Rus. I tell you, sir, she has lost some colour
By wrestling with a peevish sickness now of late.
Chough. Wrestle? nay, and[746] she love wrestling, I’ll teach her a trick to overthrow any peevish sickness in London, whate’er it be.
Rus. Well, she had a rich beauty, though I say’t;
Nor is it lost; a little thing repairs it.
Chough. She shall command the best thing that I have
In Middlesex, i’faith.
Rus. Well, sir, talk with her;
Give her a relish of your good liking to her;
You shall have time and free
Access to finish what you now begin.
Jane. What means my father? my love’s unjust restraint,
My shame, were it published, both together
Could not afflict me like this odious fool:
Now I see why he hated my Fitzallen. [Aside.
Chough. Sweet lady, your father says you are a wrestler: if you love that sport, I love you the better: i’faith, I love it as well as I love my meat after supper; ’tis indeed meat, drink, and cloth to me.
Jane. Methinks it should tear your clothes, sir.
Chough. Not a rag, i’faith.—Trimtram, hold my cloak. [Gives his cloak to Trimtram.]—I’ll wrestle a fall with you now; I’ll shew you a trick that you never saw in your life.
Jane. O, good sir, forbear! I am no wrestler.
Phy. Good sir, take heed, you’ll hurt the gentlewoman.
Chough. I will not catch beneath the waist, believe it;
I know fair play.
Jane. ’Tis no woman’s exercise in London, sir.
Chough. I’ll ne’er believe that: the hug and the lock between man and woman, with a fair fall, is as sweet an exercise for the body as you’ll desire in a summer’s evening.
Phy. Sir, the gentlewoman is not well.
Chough. It may be you are a physician, sir?
Phy. ’Tis so, sir.
Chough. I say, then, and I’ll stand to’t, three ounces of wrestling with two hips, a yard of a green gown put together in the inturn, is as good a medicine for the green sickness as ever breathed.
Trim. Come, sir, take your cloak again; I see here will be ne’er a match. [Returns cloak.
Jane. A match?
I had rather be match’d from a musket’s mouth,
And shot unto my death. [Aside.
Chough. I’ll wrestle with any man for a good supper.
Trim. Ay, marry, sir, I’ll take your part there, catch that catch may.
Phy. Sir, she is willing to’t: there at my house
She shall be private, and near to my attendance:
I know you’ll[747] not mistrust my faithful care;
I shall return her soon and perfectly.
Rus. Take your charge, sir.—Go with this gentleman, Jane;
But, prithee, look well this way ere thou go’st;
’Tis a rich simplicity of great estate,
A thing that will be rul’d, and thou shalt rule;
Consider of your sex’s general aim,
That domination is a woman’s heaven.
Jane. I’ll think on’t, sir.
Rus. My daughter is retiring, sir.
Chough. I will part at Dartmouth with her, sir. [Kisses her.]—O that thou didst but love wrestling! I would give any man three foils on that condition!
Trim. There’s three sorts of men that would thank you for 'em, either cutlers, fencers, or players.
Rus. Sir, as I began I end,—wondrous welcome!
[Exeunt all except Chough and Trimtram.
Trim. What, will you go to school to-day? you are entered, you know, and your quarterage runs on.
Chough. What, to the roaring school?[748] pox on’t, ’tis such a damnable noise, I shall never attain it neither. I do wonder they have never a wrestling school; that were worth twenty of your fencing or dancing schools.
Trim. Well, you must learn to roar here in London; you’ll never proceed in the reputation of gallantry else.
Chough. How long has roaring been an exercise, thinkest thou, Trimtram?
Trim. Ever since guns came up; the first was your roaring Meg.[749]
Chough. Meg? then ’twas a woman was the first roarer?
Trim. Ay, a fire of her touch-hole, that cost many a proper man’s life since that time; and then the lions, they learnt it from the guns, living so near 'em;[750] then it was heard to the Bankside, and the bears[751] they began to roar; then the boys got it, and so ever since there have been a company of roaring boys.
Chough. And how long will it last, thinkest thou?
Trim. As long as the water runs under London Bridge, or watermen [ply] at Westminster stairs.
Chough. Well, I will begin to roar too, since it is in fashion. O Corineus, this was not in thy time! I should have heard on’t by the tradition of mine ancestors—for I’m sure there were Choughs in thy days—if it had been so: when Hercules and thou[752] wert on the Olympic Mount together, then was wrestling in request.
Trim. Ay, and that Mount is now the Mount in Cornwall: Corineus brought it thither under one of his arms, they say.
Chough. O Corineus, my predecessor, that I had but lived in those days to see thee wrestle! on that condition I had died seven year ago.
Trim. Nay, it should have been a dozen at least, i’faith, on that condition.
[Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE I.
A Field.
Enter Captain Ager and two Friends.
Cap. Ager. Well, your wills now?
First Fr. of Cap. Our wills? our loves, our duties
To honour’d fortitude: what wills have we
But our desires to nobleness and merit,
Valour’s advancement, and the sacred rectitude
Due to a valorous cause?
Cap. Ager. O that’s not mine!
Sec. Fr. of Cap. War has his court of justice, that’s the field,
Where all cases of manhood are determin’d,
And your case is no mean one.
Cap. Ager. True; then 'twere virtuous;
But mine is in extremes, foul and unjust.
Well, now you’ve got me hither, you’re as far
To seek in your desire as at first minute;
For by the strength and honour of a vow,
I will not lift a finger in this quarrel.
First Fr. of Cap. How? not in this? be not so rash a sinner:
Why, sir, do you ever hope to fight again then?
Take heed on’t; you must never look for that:
Why, th’ universal stock of the world’s injury
Will be too poor to find a quarrel for you.
Give up your right and title to desert, sir:
If you fail virtue here, she needs you not
All your time after; let her take this wrong,
And never presume then to serve her more:
Bid farewell to th’ integrity of arms,
And let that honourable name of soldier
Fall from you like a shiver’d wreath of laurel
By thunder struck from a desertless forehead,
That wears another’s right by usurpation.
Good captain, do not wilfully cast away
At one hour all the fame your life has won:
This is your native seat; here you should seek
Most to preserve it; or if you will dote
So much on life,—poor life, which in respect
Of life in honour is but death and darkness,—
That you will prove neglectful of yourself,
Which is to me too fearful to imagine,
Yet for that virtuous lady’s cause, your mother,
Her reputation, dear to nobleness
As grace to penitence, whose fair memory
E'en crowns fame in your issue, for that blessedness
Give not this ill place, but in spite of hell,
And all her base fears, be exactly valiant.
Cap. Ager. O, O!
Sec. Fr. of Cap. Why, well said, there’s fair hope in that;
Another such a one!
Cap. Ager. Came they in thousands,
’Tis all against you.
First Fr. of Cap. Then, poor friendless merit,
Heaven be good to thee! thy professor leaves thee.
Enter Colonel and two Friends.
He’s come;[753] do but you draw, we’ll fight it for you.
Cap. Ager. I know too much to grant that.
First Fr. of Cap. O dead manhood!
Had ever such a cause so faint a servant?
Shame brand me, if I do not suffer for him!
Col. I’ve heard, sir, you’ve been guilty of much boasting
For your brave earliness at such a meeting:
You’ve lost the glory of that way this morning;
I was the first to-day.
Cap. Ager. So were you ever
In my respect, sir.
First Fr. of Cap. O most base præludium!
Cap. Ager. I never thought on Victory, our mistress,
With greater reverence than I have your worth,
Nor ever lov’d her better.
First Fr. of Cap. ’Slight, I could knock
His brains 'bout his heels, methinks!
Sec. Fr. of Cap. Peace, prithee, peace.
Cap. Ager. Success in you has been my absolute joy;
And when I’ve wish’d content, I’ve wish’d your friendship.
First Fr. of Cap. Stay, let me but run him through the tongue a little;
There’s lawyer’s blood in’t, you shall see foul gear straight.
Sec. Fr. of Cap. Come, you’re as mad now as he’s cowardous.
Col. I came not hither, sir, for an encomium.
First Fr. of Cap. No, the more coxcomb he that claws the head
Of your vain-glory with’t! [Aside.
Col. I came provided
For storms and tempests, and the foulest season
That ever rage let forth, or blew in wildness
From the incensed prison of man’s blood.
Cap. Ager. ’Tis otherwise with me; I come with mildness,
Peace, constant amity, and calm forgiveness,
The weather of a Christian and a friend.
Cap. Ager. Yet, sir, the world will judge the injury mine,
Insufferably[755] mine, mine beyond injury:
Thousands have made a less wrong reach to hell,
Ay, and rejoic’d in his most endless vengeance,
A miserable triumph, though a just one!
But when I call to memory our long friendship,
Methinks it cannot be too great a wrong
That then I should not pardon. Why should man,
For a poor hasty syllable or two,
And vented only in forgetful fury,
Chain all the hopes and riches of his soul
To the revenge of that, die lost for ever?
For he that makes his last peace with his Maker
In anger, anger is his peace eternally:
He must expect the same return again
Whose venture is deceitful; must he not, sir?
Col. I see what I must do, fairly put up again;
For here’ll be nothing done, I perceive that.
Cap. Ager. What shall be done in such a worthless business
But to be sorry, and to be forgiven;
You, sir, to bring repentance, and I pardon?
Col. I bring repentance, sir?
Cap. Ager. If’t be too much
To say repentance, call it what you please, sir;
Choose your own word: I know you’re sorry for’t,
And that’s as good.
Col. I sorry? by fame’s honour, I am wrong’d!
Do you seek for peace, and draw the quarrel larger?
Cap. Ager. Then ’tis I am sorry that I thought you so.
First Fr. of Cap. A captain! I could gnaw his title off.
Cap. Ager. Nor is it any misbecoming virtue, sir,
In the best manliness to repent a wrong,
Which made me bold with you.
First Fr. of Cap. I could cuff his head off.
Sec. Fr. of Cap. Nay, pish!
First Fr. of Cap. Pox on him, I could eat his buttock bak’d, methinks!
Col. So, once again take thou thy peaceful rest, then;
[Sheathing his sword.
But as I put thee up, I must proclaim
This captain here, both to his friends and mine,
That only came to see fair valour righted,
A base submissive coward; so I leave him.
[Offers to go away.
Cap. Ager. O, heaven has pitied my excessive patience,
And sent me a cause! now I have a cause;
A coward I was never.—Come you back, sir!
Col. How?
Cap. Ager. You left a coward here.
Col. Yes, sir, with you.
Cap. Ager. ’Tis such base metal, sir, 'twill not be taken;
It must home again with you.
Sec. Fr. of Cap. Should this be true now!
First Fr. of Cap. Impossible! coward do more than bastard?
Col. I prithee, mock me not, take heed you do not;
For if I draw once more, I shall grow terrible,
And rage will force me do what will grieve honour.
Cap. Ager. Ha, ha, ha!
Col. He smiles; dare it be he?—What think you, gentlemen?
Your judgments, shall I not be cozen’d in him?
This cannot be the man: why, he was bookish,
Made an invective lately against fighting,
A thing, in troth, that mov’d a little with me,
Put up a fouler contumely far
Than thousand cowards came to, and grew thankful.
I’d lost my honour else.
Sec. Fr. of Cap. Do you note his joy?
Cap. Ager. I never felt a more severe necessity;
Then came thy excellent pity. Not yet ready?
Have you such confidence in my just manhood,
That you dare so long trust me, and yet tempt me
Beyond the toleration of man’s virtue?
Why, would you be more cruel than your injury?
Do you first take pride to wrong me, and then think me
Not worth your fury? do not use me so;
I shall deceive you then. Sir, either draw,
And that not slightingly, but with the care
Of your best preservation, with that watchfulness
As you’d defend yourself from circular fire,
Your sin’s rage, or her lord—this will require it—
Or you’ll be too soon lost, for I’ve an anger
Has gather’d mighty strength against you, mighty:
Yet you shall find it honest to the last,
Noble and fair.
Col. I’ll venture’t once again;
And if’t be but as true as it is wondrous,
I shall have that I come for: your leave, gentlemen.
First Fr. of Cap. If he should do’t indeed, and deceive’s all now!
Stay, by this hand he offers—fights, i’faith!
[Colonel and Captain Ager fight.
Fights, by this light he fights, sir!
Sec. Fr. of Cap. So methinks, sir.
First Fr. of Cap. An absolute punto, hey?
Sec. Fr. of Cap. 'Twas a passado, sir.
What’s that now?
Sec. Fr. of Cap. That’s a punto.
First Fr. of Cap. O, go to, then;
I knew ’twas not far off. What a world’s this!
Is coward a more stirring meat than bastard, my masters?
Put in more eggs, for shame, when you get children,
And make it true court-custard.—Ho, I honour thee!
’Tis right and fair; and he that breathes against it,
He breathes against the justice of a man,
And man to cut him off ’tis no injustice.
[The Colonel falls.
Thanks, thanks for this most unexpected nobleness!
Cap. Ager. Truth never fails her servant, sir, nor leaves him
With the day’s shame upon him.
First Fr. of Cap. Thou’st redeem’d
Thy worth to the same height ’twas first esteem’d.[758]
[Exit Captain Ager with his Friends.
First Fr. of Col. Alas, how is it, sir? give us some hope
Of your stay with us: let your spirit be seen
Above your fortune; the best fortitude
Has been of fate ill-friended: now force your empire,
And reign above your blood, spite of dejection;
Reduce[759] the monarchy of your abler mind,
Let not flesh straiten it.
Col. O, just heaven has found me,
And turn’d the stings[760] of my too hasty injuries
Into my own blood! I pursu’d my ruin,
And urg’d him past the patience of an angel:
Could man’s revenge extend beyond man’s life,
This would ha’ wak’d it. If this flame will light me
But till I see my sister, ’tis a kind one;
More I expect not from’t. Noble deserver!
Farewell, most valiant and most wrong’d of men;
Do but forgive me, and I’m victor then.
[Exit, led off by his Friends.
SCENE II.
A Room in the Physician’s House.
Enter Physician, Jane, Anne, and Dutch Nurse with a Child.
Take this my heart’s joy; I must not tell you
The value of this jewel in my bosom.
Nurse. Dat you may vell, sir; der can niet forstoore you.
Phy. Indeed I cannot tell you; you know, nurse,
These are above the quantity of price:
Where is the glory of the goodliest trees
But in the fruit and branches? the old stock
Must decay; and sprigs, scions such as these,
Must become new stocks, for[762] us to glory
In their fruitful issue; so we are made
Immortal one by other.
Nurse. You spreek a most lieben fader, and ich sall do de best of tender nurses to dis infant, my pretty frokin.
Phy. I know you will be loving: here, sweet friend;
[Gives money.
Here’s earnest of a large sum of love and coin
To quit[763] your tender care.
Jane. I have some reason too
To purchase your dear care unto this infant.
[Gives money.
Nurse. You be de witness of de baptim, dat is, as you spreken, de godimother, ich vell forstoore it so.
Jane. Yes, I’m the bad mother,—if it be offence.
[Aside.
Anne. I must be a little kind too. [Gives money.
Nurse. Much tanks to you all! dis child is much beloven; and ich sall see much care over it.
Phy. Farewell.—Good sister, shew her the way forth.—
I shall often visit you, kind nurse.
Nurse. You sall be velcome.
[Exeunt Anne and Nurse.
Jane. O sir, what a friend have I found in you!
Where my poor power shall stay in the requital,
Yourself must from your fair condition[764]
Make up in mere acceptance of my will.
Phy. O, pray you, urge it not! we are not born
For ourselves only; self-love is a sin;
But in our loving donatives to others
Man’s virtue best consists: love all begets;
Without, all are adulterate and counterfeit.
Jane. Your boundless love I cannot satisfy
But with a mental memory of your virtues:
Yet let me not engage your cost withal;
Beseech you then take restitution
Of pains and bounty which you have disburs’d
For your poor debtor.
Phy. You will not offer it?
Do not esteem my love so mercenary
To be the hire of coin: sure, I shall think
You do not hold so worthily of me
As I wish to deserve.
Then you will beggar me with too much credit:
Is’t[766] not sufficient you preserve my name,
Which I had forfeited to shame and scorn,
Cover my vices with a veil of love,
Defend and keep me from a father’s rage,
Whose love yet infinite, not knowing this,
Might, knowing, turn a hate as infinite;
Sure he would throw me ever from his blessings,
And cast his curses on me! Yes, further,
Your secrecy keeps me in the state of woman;
For else what husband would choose me his wife,
Knowing the honour of a bride were lost?
I cannot number half the good you do me
In the conceal’d retention of my sin;
Then make me not worse than I was before,
In my ingratitude, good sir.
Phy. Again?
I shall repent my love, if you’ll so call’t,
To be made such a hackney: give me coin?
I had as lief you gave me poison, lady,
For I have art and antidotes 'gainst that;
I might take that, but this I will refuse.
Jane. Will you then teach me how I may requite you
In some small quantity?
Phy. 'Twas that I look’d for.— [Aside.
Yes, I will tell you, lady, a full quittance,
And how you may become my creditress.
Jane. I beseech you, do, sir!
Phy. Indeed I will, lady:
Not in coin, mistress; for silver, though white,
Yet it draws black lines; it shall not rule my palm,
There to mark forth his base corruption:
Pay me again in the same quality
That I to you tender’d,—that is, love for love.
Can you love me, lady? you have confess’d
My love to you.
Jane. Most amply.
Phy. Why, faith, then,
Pay me back that way.
Jane. How do you mean, sir?
Phy. Tush, our meanings are better understood
Than shifted to the tongue; it brings along
A little blabbing blood into our cheeks,
That shames us when we speak.
Jane. I understand you not.
Phy. Fie, you do; make not yourself ignorant
In what you know; you have ta’en forth the lesson
That I would read to you.
Jane. Sure then I need not
Read it again, sir.
Phy. Yes, it makes perfect:
You know the way unto Achilles’ spear;[767]
If that hurt you, I have the cure, you see.
Jane. Come, you’re a good man; I do perceive you,
You put a trial to me; I thank you;
You are my just confessor, and, believe me,
I’ll have no further penance for this sin.
Convert a year unto a lasting ever,
And call’t Apollo’s smile; ’twas once, then never.
Phy. Pray you, mistake me not; indeed I love you.
Jane. Indeed? what deed?
Phy. The deed that you have done.
Jane. I cannot believe you.
Phy. Believe the deed then!
Jane. Away, you are a blackamoor! you love me?
I hate you for your love! Are you the man
That in your painted outside seem’d so white?
O you’re a foul dissembling hypocrite!
You sav’d me from a thief, that yourself might rob me;
Skinn’d over a green wound to breed an ulcer:
Is this the practice of your physic-college?
If you have more, vent it; certes,[769] I think
Your first grant was not yielded with less pain;
If 'twere, you have your price, yield it again.
Jane. Pray you, tell me, sir,—I ask’d it before,—
Is it a practice amongst you physicians?
Phy. Tush, that’s a secret; we cast all waters;
Should I reveal, you would mistrust my counsel:
The lawyer and physician here agrees,[770]
To women-clients they give back their fees;
And is not that kindness?
Jane. This for thy love! [Spits at him.
Out, outside of a man! thou cinnamon-tree,
That but thy bark hast nothing good about thee!
The unicorn is hunted for his horn,
The rest is left for carrion: thou false man,
Thou’st fish’d with silver hooks and golden baits;
But I’ll avoid all thy deceiving sleights.[771]
Phy. Do what you list, I will do something too;
Remember yet what I have done for you:
You have a good face now, but 'twill grow rugged;
Ere you grow old, old men will despise you:
Think on your grandame Helen, the fairest queen;
When in a new glass[772] she spied her old face,
She, smiling, wept to think upon the change:
Take your time; you’re craz’d, you’re an apple fall’n
From the tree; if you be kept long, you’ll rot.
Study your answer well: yet I love you;
If you refuse, I have a hand above [you]. [Exit.
Jane. Poison thyself, thou foul empoisoner!
Of thine own practique drink the theory!
What a white devil have I met withal!
What shall I do?—what do? is it a question?
Nor shame, nor hate, nor fear, nor lust, nor force,
Now being too bad, shall ever make me worse.
Re-enter Anne.
What have we here? a second spirit?
Anne. Mistress,
I am sent to you.
Jane. Is your message good?
Anne. As you receive it:
My brother sent me, and you know he loves you.
Jane. I heard say so; but ’twas a false report.
Anne. Pray, pardon me, I must do my message;
Who lives commanded must obey his keeper:
I must persuade you to this act of woman.
Jane. Woman? of strumpet!
Anne. Indeed, of strumpet;
He takes you at advantage of your fall,
Seeing you down before.
Jane. Curse on his feign’d smiles!
Anne. He’s my brother, mistress; and a curse on you,
If e’er you bless him with that cursed deed!
Hang him, poison him! he held out a rose,
To draw the yielding sense, which, come to hand,
He shifts, and gives a canker.[773]
Jane. You speak well yet.
Anne. Ay, but, mistress, now I consider it,
Your reputation lies at his mercy,
Your fault dwells in his breast; say he throw’t out,
It will be known; how are you then undone!
Think on’t, your good name; and they’re not to be sold
In every market: a good name is dear,
And indeed more esteemed than our actions,
By which we should deserve it.
Jane. Ay me, most wretched!
Anne. What? do you shrink at that?
Would you not wear one spot upon your face,
To keep your whole body from a leprosy,
Though it were undiscover’d ever? Hang him!
Fear him not: horseleeches suck out his corrupt blood!
Draw you none from him, 'less it be pure and good.
Jane. Do you speak your soul?
Anne. By my soul do I!
Jane. Then yet I have a friend: but thus exhort me,
And I have still a column to support me.
Anne. One fault
Heaven soon forgives, and ’tis on earth forgot;
The moon herself is not without one spot. [Exeunt.