The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Select Collection Of Old English Plays, by W. Carew Hazlitt..

Lys. How now, my lord? What miracle can raise a tempest here, where so much beauty reigns?

Pin. My lord, you are not practised in the cares of fathers: I thought to have seen this gentleman my son to-morrow; and she does refuse him. But——

Lys. It must not be; pardon me, virtue, that I begin an act will set a stain upon my blushing brow. Yet I must thorough. Lord Pindarus, my fortunes carry a pardon with them, when they make me err in acts of ceremonial decencies, they have been so heavy and so mighty, they have bent me so low to th' earth, I could not cast my face upwards to hope a blessing; the cause you are perfect in.

Pin. 'Tis a noble sorrow; but your deep melancholy gives it too large a growth.

Lys. Thus all do press it; yet had my grief relation only to myself, I would not part them from; my heart and memory they justly do possess. But my father hath no more issue save myself, for to confer his name and fortunes on.

Pin. Our Greece would mourn if such a glorious stock should end in the most flourishing branch.

Lys. If you do wish it a continuance, 'tis in your power to make it last to ages. Since my Milesia's death, I have not loved a lady equal with your Hermione; in her I hope to lose my swollen misfortunes, and find out a joy that may extinguish them. 'Tis now no time to tell her how much I am her servant; for this lord here, that does pretend to her fair graces, before I had declared myself his rival—perchance you would believe me if I had said, he no way doth deserve her.

Pin. Where you pretend, who can? But heaven, that designed a blessing to my child, it had been pride to hope for, hath made her still averse to his pretences; but giving her the liberty of refusing, I know he is removed.

Lys. Thus then to-morrow I'll wait on you. Ladies, I am your servant. [Exit.

Pin. My Lord Ergasto, you see with how much candour I have embraced your love; yet, though I do put on a father's strictness in my daughter's presence, I cannot force her to an act whereon for ever will depend her happiness. My house shall still be open to you as my heart. My business calls me, get you home; your servant. [Exit Pindarus.

Cle. Ergasto, my Lord Ergasto, what, have you left your tongue with your heart?

Erg. Is she not strangely fair?

Cle. You'll not believe me if I should say the contrary.

Erg. D'ye think that there are such faces in Elysium?

Cle. I'm sure many better go t'other way, if they be not marred in the voyage. But do you remember where you are to meet with Phormio?

Erg. Nor anything else; her beauty makes me forget all things that has no reference to it.

Cle. Heyday! if within these two hours you do not forget the cause of this forgetfulness, I'll be an eunuch. What, if the prince should be your rival? I cannot tell, but my Lord Pindarus on a sudden fell from his anger to his daughter to a ceremony to you might be suspected.

Erg. 'Tis a fear that makes me tremble.

Cle. Courage, man! If you have not lost your memory, your remedy is certain. There are more handsome faces will recompense this loss. Let us meet Phormio. [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[351] [i.e., The wound not being, &c.]

[352] [This is the second scene of Act i., though not so marked. The entrance of Lysicles, with his page and torch, was in dumb-show, the tomb having been apparently placed in the back of the stage while the curtain was drawn.]

[353] [Old copy, any of.]

[354] [Fork, Fr. fourchure.]

[355] [He must be supposed, from the preceding direction, to have been in the back of the stage.]

ACT II., SCENE 1.

Ire. Have you sent for the Egyptian lady?

Her. I have; and she'll be here within this half-hour.

Ire. She speaks our language.

Her. Her father was of Greece a wealthy merchant, and his business enforcing him to leave his country, he married a lady of that place, where he lived, who, excellent in the mystery of divination, hath left that knowledge to her daughter, enriched with thousand other modest virtues, as is delivered to me by those are frequent with her.

Ire. Do you believe what Phillida say'th is the voice of all your friends?

Her. What is't?

Ire. That you shall marry with Prince Lysicles.

Phil. I heard your uncle say the governor did receive it with all appearances of joy, in hope this match will free him from this deep melancholy: and 'tis determined the next feast joins your hands.

Comes! Madam, the excuse that justifies sick men
That send for their physician, must beg my pardon,
That did not visit you to have this honour.
Here you see a virgin that hath long stood
The mark of fortune, and now's so full of misery
That, though the gods resented what I suffer,
Yet I fear that they have plung'd me to extremes,
Exceed their own assistance.

Moor. Fear not their power.

Her. I do not; but their will to help me I must doubt;
For those that know no reason of their hate
Must fear it is perpetual.
And let the ensigns of their wrath fall on me,
If e'er by any willing act I have provok'd
Their justice. To you now, in whom 'tis said,
As in their oracle they speak, I come to know
What mighty growth of dangers are decreed me.

Moor. First, dearest lady, do not think my power
Great as my will to serve you; 'tis so weak
That, if you should rely on't, I shall seem
Cold in your service, when it does not answer
What is expected from it. All I know
Is but conjectured; for our stars incline,
Not force us in our actions. Let me observe your face.

Her. Do, and if yet you are not perfect in
Your mysteries, observe mine well; and when you meet
A face branded with such a line, conclude
It miserable: when an eye that doth
Resemble this, teach it to weep betimes,
That so being lost, it may not see those miseries
Must be its only object. [The Moor starts.
Are my misfortunes of that horrid shape
That the mere speculation doth affright
Those whose compassion only it concerns?
I, that must stand the strokes then, what defence
Shall I prepare against them? Yet a hope
That they be ripen'd now to fall on me,
Lightens a desperate joy to my dark soul:
For the last dart shall be embrac'd as remedy
To cure my former wounds.

Moor. It is not that;
I was surprised in considering I must
Partake of all your fortunes; for our ascendants
Threaten like danger to us both.

Her. Are then my miseries grown infectious too?
Must that be added? Pardon me, gentle lady; this
Sad crime I must account amongst my secret faults:
I meant no more but to communicate,
Not part my sorrows with you.

Moor. [O,] would you could; with what great willingness
Should I embrace a share of what afflicts you?
I'd haste to meet and ease you of your fears.
Now if to one, whose interest doth force her
To advance your hopes, you dare deliver
The cause of your disquiet, you shall find a closet,
If not a fort, to vindicate your fears.

Her. You shall know all. I have exchang'd my heart
With a young gentleman's, now banished
His country and my hopes; his rival labours
To make me his; my father resolute I should
Consent, till fortune chang'd, but lessen'd not
My sufferings; for our prince, Lysicles,
Ruins me with the honour of his search.

Moor. Does Eugenio know you love him?

Her. No.

Moor. Why does he doubt it?

Her. A womanish scorn to have my love reveal'd,
Made me receive his declaration of it
As an affront unto my honour, and when
He came to take his leave, I left him
In the opinion I would obey my father.

Moor. I have heard as much; but [these] contradictions
In the prince's actions do amaze me:
They say he loves your friend, and labours now
For to recall him; and that every night
He courts his former flame, hid in the ashes
Of his lost mistress.

Her. By this judge how miserable I am?
That my malignant stars force them to change
Nature and virtue too, that else would shine
Unmoved, like the star that does direct
The wand'ring seaman. Must then nature change,
And will not fortune cease to persecute? Good gods!
I will submit to all but breach of faith.

Moor. They will not hear us, madam, unless we
Contribute to their aid our best endeavours.
I have thought a way may for a time secure you:
You must dissemble with the prince, and seem
To love Ergasto.
'Tis not impossible, but he, seeing you
Prefer one so far beneath him, may provoke
A just neglect from him. Then for Ergasto,
Besides the time you gain, there may succeed
A thousand ways to hinder his pretence.

Her. Can my heart e'er consent my tongue should say,
I am for any other but Eugenio?
No, my dear love, though cruel fate hath sever'd
My vow'd embraces, yet hath death ice enough
To fright all others from them.

Moor. I see love is a child still; what a trifle
Doth now disturb him! You will not get your health
At the price of saying you are sick. I know
There is another remedy more proportion'd
For your disease, but not for you that suffer,
Which is this:
Tell the prince that you're engag'd, but he
That broke with vows and friendship for your love,
Will not desist for such suppos'd slight lets;
And then your father will force you t' his will.

Her. If the prince leave me, it is most certain
He'll use his power to make me take Ergasto.

Moor. Those that in dangers that do press them nearly,
Will not resolve upon some hazard, and
Give leave to chance to govern what
Our knowledge cannot hinder, must sit still,
And wait their preservation from a miracle.

Her. I am determin'd; for knives, fire, and seas
Shall lose their qualities, ere fate shall make
Me his: and if death cannot be
Shunn'd, I will meet it boldly.

ACT II., SCENE 2.

Lys. Madam, I've begg'd leave of your noble father to
Offer up myself a servant to your virtues.

Her. It is a grace our family must boast of
That you descend to visit those that style
Themselves your creatures, made such by your goodness,
Which we can only pay by frequent prayers,
That your line may last as glorious to
Posterity, as your now living fame is.

Lys. Madam, you were not wont by a feign'd praise
To scorn those that admire you; or would you
Thus insinuate what I should be by telling
Me I am, what I must ever aim at?

Her. Were there proportion 'twixt our births, my lord,
'Twould ill become a virgin's mouth to utter,
How much you do deserve; that will excuse,
When I shall say our Greece ne'er saw your equal.

Lys. I did not think I ever could be mov'd
With my own praise; but now my happiness
So much depends, that you shall truly think
What now you utter of me; that I glory
My actions are thus favour'd by your judgment.

Her. We must forget our safeties and the gods,
Whose instrument you were of our deliverance,
When we are silent of the mighty debt
This kingdom owes your courage.

Lys. This declaration of your favouring me will plead
My pardon, if I do omit the ceremonial circumstance,
Which usually makes way for this great truth
I now must utter. Madam, I do love
Your virtues with that adoration,
That the all-seeing sun does not behold
A lady that I love with equal ardour.
Our friends, who have most power over us, both
Do second my desires of joining us
In the sacred tie of marriage.

Her. My lord, I thought at first how ill my words
Became a virgin; but give 'em the right sense:
They were design'd, which was to speak you truly,
Not with a flatt'ring ambition
They might engage you to the love of one
So far unequal. If I have ever gain'd
Anything on your goodness, I'll not lose it
By foolishly aspiring to that height
You must in honour dispossess me of,
When I was seated. Marry you, my lord!
The king, our neighbour princes, all good men
Must curse me as a stain to those great virtues
You're the single lord of. If you speak this to try
What easy conquest you can make of all
You faintly but pretend to, I'll confess
The weakness of our sex would be prouder
Only to have the shows of your affection,
Than real loves of any they can hope
With justice to attain to.

Lys. Whatever I deserve,
The gods have largely recompens'd my intent
Of doing virtuously, if it hath gain'd so much
Upon your goodness as to make a way
For my affection.

Her. My lord, I do not understand you.

Lys. Pardon me, dearest lady, if my words
Too boldly do deliver what my actions
And frequent services should first have smooth'd
The way they are to take. My happiness
So nearly is concern'd, you shall approve
Me for your servant, that I trembling haste,
To know what rigours or what joys expect me,
But ere you do begin to speak my fate,
Know whom you do condemn, or whom make happy:
One, that when misery had made so wretched,
That it ravished his desires to change,
Whose eyes were turned inward on his grief,
Pleas'd with no object but what caus'd their tears,
Your beauty only rais'd from his dark seat
Of circling sorrows, lighting me a hope
By you I might receive all happiness,
The gods have made, my heart capacious of.

Her. Good my lord, give me leave again to say,
I dare not understand you; you are too noble
To glory in the conquest of a heart
That ever hath admir'd you; and to think
You can so far forget your birth and virtue,
As to believe me fit to be your wife,
Were a presumption that swelling pride
Must be the father of, which never yet
My heart could be allied to. Continue, prince:
Be the example of a constant love,
And let not your Milesia's ashes shrink
With a new-piercing cold, which they will feel
I'th' instant that your heart shall be consenting
To any new affection; and give me leave to say,
Your mind can ne'er admit a noble love,
If it hath banish'd hers your memory.

Lys. Must that be argument of cruelty,
Which should be cause of pity? And will you
Assume the patronage of envious fortune,
By adding torments unto her affliction?
Must I be miserable in losing you,
Because the gods thought me unworthy her?
Did I so easily digest her death,
That I want pity, and am thought unworthy
Of all succeeding love? Witness my loss
Of joys; if sorrow could have kill'd me,
I had not lived to show your mercy.

Her. Protect me, virtue! [Aside.
Pardon me, my lord! I know your griefs
How great and just they are, and only meant
By mentioning Milesia to confess,
How much unworthy I am to succeed her
In your affection which, though you bent
As low as I durst raise myself to reach,
'Twere now impiety for me to grasp,
I being no more my own disposer.

Lys. Ha! what fate hath taken you from yourself?

Her. The Lord Ergasto's importunity;
Who, though at first no inclination
Of mine made me affect his vows,
Hath vanquish'd my determination.
I finding nothing in myself deserving
The constancy of his affection to me,
Besides my father's often urging me
To make my choice obeying [356] his commands,
And threat'ning misery if I declin'd the least—
Knowing his violent nature, I consented
To a contract 'twixt me and the Lord Ergasto.

Her. O, the prophecies of my just [357] fears, how true
My heart foretold you!
Madam, it cannot be you should affect
One that hath no desert but what you give,
By making him a part of you. My hopes,
Though always blasted, could not apprehend
A fear from him. I should be happy yet,
If any worthy love shadowed my shame
Of being refused by you.

Her. Give not my want of power to serve your grace,
The cruel title of refusing you.

Your merits are so great, you may assure yourself
Of all you can desire, that's possible
To grant, whom thousands worthier than myself
Would kneel to.
By my life, if my faith were not given, I would
Here offer up myself to be dispos'd by you.
Though no ambitious pride could flatter me,
You could descend to raise me to your height.

Lys. Must this be added to my former griefs
That, in the instant you profess to pity
What I must suffer in your loss—your virtue,
For which I [most] admire you, must exclude
My hopes of ever changing your resolves?
Yet let my vows gain thus much of you,
That for a month you will not marry him;
I know your father will not force you to't,
For he, not knowing what hath pass'd between you,
Consented to this visit.

Her. By all things holy, this I swear to do,
Though violent diseases should enclose me,
Till the priest join'd our hands; yet, if you please,
Let not my father know but he's the cause,
I dare not look upon the mighty blessing
Your love doth promise.

Lys. May I not know the reason?

Her. That he may know that his unquestion'd power
Hath forc'd me to that error which himself
And I must ever mourn unpitied.[358]

Lys. Now you throw oil upon the wound you make:

I may be ignorant of all things else,
But of my want of merit to deserve
I am most perfect in: be happy, lady,
He that enjoys you shall not need that prayer—
My father's business calls me.

Her. Let me entreat you, that you'll see a lady,
Whose virtue does deserve the honour of
Your knowledge.

Lys. What is she?

Her. An Egyptian lady, lately come to Cirrha.

Lys. I have heard of her; they say she knows
Our actions pass'd and future.

Her. When you her know, you will believe,
That virtue chose that dark inhabitation,
To hide her treasure from the envious world,
I'll call her to your grace. [Acanthe!]

Her. Madam, this is the prince. [He salutes her.

Moor. You need not tell me it, though this be the first
Time that I saw him since I came to Cirrha,
His fame doth make him known to all that are
Remotest from him.

Lys. My miseries indeed
Have made it great; for all things else I should
Be more beholden unto silence than
The voice of my most partial friends.
Why do you gaze upon me so?

Moor. Have you
Not lately lost a lady that did love you dearly?

Lys. If you do measure time by what I suffer,
My undiminish'd grief tells me but now—
But now I lost her; if the sad minutes
That have oppress'd me since the fatal stroke,
It is an age of torments I have felt.

Moor. Good sir, withdraw a little, I shall deliver
What you believe none knows besides yourself. [They whisper.

Lys. Most true it is! What god, that heard our vows,
Hath told it you? But if your eyes
Pierce farther in their secrets than our
Weak fancies can give credit to, tell me,
If, where she is, she can discern and know
My actions?

Moor. Most perfectly she does,
And mourns your loss of faith, that now begin.
After so many vows, so many oaths, you would
Be only hers, to think of a new choice.

Lys. This may be [a] conspiracy; I'll try
It further. [Aside.

Moor. Had you been snatch'd from her.
And for her sake murder'd, as she for you;
Your urn's cold ashes should have hid her fire
Of faithful love. Pardon me, my lord, her injur'd spirit inspires me
With this boldness.

Lys. I am certain
This is no inspiration of the gods;
It cannot be she should consent my faith
Should be the ruin of my name and memory:
Which necessarily must follow, if virtuous love
Did not continue it to future ages.

Moor. Fame of a constant lover will eternise it
More than a numerous issue; would you hear
Herself express her sorrow?

Lys. If I should desire it, it were impossible.

Moor. You conclude too fast: if this night you'll come
Unto her tomb, you there shall see her.

Lys. Though she bring thunder in her hand, I will not fail to come,
And though I cannot credit that your power can procure it,
My hopes it should be so will overcome
My reason. Ladies, I am your servant. [Exit.

Moor. Madam, I cannot stay to know particulars
Of what hath pass'd betwixt you and the prince:
Only tell me how he relish'd your saying you
Were promis'd to Ergasto?

Her. Respects to one
I seem'd to have made choice of made him
Forbear his character: but shall not I
Be punish'd, seeming to prefer one so unworthy
Both to Eugenio and this noble prince?

Moor. The gods give us permission to be false
When they exclude us from all other ways
Which may preserve our faith.
Longer I dare not stay. I am your servant. [Exeunt severally.

Erg. Now we are met, what shall we do to keep us together?

Phor. Let's take some argument may last an hour of mirth.

Cle. If you'll have Ergasto be of the parley, it must be of the ladies; for he is desperately in love.

Phor. If the disease grow old in him, I'll pay the physician; but be it so, and let it be lawful to change as often as we will.

Erg. What, the ladies?

Phor. The discourse of them and themselves too, if we could arrive to it. But what is she you love?

Erg. One that I would sacrifice half my life to have but a week's enjoying of.

Phor. At these games of love we set all; but the best is, we cannot stake, and there's no loss of credit in the breaking. Cleon, hast thou seen him with his mistress?

Cle. Yes, and he stands gazing on her, as if he were begging of an alms.

Phor. 'Tis not ill-done; but does he not speak to her?

Cle. Never but in hyperboles; tells her, her eyes are stars, which astronomers should only study to know our fate by.

Phor. 'Tis not amiss if she have neither of the extremes.

Cle. What do you intend?

Phor. I mean, neither so ill-favoured as to have no ground for what we say, for there belief will hardly enter; nor so handsome as to have it often spoke to her. For your indifferent beauties are those whom flattery surpriseth, there being so natural a love and opinion of ourselves, that we are adapted to believe that men are rather deceived in us, than abuse us.

Erg. Your limitation takes away much of my answer: but grant all that you say, I have no hope of obtaining my mistress.

Phor. Then thou hast yet a year of happiness: but why, I prythee?

Erg. She is so deserving, she thinks none worthy of her affections, and so can love none.

Phor. You have more cause to doubt that she will never affect you, than that already she is not in love: what, a young handsome lady, that carries the flame of her heart in her cheeks, not have yet seen any one to desire? 'Tis impossible.

Erg. I was of your mind, till I had experience of the contrary.

Phor. Conceit [359] of yourself makes you of the opinion I mentioned. You think 'tis impossible for all men, what you cannot attain to; what arts have you used to gain her?

Cle. He knows none but distilling sighs at the altar of her beauty.

Phor. If he be subject to that frenzy, I will counsel him to take any trade upon him rather than that of love.

Erg. And do you think there is anything fitter to call down affection than submission?

Phor. Nothing more opposite; for languishing transports, whinings and melancholy make us more laughed at than beloved of our mistresses—and with reason: for why should we hope to deserve their favours, when we confess we merit not a lawful esteem of ourselves?

Cle. I have known some their mistresses have forsaken, only because they were certain the world took notice they were deeply in love with them.

Phor. And they did wisely; for, the victory being got, they were to prepare for a new triumph, and not, like your city officers, ride still with the same liveries. Some (I confess) have miscarried in it, but 'twas because their provision of beauty was spent before they came to composition.

Erg. Thou wert an excellent fool in a chamber; if you continue, you'll be so in a comedy. Dost believe thou can'st swagger them out of their loves?

Phor. Sooner than soften their hearts by my tears; and though a river should run through me, I would seal up my eyes, before a drop should come that way: for our unmanly submissions raise them to that height, that they think we are largely favoured if they hearken to us with contempt.

Erg. 'Tis safer they should do so, than hate us for our insolence.

Phor. If thou hadst ever been used to talk sense, I should wonder at thee now; why, I should sooner hope to gain a lady after the murder of her family, than after she had an opinion I deserved to be slighted by her.

Cle. 'Fore Venus, he talks with authority. I know not well what he has said; but methinks there is something in it: prythee, let's hearken to him.

Phor. Do; and if I do not dispossess you of all your opinions, let me be——

Erg. You must deal by enchantment then; for I am resolved to stick to my conclusions.

Phor. 'Tis the best holdfast your foolish devil has; but strong reasons shall be your exorcism. Tell me first, what is she you love?

Erg. Would I could.

Phor. Then, for all thy jesting, there's some hope thou art yet in thy wits.

Erg. You mistake me; I mean I could not tell, because no tongue can speak her to her merit.

Phor. Heyday! if the ballad of the rose and honeycomb do not do it more than she deserves, or almost any woman, let me be condemned to sing the funerals of parrots.

Cle. Would the ladies heard you!

Phor. They would believe me, though they would be sorry your honours should. But what, this love—has it transformed us all? Cleon, you can tell who 'tis he thus admires?

Cle. Yes, and will; 'tis Hermione, Pindarus his heir.

Phor. What, Epictetus in a petticoat! She that disputes love into nothing—or, what's worse, a friendship with a woman?

Cle. The same; and I know you'll confess she's deserving.

Phor. Yes; but the mischief is, she'll ne'er think so of him. If polygamy were in fashion, I would persuade him to marry her, to be governess to the rest; but not till then. Wouldst thou be content to lie with a statue, that will never confess more of love than suffering the effects of thine?

Cle. And have his liberties in the discourse of her friends, that her retiredness may be more magnified.

Phor. Believe me, Ergasto, these severe beauties, that are to be looked on with the eyes of respect, are not for us: we must have them, that love to be praised more for fair ladies than judicious.

Erg. You mistake me, gentlemen; I choose for myself, not for you.

Phor. Faith, for that, whoever marries, must sacrifice to fortune; and she, whose wisdom makes her snow to you may be fire to another. Some odd wrinkled fellow, that conquers her with wit, may throw her on her back with reason. Take this from the oracle, that for the general calamity of husbands all women are reputed vicious, and for the quiet of particulars every one thinks his wife the phœnix.

Erg. You have met with rare fortunes.

Phor. Calumny is so general, that truth has lost her credit. But to th' purpose—what rivals? what hopes?

Cle. A potent rival takes away all: Lysicles does woo her.

Phor. Good night. I will dispute it no more, whether thou shouldst have her or no; for I now conclude it is impossible.

Erg. I had her father's firm consent before he declared himself.

Phor. Though thou hadst hers too, be wise, and despair betimes. In this point women are commonwealths, and are obliged to their faiths no farther than the safety and honour of the state is concerned. If thou wert the first example, I would excuse thee for being the first cosened. But stay, who's here?