Hec. They’re they indeed. Help, help me; I’m too late else.
Song above.[547]
Come away, come away,
Hecate, Hecate, come away!
Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come,
With all the speed I may,
With all the speed I may.
Where’s Stadlin?
[Voice above.] Here.
Hec. Where’s Puckle?
[Voice above.] Here;
And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too;
We lack but you, we lack but you;
Come away, make up the count.
Hec. I will but 'noint, and then I mount.
[A Spirit like a cat descends.
[Voice above.] There’s one comes down to fetch his dues,
A kiss, a coll,[548] a sip of blood;
And why thou stay’st so long
I muse, I muse,
Since the air’s so sweet and good.
Hec. O, art thou come?
What news, what news?
Spirit. All goes still to our delight:
Either come, or else
Refuse, refuse.
Hec. Now I’m furnish’d for the flight.
Fire. Hark, hark, the cat sings a brave treble in
her own language!
Hec. [going up] Now I go, now I fly,
Malkin my sweet spirit and I.
O what a dainty pleasure ’tis
To ride in the air
When the moon shines fair,
And sing and dance, and toy and kiss!
Over woods, high rocks, and mountains,
Over seas, our mistress’ fountains,
Over steep[549] towers and turrets,
We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits:
No ring of bells to our ears sounds,
No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds;
No, not the noise of water’s breach,
Or cannon’s throat our height can reach.
[Voices above.] No ring of bells, &c.
Fire. Well, mother, I thank your kindness: you must be gambolling i’ th’ air, and leave me to walk here like a fool and a mortal. [Exit.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
An Apartment in the Duke’s House.
Enter Almachildes.
Alm. Though the fates have endued me with a pretty kind of lightness, that I can laugh at the world in a corner on’t, and can make myself merry on fasting nights to rub out a supper (which were a precious quality in a young formal student), yet let the world know there is some difference betwixt my jovial condition and the lunary state of madness. I am not quite out of my wits: I know a bawd from an aqua-vitæ shop,[550] a strumpet from wildfire, and a beadle from brimstone. Now shall I try the honesty of a great woman soundly. She reckoning the duke’s made away, I’ll be hanged if I be not the next now. If I trust her, as she’s a woman, let one of her long hairs wind about my heart, and be the end of me; which were a piteous lamentable tragedy, and might be entituled A fair Warning for all hair-bracelets.[551]
Already there’s an insurrection
Among the people; they are up in arms
Not out of any reason, but their wills,
Which are in them their saints, sweating and swearing,
Out of their zeal to rudeness, that no stranger,
As they term her, shall govern over them;
They say they’ll raise a duke among themselves first.
Enter Duchess.
Duch. O Almachildes, I perceive already
Our loves are born to curses! we’re beset
By multitudes; and, which is worse, I fear me
Unfriended too of any: my chief care
Is for thy sweet youth’s safety.
Alm. He that believes you not
Goes the right way to heaven, o’ my conscience. [Aside.
Duch. There is no trusting of 'em; they’re all as barren
In pity as in faith: he that puts confidence
In them, dies openly to the sight of all men,
Not with his friends and neighbours in peace private;
But as his shame, so his cold farewell is,
Public and full of noise. But keep you close, sir,
Not seen of any, till I see the way
Plain for your safety. I expect the coming
Of the lord governor, whom I will flatter
With fair entreaties, to appease their wildness;
And before him take a great grief upon me
For the duke’s death, his strange and sudden loss;
And when a quiet comes, expect thy joys.
Alm. I do expect now to be made away
'Twixt this and Tuesday night: if I live Wednesday,
Say I have been careful, and shunn’d spoon-meat.
[Aside and exit.
Duch. This fellow lives too long after the deed;
I’m weary of his sight; he must die quickly,
Or I’ve small hope of safety. My great aim’s
At the lord governor’s love; he is a spirit
Can sway and countenance; these obey and crouch.
My guiltiness had need of such a master,
That with a beck can suppress multitudes,
And dim misdeeds with radiance of his glory,
Not to be seen with dazzled popular eyes:
And here behold him come.
Enter Lord Governor, attended by Gentlemen.
Gov. Return back to 'em,
Say we desire 'em to be friends of peace
Till they hear farther from us. [Exeunt Gentlemen.
Duch. O my lord,
I fly unto the pity of your nobleness,
The grieved’st lady that was e’er beset
With storms of sorrows, or wild rage of people!
Never was woman’s grief for loss of lord
Dearer[552] than mine to me.
Gov. There’s no right done
To him now, madam, by wrong done to yourself;
Your own good wisdom may instruct you so far:
And for the people’s tumult, which oft grows
From liberty, or rankness of long peace,
I’ll labour to restrain, as I’ve begun, madam.
Duch. My thanks and praises shall ne’er forget you, sir,
And, in time to come, my love.
Gov. Your love, sweet madam?
You make my joys too happy; I did covet
To be the fortunate man that blessing visits,
Which I’ll esteem the crown and full reward
Of service present and deserts to come:
It is a happiness I’ll be bold to sue for,
When I have set a calm upon these spirits
That now are up for ruin.
Duch. Sir, my wishes
Are so well met in yours, so fairly answer’d,
And nobly recompens’d, it makes me suffer
In those extremes that few have ever felt;
To hold two passions in one heart at once,
Of gladness and of sorrow.
Gov. Then, as the olive
Is the meek ensign of fair fruitful peace,
So is this kiss of yours.
Duch. Love’s power be with you, sir!
Gov. How sh’as betray’d her! may I breathe no longer
Than to do virtue service, and bring forth
The fruits of noble thoughts, honest and loyal!
This will be worth th’ observing; and I’ll do’t.
[Aside and exit.
Duch. What a sure happiness confirms joy to me,
Now in the times of my most imminent dangers!
I look’d for ruin, and increase of honour
Meets me auspiciously. But my hopes are clogg’d now
With an unworthy weight; there’s the misfortune!
What course shall I take now with this young man?
For he must be no hinderance: I have thought on’t;
I’ll take some witch’s counsel for his end,
That will be sur’st: mischief is mischief’s friend.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in Fernando’s House.
Enter Sebastian and Fernando.
Seb. If ever you knew force of love in life, sir,
Give to mine pity.
Fer. You do ill to doubt me.
Seb. I could make bold with no friend seemlier
Than with yourself, because you were in presence
At our vow-making.
Fer. I’m a witness to’t.
Seb. Then you best understand, of all men living,
This is no wrong I offer, no abuse
Either to faith or friendship, for we’re register’d
Husband and wife in heaven; though there wants that
Which often keeps licentious men[553] in awe
From starting from their wedlocks, the knot public,
’Tis in our souls knit fast; and how more precious
The soul is than the body, so much judge
The sacred and celestial tie within us
More than the outward form, which calls but witness
Here upon earth to what is done in heaven:
Though I must needs confess the least is honourable;
As an ambassador sent from a king
Has honour by th’ employment, yet there’s greater
Dwells in the king that sent him; so in this.
Enter Florida.
Fer. I approve all you speak, and will appear to you
A faithful, pitying friend.
Seb. Look, there is she, sir,
One good for nothing but to make use of;
And I’m constrain’d t’ employ her to make all things
Plain, easy, and probable; for when she comes
And finds one here that claims him, as I’ve taught
Both this to do’t, and he to compound with her,
'Twill stir belief the more of such a business.
Fer. I praise the carriage well.
Seb. Hark you, sweet mistress,
I shall do you a simple turn in this;
For she disgrac’d thus, you are up in favour
For ever with her husband.
Flo. That’s my hope, sir,
I would not take the pains else. Have you the keys
Of the garden-side, that I may get betimes in
Closely, and take her lodging?
Seb. Yes, I’ve thought upon you:
Here be the keys. [Giving keys.
Flo. Marry, and thanks, sweet sir:
Set me to work so still.
Seb. Your joys are false ones,
You’re like to lie alone; you’ll be deceiv’d
Of the bed-fellow you look for, else my purpose
Were in an ill case: he’s on his fortnight’s journey;
You’ll find cold comfort there; a dream will be
Even the best market you can make to-night. [Aside.
She’ll not be long now: you may lose no time neither;
If she but take you at the door, ’tis enough:
When a suspect doth catch once, it burns mainly.
There may you end your business, and as cunningly
As if you were i’ th’ chamber, if you please
To use but the same art.
Flo. What need you urge that
Which comes so naturally I cannot miss on’t?
What makes the devil so greedy of a soul,
But 'cause has lost his own, to all joys lost?
So ’tis our trade to set snares for other women,
'Cause we were once caught ourselves. [Exit.
Seb. A sweet allusion!
Hell and a whore it seems are partners then
In one ambition: yet thou’rt here deceiv’d now;
Thou canst set none to hurt or wrong her honour,
It rather makes it perfect. Best of friends
That ever love’s extremities were bless’d with,
I feel mine arms with thee, and call my peace
The offspring of thy friendship. I will think
This night my wedding-night; and with a joy
As reverend as religion can make man’s,
I will embrace this blessing. Honest actions
Are laws unto themselves, and that good fear
Which is on others forc’d, grows kindly there.
[Knocking within.
Fer. Hark, hark! one knocks: away, sir; ’tis she certainly:
[Exit Sebastian.
It sounds much like a woman’s jealous 'larum.
Enter Isabella.
Isa. By your leave, sir.
Fer. You’re welcome, gentlewoman.
Isa. Our ladyship then stands us in no stead now.
[Aside.
One word in private, sir. [Whispers him.
Fer. No, surely, forsooth,
There is no such here, you’ve mistook the house.
Isa. O sir, that have I not; excuse me there,
I come not with such ignorance; think not so, sir.
'Twas told me at the entering of your house here
By one that knows him too well.
Fer. Who should that be?
Isa. Nay, sir, betraying is not my profession:
But here I know he is; and I presume
He would give me admittance, if he knew on’t,
As one on’s nearest friends.
Fer. You’re not his wife, forsooth?
Isa. Yes, by my faith, am I.
Fer. Cry you mercy then, lady.
Isa. She goes here by the name on’s wife: good stuff!
But the bold strumpet never told me that. [Aside.
Fer. We are so oft deceiv’d that let our lodgings,
We know not whom to trust: ’tis such a world,
There are so many odd tricks now-a-days
Put upon housekeepers.
Isa. Why, do you think I’d wrong
You or the reputation of your house?
Pray, shew me the way to him.
Fer. He’s asleep, lady,
The curtains drawn about him.
Isa. Well, well, sir,
I’ll have that care I’ll not disease[554] him much,
Tread you but lightly.—O, of what gross falsehood
Is man’s heart made of! had my first love liv’d
And return’d safe, he would have been a light
To all men’s actions, his faith shin’d so bright.
[Aside, and exit with Fernando.
Re-enter Sebastian.
Seb. I cannot so deceive her, 'twere too sinful,
There’s more religion in my love than so.
It is not treacherous lust that gives content
T’ an honest mind; and this could prove no better.
Were it in me a part of manly justice,
That have sought strange hard means to keep her chaste
To her first vow, and I t’ abuse her first?
Better I never knew what comfort were
In woman’s love than wickedly to know it.
What could the falsehood of one night avail him
That must enjoy for ever, or he’s lost?
’Tis the way rather to draw hate upon me;
For, known, ’tis as impossible she should love me,
As youth in health to doat upon a grief,
Or one that’s robb’d and bound t’ affect the thief:
No, he that would soul’s sacred comfort win
Must burn in pure love, like a seraphin.
Re-enter Isabella.
Isa. Celio!
Seb. Sweet madam?
Isa. Thou hast deluded me;
There’s nobody.
Seb. How? I wonder he would miss, madam,
Having appointed too: 'twere a strange goodness
If heaven should turn his heart now by the way.
Isa. O, never, Celio!
Seb. Yes, I ha’ known the like:
Man is not at his own disposing, madam,
The bless’d powers have provided better for him,
Or he were miserable. He may come yet;
’Tis early, madam: if you would be pleas’d
T’ embrace my counsel, you should see this night over,
Since you’ve bestow’d this pains.
Isa. I intend so.
Seb. That strumpet would be found, else she should go.
I curse the time now I did e’er make use
Of such a plague: sin knows not what it does. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Hall in Antonio’s House.
Fran. ’Tis now my brother’s time, even much about it;
For though he dissembled a whole fortnight’s absence,
He comes again to-night; ’twas so agreed
Before he went. I must bestir my wits now,
To catch this sister of mine, and bring her name
To some disgrace first, to preserve mine own:
There’s profit in that cunning. She cast off
My company betimes to-night by tricks and slights,[556]
And I was well contented. I’m resolv’d[557]
There’s no hate lost between us; for I know
She does not love me now, but painfully,
Like one that’s forc’d to smile upon a grief,
To bring some purpose forward; and I’ll pay her
In her own metal. They’re now all at rest,
And Gaspar there, and all: list! fast asleep;
He cries it hither: I must disease you straight, sir.
For the maid-servants and the girls o’ th’ house,
I spic’d them lately with a drowsy posset[558]
They will not hear in haste. [Noise within.] My brother’s come:
O, where’s this key now for him? here ’tis, happily:
But I must wake him first.—Why, Gaspar, Gaspar!
Gas. [within] What a pox gasp you for?
Fran. Now I’ll throw’t down.
Gas. [within] Who’s that call’d me now? somebody call’d Gaspar?
Fran. O, up, as thou’rt an honest fellow, Gaspar!
Gas. [within] I shall not rise to-night then. What’s the matter?
Who’s that? young mistress?
Fran. Ay; up, up, sweet Gaspar!
Enter Gasparo.
My sister hath both knock’d and call’d this hour,
And not a maid will stir.
Gas. They’ll stir enough sometimes.
Fran. Hark, hark, again! Gaspar, O run, run, prithee!
Gas. Give me leave to clothe myself.
Fran. Stand’st upon clothing
In an extremity? Hark, hark again!
She may be dead ere thou com’st: O, in quickly!—
[Exit Gasparo.
He’s gone: he cannot choose but be took now,
Or met in his return; that will be enough.—
Enter Antonio.
Brother? here, take this light.
Ant. My careful sister!
Fran. Look first in his own lodging ere you enter.
[Exit Antonio.
Ant. [within] O abus’d confidence! there’s nothing of him
But what betrays him more.
Fran. Then ’tis too true, brother?
Ant. [within] I’ll make base lust a terrible example;
No villany e’er paid dearer.
Ant. [within] I’m deaf to all humanity.
Fran. List, list!
A strange and sudden silence after all:
I trust has spoil’d 'em both; too dear a happiness!
O how I tremble between doubts and joys!
Ant. [within] There perish both, down to the house of falsehood,
Where perjurous wedlock weeps!
[Re-entering with his sword drawn.
O perjurous woman!
Sh’ad took the innocence of sleep upon her
At my approach, and would not see me come;
As if sh’ad lain there like a harmless soul,
And never dream’d of mischief. What’s all this now?
I feel no ease; the burden’s not yet off
So long as the abuse sticks in my knowledge.
O, ’tis a pain of hell to know one’s shame!
Had it been hid and done, 't had been done happy,
For he that’s ignorant lives long and merry.
Fran. I shall know all now. [Aside.]—Brother!
Ant. Come down quickly,
For I must kill thee too.
Fran. Me?
Ant. Stay not long:
If thou desir’st to die with little pain,
Make haste I’d wish thee, and come willingly;
If I be forc’d to come, I shall be cruel
Above a man to thee.
Fran. Why, sir!—my brother!——
Ant. Talk to thy soul, if thou wilt talk at all;
To me thou’rt lost for ever.
Fran. This is fearful in you:
Beyond all reason, brother, would you thus
Reward me for my care and truth shewn to you?
Ant. A curse upon 'em both, and thee for company!
’Tis that too diligent, thankless care of thine
Makes me a murderer, and that ruinous[560] truth
That lights me to the knowledge of my shame.
Hadst thou been secret, then had I been happy,
And had a hope, like man, of joys to come:
Now here I stand a stain to my creation;
And, which is heavier than all torments to me,
The understanding of this base adultery;
And that thou toldst me first, which thou deserv’st
Death worthily for.
Fran. If that be the worst, hold, sir,
Hold, brother; I can ease your knowledge[561] straight,
By my soul’s hopes, I can! there’s no such thing.
Ant. How?
Fran. Bless me but with life, I’ll tell you all:
Your bed was never wrong’d.
Ant. What? never wrong’d?
Fran. I ask but mercy as I deal with truth now:
'Twas only my deceit, my plot, and cunning,
To bring disgrace upon her; by that means
To keep mine own hid, which none knew but she:
To speak troth, I had a child by Aberzanes, sir.
Ant. How? Aberzanes?
Fran. And my mother’s letter
Was counterfeited, to get time and place
For my delivery.
Ant. O, my wrath’s redoubled!
Fran. At my return she could speak all my folly,
And blam’d me, with good counsel. I, for fear
It should be made known, thus rewarded her;
Wrought you into suspicion without cause,
And at your coming rais’d up Gaspar suddenly,
Sent him but in before you, by a falsehood,
Which to your kindled jealousy I knew
Would add enough: what’s now confess’d is true.
Ant. The more I hear, the worse it fares with me.
I ha’ kill’d 'em now for nothing; yet the shame
Follows my blood still. Once more, come down:
Look you, my sword goes up. [Sheathing sword.]
Call Hermio to me:
Let the new man alone; he’ll wake too soon
[Exit Francisca above.
To find his mistress dead, and lose a service.
Already the day breaks upon my guilt;
Enter Hermio.
I must be brief and sudden.—Hermio.
Her. Sir?
Ant. Run, knock up Aberzanes speedily;
Say I desire his company this morning
To yonder horse-race, tell him; that will fetch him:
O, hark you, by the way—— [Whispers.
Her. Yes, sir.
Ant. Use speed now,
Or I will ne’er use thee more; and, perhaps,
I speak in a right hour. My grief o’erflows;
I must in private go and vent my woes. [Exeunt.
ACT V. SCENE I.
A Hall in Antonio’s House.
Ant. You’re welcome, sir.
Aber. I think I’m worthy on’t,
For, look you, sir, I come untruss’d,[563] in troth.
Ant. The more’s the pity—honester men go to’t—
That slaves should ’scape it. What blade have you got there?
Aber. Nay, I know not that, sir: I am not acquainted greatly with the blade; I am sure ’tis a good scabbard, and that satisfies me.
Ant. ’Tis long enough indeed, if that be good.
Aber. I love to wear a long weapon; ’tis a thing commendable.
Ant. I pray, draw it, sir.
Aber. It is not to be drawn.
Ant. Not to be drawn?
Aber. I do not care to see’t: to tell you troth, sir, ’tis only a holyday thing, to wear by a man’s side.
Ant. Draw it, or I’ll rip thee down from neck to navel,
Though there’s small glory in’t.
Aber. Are you in earnest, sir?
Ant. I’ll tell thee that anon.
Aber. Why, what’s the matter, sir?
Ant. What a base misery is this in life now!
This slave had so much daring courage in him
To act a sin would shame whole generations,
But hath not so much honest strength about him
To draw a sword in way of satisfaction.
This shews thy great guilt, that thou dar’st not fight.
Aber. Yes, I dare fight, sir, in an honest cause.
Ant. Why, come then, slave! thou’st made my sister a whore.
Aber. Prove that an honest cause, and I’ll be hang’d.
Ant. So many starting holes? can I light no way?
Go to, you shall have your wish, all honest play.—Come
forth, thou fruitful wickedness, thou seed
Of shame and murder! take to thee in wedlock
Baseness and cowardice, a fit match for thee!—
Come, sir, along with me.
Enter Francisca.
Aber. 'Las, what to do?
I am too young to take a wife, in troth.
Ant. But old enough to take a strumpet though:
You’d fain get all your children beforehand,
And marry when you’ve done; that’s a strange course, sir.
This woman I bestow on thee: what dost thou say?
Aber. I would I had such another to bestow on you, sir!
Ant. Uncharitable slave! dog, coward as thou art,
To wish a plague so great as thine to any!
Aber. To my friend, sir, where I think I may be bold.
Ant. Down, and do’t solemnly; contract yourselves
With truth and zeal, or ne’er rise up again.
I will not have her die i’ th’ state of strumpet,
Though she took pride to live one.—Hermio, the wine!