and abus'd; but I may meet you,
And beat you one with th' other.
If Husband or brother merit love from you,
Prevent their dangers, this hour brings to trial
Their hereto sleeping hates; by this time each
Within a yard is of the others heart,
And met to prove their causes and their spirits
With their impartial swords points; haste and save,
Or never meet them more, but at the grave.
Should for a Brothers, or a Husbands life, through thy undoing, die.
I now confess it loudly, are undone:
Caroch, and haste, one minute may betray
A life more worth than all time can repay.
[Exeunt Ladies and Mont.
Mal. Hump: Monsieur Laverdine pursues this boy extreamly, Captain, what will you do?
La p. Any thing but follow to this Land-service; I am a Sea-Captain you know, and to offer to part 'em, without we could do't like Watermen with long staves, a quarter of a mile off, might be dangerous.
Mal. Why then let's retire and pray for 'em, I am resolv'd to stop your intent; abus'd more than we have been we cannot be, without they fall to flat beating on's.
[Exeunt Maly, La-poop.
Lav. And that were unkindly done i'faith.
Ver. But you are the trou[b]lesomest Ass that e'er I met with; retire, you smell like a womans chamber, that's newly up, before she have pinsht her vapours in with her cloaths.
Lav. I will haunt thee like thy Grandames Ghost, thou shalt never rest for me.
Ver. Well, I perceive 'tis vain to conceal a secret from you: believe it Sir, indeed I am a woman.
Lav. Why la; I knew't, this Prophetical tongue of mine never fail'd me; my mother was half a witch, never any thing that she forespake, but came to pass: a woman? how happy am I! now we may lawfully come together without fear of hanging; sweet wench, be gracious, in honourable sort I woe, no otherwise.
Ver. Faith, the truth is, I have loved you long.
Lav. See, see.
Ver. But durst not open it.
Lav. —— I think so.
Ver. But briefly, when you bring it to the test, if there be not one Gentleman in this house, will challenge more interest in me, than you can, I am at your disposure. [Exit.
For Cap, or pouch, this day I'll prove my Fortune,
In which your Lady doth elect her Husband,
Who will [b]e Amiens, 'twill save my wedding dinner,
Povera, La Poop, and Malicorn: if all fail,
I will turn Citizen, a beauteous wife
Is the Horn-book to the richest Tradesmans life. [Exeunt.
Enter Duboys, Orleans, Longueville, Amiens, two Lacques, a Page with two Pistols.
Will you fix here?
Upon a bridge, a rail, but my swords breadth upon a battlement,
I'll fight this quarrel.
Dub. O' the Ropes, my Lord.
Orl. Upon a Line.
Dub. So all our Countrey Duels are carried, like a firework on a thred.
Upon your lives, till some of us come to you,
Dare not to look this way.
Dub. Except you see strangers or others that by chance or purpose are like to interrupt us.
Orl. Then give warning.
As he that doubts, hath the free leave to choose.
The ground, weapon, or seconds that can make
Odds in those fatal trials: but the cause.
When men are come to do, I would desire
The cause 'twixt us were other than it is;
But where the right is, there prevail our Swords.
And if my Sister have out-liv'd her honor,
I do not pray I may out-live her shame.
But never in th[i]s language Orleance;
And when you spoke it fair, and first, I told you
That it was possible you might be abus'd:
But now, since you forget your manners, you shall find,
If I transgress my custom, you do lye,
And are a villain, which I had rather yet
My sword had prov'd, than I been forc'd to speak:
Nay, give us leave, and since you stand so haughtily
And highly on your cause, let you and I,
Without engaging these two Gentlemen, singly determine it.
Long. My Lord, you'll pardon us.
Dub. I trust your Lordships may not do us that affront.
Ami. As how?
Dub. We kiss your Lordships hand, and come to serve you here with swords.
Long. My Lord, we understand our selves.
Dub. We have had the honor to be call'd unto the business, and we must not now quit it on terms.
Ami. Not terms of reason?
Long. No, no [r]eason for the quitting of our calling.
Dub. True, if I be call'd to't I must ask no reason.
It is a favour, if my throat be cut,
Your Lordship does me; which I never can,
[A noise-within, crying down with your swords.
What cry is that my Lord upon your guard?
So[me] treachery is a foot.
Enter Lady Orleans, Lamira, Montague.
My Lord (dear Lady help me) help me all;
I have so woful interest in both,
I know not which to fear for most: and yet
I must prefer my Lord. Dear brother,
You are too understanding, and too noble
To be offended, when I know my duty,
Though scarce my tears will let me so to do it.
If words could on me cast the name of whore,
I then were worthy to be loath'd; but know,
Your unkindness cannot make me wicked;
And therefore should less use that power upon me.
To make this interlude? withdraw, cold man,
And if thy spirit be not frozen up,
Give me one stroke yet at thee for my vengeance.
Till thou breath'st thinner air than that thou talkest.
Of those dull men; look how they stand, and no man
Will revenge an innocent Lady.
And be the motive, rather both kill me.
Orl. Then d[i]e my infamy.
Mont. Hold bloody man.
Orl. Art thou there Basilisk?
Mont. To strike thee dead, but that thy fate deserves some weightier hand.
Dub. Sweet my Lord.
Orl. Oh here's a plot; you bring your champions with you; the adultress with the adulterer: Out howling—
Dub. Good my Lord.
Orl. Are you her Graces countenancer, Lady, the receiver to the poor vicious couple.
Dub. Sweet my Lord.
This Montague here was murdered?
Like thy foul self that would have had it so.
Long. Orleance 'tis true, and shall be prov'd upon thee.
Mont. Thy malice Duke, and this thy wicked nature, are all as visible as thou; but I born to contemn thy injuries, do know, that though thy greatness may corrupt a Jury, and make a Judge afraid, and carry out a world of evils with thy Title: yet thou art not quiet at home, thou bearest about thee that, that doth charge thee, and condemn thee too. The thing that grieves me more, and doth indeed displease me, is, to think that so much baseness stands here to have encountred so much honor: Pardon me my Lord, what late my passion spake, when you provok'd my innocence.
Orl. Yes, do, oh! flattery becomes him better than the suit he wears; give him a new one, Amiens.
Poorly with you, but I will find a time to
Whisper you forth to this, or some fit place,
As shall not hold a second interruption.
Are destined unto higher hazards; this is of
A meaner arm.
A Prince and lye!
To publish the false rumours he hath made.
Bawds, Thieves, and Cheaters, it were monstrous.
Hinder me not, by——
I will kill him.
And all that have an interest to virtue,
Or title unto innocence.
Ami. Why hear me.
Long. For justice sake.
Ami. That cannot be.
Long. To punish his wives, your honor, and my Lords wrongs here, whom I must ever call so; for your loves I'll swear I'll sacrifice—
Ami. Longueville, I did not think you a murtherer before.
Long. I care not what you thought me.
His life, thy own is forfeit.
Mont. Foolish frantick man, the murder will be of us, not him.
Lady. Oh [God]!
The justice out of fates.—
Sindge but a hair of him, thou diest.
Thou godless man, feeding thy blood-shot eyes
With the red spectacle, and art not turn'd to stone
With horror? Hence, and take the wings of thy black
Infamy, to carry thee beyond the shoot of looks,
Or sound of curses, which will pursue thee still:
Thou hast out-fled all but thy guilt.
Under the burden, and my heart will break.
How heavy guilt is, when men come to feel
If you could know the mountain I sustain
With horror, you would each take off your part,
And more, to ease me: I cannot stand,
Forgive where I have wrong'd, I pray.
Unless that have shot her;
I have the worst on't, that needs would venture
Upon a trick had like to ha' cost my guts:
Look to her, she'll be well, it was but Powder
I charg'd with, thinking that a guilty man
Would have been frighted sooner; but I'm glad
He's come at last.
That am restored to the hateful sense
Of feeling in me my dear husbands death?
Oh no, I live not; life was that I left;
And what you have call'd me to, is death indeed:
I cannot weep so fast as he doth bleed.
Be greater, but I thank the Heavens for both.
Oh look not black upon me, all my friends,
To whom I will be reconcil'd, or grow unto
This earth, till I have wept a trench
That shall be great enough to be my grave,
And I will think them too most manly tears,
If they do move your pities: it is true,
Man should do nothing that he should repent;
But if he have, and say that he is sorry,
It is a worse fault, if he be not truly.
Here take your honoured wife, and joyn your hands.
----She hath married you again:
And Gentlemen, I do invite you all,
This night to take my house, where on the morrow,
To heighten more the reconciling feast,
I'll make my self a Husband and a guest. [Exeunt.