Four
PLAYS
OR
Moral Representations
IN ONE.
Enter Don Frigozo.
Frig. [Noise within.
Away with those bald-pated Rascals there, their wits are
bound up in Vellom, they are not currant here. Down
with those City-Gentlemen, &c. Out with those —— I say, and
in with their wives at the back door. Worship and place, I am
weary of ye, ye lye on my shoulders lik a load of Gold on an
Asses back. A man in Authority, is but as a candle in the wind,
sooner wasted or blown out, than under a bushel. How now,
what's the matter?
Who are you, Sir?
Enter Rinaldo.
Rin. Who am I, Sir? why, do y' not know me?
Frig. No by my —— do I not.
Rin. I am sure we din'd together to day.
Frig. That's all one: as I din'd with you in the City,
and as you paid for my dinner there, I do know you, and am
beholding to you: But as my mind is since transmigrated
into my office, and as you come to Court to have me pay
you again, and be beholding to me, I know you not, I know
you not.
Rin. Nay, but look ye, Sir.
Frig. Pardon me: If you had been my bed-fellow these
seven years, and lent me money to buy my place, I must not
transgress principles: This very talking with you is an ill
example.
Rin. Pish, you are too punctual a Courtier, Sir: why,
I am a Courtier too, yet never understood the place or name
to be so infectious to humanity and manners, as to cast a man
into a burning pride and arrogance, for which there is no cure.
I am a Courtier, and yet I will know my friends, I tell you.
Frig. And I tell you, you will thrive accordingly, I
warrant you.
Rin. But hark ye, Signior Frigozo, you shall first understand,
I have no friends with me to trouble you.
Frig. Humh: That's a good motive.
Rin. No[r] to borrow money of you.
Frig. That's an excellent motive.
Rin. No my sweet Don, nor to ask what you owe me.
Frig. Why, that is the very motive of motives, why I
ought and will know thee: and if I had not wound thee up to
this promise, I would not have known thee these fifteen years,
no more than the errantst, or most founder'd Castillian that
followed our new Queens Carriages a-foot.
Rin. Nor for any thing, dear Don, but that you would
place me conveniently to see the Play to night.
Frig. That shall I, Signior Rinaldo: but would you had
come sooner: you see how full the Scaffolds are, there is scant
room for a Lovers thought here. Gentlewomen sit close for
shame: Has none of ye a little corner for this Gentleman? I'll
place ye, fear not. And how did our brave King of Portugal,
Emanuel, bear himself to day? You saw the solemnity of the
marriage.
Rin. Why, like a fit Husband for so gracious and excellent
a Princess, as his worthy mate Isabella, the King of Castiles
Daughter doth in her very external li[ne]aments, mixture of
colours, and joyning Dove-like behaviour assure her self to be.
And I protest (my dear Don) seriously, I can sing prophetically
nothing but blessed Hymns, and happy occasions to this sacred
union of Portugal and Castile, which have so wisely and mutually
conjoyned two such virtuous and beautiful Princes as these are;
and in all opinion like to multiply to their very last minute.
Frig. The King is entring: Signior, hover here about,
and as soon as the Train is set, clap into me, we'll stand near
the State. If you have any Creditors here, they shall renew
bonds a Twelvemonth on such a sight: but to touch the pomel
of the King's Chair in the sight of a Citizen, is better security
for a thousand double Duckets, than three of the best Merchants
in Lisbon. Besides, Signior, we will censure, not only the
King in the Play here, that Reigns his two hours; but the
King himself, that is to rule his life time: Take my counsel:
I have one word to say to this noble Assembly, and I am for you.
Rin. Your method shall govern me.
Frig. Prologues are bad Huishers before the wise;
Why may not then an Huisher Prologize?
Here's a fair sight, and were ye oftner seen
Thus gather'd here, 'twould please our King and Queen
Upon my conscience, ye are welcome all
To Lisbon, and the Court of Portugal;
Where your fair eyes shall feed on no worse sights
Than preparations made for Kings delights.
We wish to men content, the manliest treasure,
And to the Women, their own wish'd for pleasure. [Flourish.
Enter King and Queen, Emanuel and Isabella,
Lords and attendants.
Em. Fair fountain of my life, from whose pure streams
The propagation of two Kingdoms flowes,
Never contention rise in eithers brest,
But contestation whose love shall be best.
Isab. Majestick Ocean, that with plenty feeds
Me, thy poor tributary Rivolet,
Sun of my beauty, that with radiant beams
Dost gild, and dance upon these humble streams,
Curst be my birth-hour, and my ending day,
When back your love-floods I forget to pay:
Or if this brest of mine, your crystall brook,
Ever take other form in, other look
But yours, or ere produce unto your grace
A strange reflection, or anothers face,
But be your love-book clasp'd, open'd to none
But you, nor hold a storie, but your own;
A water fix'd, that ebbs nor floods pursue,
Frozen to all, onely dissolv'd to you.
Em. O, who shall tel the sweetness of our love
To future times, and not be thought to lye?
I look through this hour like a perspective,
And far off see millions of prosperous seeds,
That our reciprocall affection breeds.
Thus my white rib, close in my brest with me,
Which nought shall tear hence, but mortalitie.
Lords. Be Kingdoms blest in you, you blest in them.
Frig. Whist, Seignior; my strong imagination shews me
Love (me thinks) bathing in milk, and wine in her cheeks:
O! how she clips him, like a plant of Ivie.
Rin. I; Could not you be content to be an Owl in such
an ivie-bush, or one of the Oaks of the City to be so clipt?
Frig. Equivocal Don, though I like the clipping well, I
could not be content either to be your Owl, or your Ox of
the City. The Play begins. [Flourish.
Enter a Poet with a garland.
Poet Prologue. Low at your sacred feet our poor Muse layes
Her, and her thunder-fearless virdant Bayes.
Four severall Triumphs to your Princely eyes,
Of Honor, Love, Death, and Time do rise
From our approaching subject, which we move
Towards you with fear, since that a sweeter Love,
A brighter Honor, purer Chastitie
March in your brests this day triumphantly,
Then our weak Scenes can show: then how dare we
Present like Apes and Zanies, things that be
Exemplifi'd in you, but that we know,
We ne'r crav'd grace, which you did not bestow?
Enter in triumph with Drums, Trumpets, Colours, Martius,
Valerius, Sophocles bound, Nicodemus, Cornelius,
Captains and Soldiers.
Mar. What means proud Sophocles?
Soph. To go even with Martius,
And not to follow him like his Officer:
I never waited yet on any man.
Mar. Why poor Athenian Duke, thou art my slave,
My blows have conquerd thee.
Soph. Thy slave? proud Martius,
Cato thy countrey-man (whose constancie,
Of all the Romans, I did honor most)
Rip'd himself twice to avoid slavery,
Making himself his own Anatomie.
But look thee Martius, not a vein runs here
From head to foot, but Sophocles would unseame, and
Like a spring garden shoot his scornfull blood
Into their eyes, durst come to tread on him:
As for thy blows, they did [not] conquer me:
Seven Battailes have I met thee face to face,
And given thee blow for blow, and wound for wound,
And till thou taught'st me, knew not to retire;
Thy sword was then as bold, thy arm as strong;
Thy blows then Martius, cannot conquer me.
Val. What is it then?
Soph. Fortune.
Val. Why, yet in that
Thou art the worse man, and must follow him.
Soph. Young Sir, you erre: If Fortune could be call'd
Or his, or your's, or mine, in good or evill
For any certain space, thou hadst spoke truth:
But she but jests with man, and in mischance
Abhors all constancie, flowting him still
With some small touch of good, or seeming good
Midst of his mischief: which vicissitude
Makes him strait doff his armour, and his fence
He had prepar'd before, to break her strokes.
So from the very Zenith of her wheel,
When she has dandled some choice favorite,
Given him his boons in women, honor, wealth,
And all the various delecacies of earth;
That the fool scorns the gods in his excess,
She whirls, and leaves him at th' Antipodes.
Mar. Art sure we have taken him? Is this Sophocles?
His fettred arms say no; his free soul, I.
This Athens nurseth Arts, as well as Arms.
Soph. Nor glory Martius, in this day of thine,
'Tis behind yesterday, but before to morrow:
Who knows what Fortune then will do with thee?
She never yet could make the better man,
The better chance she has: the man that's best
She still contends with, and doth favor least.
Mar. Me thinks a graver thunder then the skies
Breaks from his lips; I am amaz'd to hear,
And Athens words, more then her swords doth fear.
Soph. Martius, slave Sophocles, couldst thou acquire
(And did thy Roman gods so love thy prayers,
And solemn sacrifice, to grant thy suit)
To gather all the valour of the Cæsars
Thy Predecessors, and what is to come,
And by their influence fling it on thee now,
Thou couldst not make my mind go less, not pare
With all their swords one virtue from my soul:
How am I vassall'd then? Make such thy slaves,
As dare not keep their goodness past their graves.
Know General, we two are chances on
The die of Fate; now thrown, thy six is up,
And my poor one beneath thee, next th[y] throw
May set me upmost, and cast thee below.
Mar. Yet will I trie thee more: Calamitie
Is mans true touchstone: Listen insolent Prince,
That dar'st contemn the Master of thy life,
Which I will force here 'fore thy City walls
With barbarous crueltie, and call thy wife
To see it, and then after send her—
Soph. Ha, ha, ha.
Mar. And then demolish Athens to the ground,
Depopulate her, fright away her fame,
And leave succession neither stone nor name.
Soph. Ha, ha, ha.
Mar. Dost thou deride me?
Val. Kneel, ask Martius
For mercy, Sophocles, and live happy still.
Soph. Kneel, and ask mercie? (Roman) art a god?
I never kneel'd, or begg'd of any else.
Thou art a fool, and I will loose no more
Instructions on thee: now I find thy eares [Solemn Musick.
Enter Dorigen, Ladyes bearing a sword.
Are foolish, like thy tongue. My Dorigen?
Oh! must she see me bound?
1 Cap. There's the first sigh
He breath'd since he was born, I think.
2 Cap. Forbear,
All but the Lady his wife.
Soph. How my heart chides
The manacles of my hands, that let them not
Embrace my Dorigen.
Val. Turn but thy face.
And ask thy life of Martius thus, and thou
(With thy fair wife) shalt live; Athens shall stand,
And all her priviledges augmented be.
Soph. 'Twere better Athens perish'd, and my wife
Which (Romans) I do know a worthie one,
Then Sophocles should shrink of Sophocles,
Commit profane Idolatry, by giving
The reverence due to gods to thee blown man.
Mar. Rough, stubborn Cynick.
Soph. Thou art rougher far,
And of a couser wale, fuller of pride,
Less temperate to bear prosperity.
Thou seest my meer neglect hath rais'd in thee
A storm more boystrous then the Oceans,
My virtue, Patience, makes thee vitious.
Mar. Why, fair-ey'd Lady, do you kneel?
Dor. Great Generall,
Victorious, godlike Martius, your poor handmaid
Kneels, for her husband will not, cannot: speaks
Thus humbly, that he may not. Listen Roman,
Thou whose advanced front doth speak thee Roman
To every Nation, and whose deeds assure 't;
Behold a Princess (whose declining head
Like to a drooping lilly after storms
Bowes to thy feet) and playing here the slave,
To keep her husbands greatness unabated:
All which doth make thy Conquest greater: For,
If he be base in ought whom thou hast taken,
Then Martius hath but taken a base prize.
But if this Jewell hold lustre and value,
Martius is richer then in that he hath won.
O make him such a Captive, as thy self
Unto another wouldst, great Captain, be;
Till then, he is no prisoner fit for thee.
Mar. Valerius, here is harmonie would have brought
Old crabbed Saturn to sweet sleep, when Jove
Did first incense him with Rebellion:
Athens doth make women Philosophers,
And sure their children chat the talk of gods.
Val. Rise beauteous Dorigen.
Dor. Not untill I know
The Generals resolution.
Val. One soft word
From Sophocles would calm him into tears,
Like gentle showres after tempestuous winds.
Dor. To buy the world, he will not give a word,
A look, a tear, a knee, 'gainst his own judgement,
And the divine composure of his minde:
All which I therefore doe, and here present
This Victors wreathe, this rich Athenian sword,
Trophies of Conqu[e]st, which, great Martius, wear,
And be appeas'd: Let Sophocles still live.
Mar. He would not live.
Dor. He would not beg to live.
When he shall so forget, then I begin
To command, Martius; and when he kneels,
Dorigen stands; when he lets fall a tear,
I dry mine eyes, and scorn him.
Mar. Scorn him now then,
Here in the face of Athens, and thy friends.
Self-will'd, stiff Sophocles, prepare to die,
And by that sword thy Lady honor'd me,
With which her self shall follow. Romans, Friends,
Who dares but strike this stroke, shall part with me
Half Athens, and my half of Victorie.
Cap. By —— not we.
Nic. Cor. We two will do it, Sir.
Soph. Away, ye fish-fac'd Rascals.
Val. Martius,
To Eclipse this great Eclipse labours thy fame;
Valerius thy Brother shall for once
Turn Executioner: Give me the sword.
Now Sophocles, I'll strike as suddenly
As thou dar'st die.
Soph. Thou canst not. And Valerius,
'Tis less dishonour to thee thus to kill me,
Then bid me kneel to Martius: 'tis to murther
The fame of living men, which great ones do;
Their studies strangle, poyson makes away,
The wretched hangman only ends the Play.
Val. Art thou prepar'd?
Soph. Yes.
Val. Bid thy wife farewell.
Soph. No, I will take no leave: My Dorigen,
Yonder above, 'bout Ariadnes Crown
My spirit shall hover for thee; prethee haste.
Dor. Stay Sophocles, with this tie up my sight,
Let not soft nature so transform[e]d be
(And lose her gentle[r] sex'd humanitie)
To make me see my Lord bleed. So, 'tis well:
Never one object underneath the Sun
Will I behold before my Sophocles.
Farewell: now teach the Romans how to die.
Mar. Dost know what 'tis to die?
Soph. Thou dost not, Martius,
And therefore not what 'tis to live; to die
Is to begin to live: It is to end
An old stale weary work, and to commence
A newer and a better. 'Tis to leave
Deceitfull knaves for the societie
Of gods and goodness. Thou thy self must part
At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, Triumphs,
And prove thy fortitude, what then 'twill do.
Val. But ar't not griev'd nor vex'd to leave life thus?
Soph. Why should I grieve, or vex for being sent
To them I ever lov'd best? now I'll kneel,
But with my back toward thee; 'tis the last duty
This trunk can doe the gods.
Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius,
Or Martius heart will leap out at his mouth.
This is a man, a woman! Kiss thy Lord,
And live with all the freedome you were wont.
O Love! thou doubly hast afflicted me,
With virtue, and with beauty. Treacherous heart,
My hand shall cast thee quick into my urne,
E're thou transgress this knot of pietie.
Val. What ails my Brother?
Soph. Martius, oh Martius!
Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.
Dor. O star of Rome, what gratitude can speak
Fit words to follow such a deed as this?
Mar. Doth Juno talk, or Dorigen?
Val. You are observ'd.
Mar. This admirable Duke (Valerius)
With his disdain of Fortune, and of Death,
Captiv'd himself, hath captivated me:
And though my arm hath ta'ne his body here,
His soul hath subjugated Martius soul:
By Romulus, he is all soul, I think;
He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot b[e] gyv'd;
Then we have vanquish'd nothing; he is free,
And Martius walks now in captivitie.
Soph. How fares the noble Roman?
Mar. Why?
Dor. Your blood
Is sunk down to your heart, and your bright eyes
Have lost their splendor.
Mar. Baser fires go out,
When the Sun shines on 'em: I am not well,
An Apoplectick fit I use to have
After my heats in war carelesly coold.
Soph. Martius shall rest in Athens with his friends,
Till this distemper leave him: O! great Roman,
See Sophocles doe that for thee, he could not
Do for himself, weep. Martius, by the——
It grieves me that so brave a soul should suffer
Under the bodies weak infirmitie.
Sweet Lady, take him to thy loving charge,
And let thy care be tender.
Dor. Kingly Sir,
I am your Nurse and servant.
Mar. O deer Lady,
My Mistris, nay my Deity; guide me heaven,
Ten wreathes triumphant Martius will give,
To change a Martius for a Sophocles:
Can't not be done (Valerius) with this boot?
Inseparable affection, ever thus
Colleague with Athens Rome.
Dor. Beat warlike tunes,
Whilest Dorigen thus honors Martius brow
With one victorious wreath more.
Soph. And Sophocles
Thus girds his Sword of conquest to his thigh,
Which ne'r be drawn, but cut out Victorie.
Lords. For ever be it thus. [Exeunt.
Corn. Corporall Nichodemus, a word with you.
Nic. My worthie Sutler Cornelius, it befits not Nichodemus
the Roman Officer to parley with a fellow of thy rank: the
affairs of the Empire are to be occupied.
Corn. Let the affaires of the Empire lie a while unoccupied,
sweet Nichodemus; I doe require the money at thy hands, which
thou doest owe me; and if faire means cannot attain, force of
Armes shall accomplish.
Nic. Put up and live.
Corn. I have put up too much already, thou Corporall of
Concupiscence, for I suspect thou hast dishonored my flock-bed,
and with thy foolish Eloquence, and that bewitching face
of thine drawn my Wife, the young harlotrie baggage to prostitute
herself unto thee. Draw therefore, for thou shalt find
thyself a mortall Corporall.
Nichod. Stay thy dead-doing hand, and heare: I will rather
descend from my honor, and argue these contumelies with thee,
then clutch thee (poor flye) in these eaglet —— of mine: or draw
my sword of Fate on a Pesant, a Besognio, a Cocoloch, as thou
art. Thou shalt first understand this foolish eloquence, and
intolerable beauty of mine (both which, I protest, are meerly
naturall) are the gifts of the gods, with which I have neither
sent baudy Sonnet, nor amorous glance, or (as the vulgar call
it) sheeps eye to thy betrothed Florence.
Cor. Thou lyest.
Nich. O gods of Rome, was Nichodemus born
To hear these braveries from a poor provant?
Yet when dogs bark, or when the asses bray,
The lion laughs, not roars, but goes his way.
Cornel. A —— o' your poeticall veine: This versifying my
wife has hornified me. Sweet Corporall codshead, no more
standing on your punctilio's and punketto's of honor, they are
not worth a lowse: the truth is, thou art the Generals Bygamie,
that is, his fool, and his knave; thou art miscreant and recreant,
not an horse-boy in the Legions, but has beaten thee; thy
beginning was knap-sack, and thy ending will be halter-sack.
Nich. Me thinks I am now Sophocles, the wise, and thou
art Martius, the mad.
Cornel. No more of your tricks good Corporall Letherchops:
I say, thou hast dishonour'd me, and since honor now
adaies is only repaired by money, pay me, and I am satisfied:
Even reckoning keeps long friends.
Nic. Let us continue friends then, for I have been even
with thee a long time; and though I have not paid thee, I have
paid thy wife.
Corn. Flow forth my tears, thou hast deflowred her Tarquin,
the Garden of my delight, hedg'd about, in which there was but
one bowling Alley for mine owne private procreation, thou hast,
like a thief in the night, leap'd the hedge, entred my Alley, and
without my privitie, plaid thine owne rubbers.
Nic. How long shall patience thus securely snore?
Is it my fault, if these attractive eyes,
This budding chin, or rosie-colour'd cheek,
This comely body, and this waxen leg,
Have drawn her into a fools paradise?
By Cupids —— I do swear (no other)
She's chaster far then Lucrece, her grand-mother;
Pure as glass-window, ere the rider dash it,
Whiter then Ladyes smock, when she did wash it:
For well thou wotst (though now my hearts Commandress)
I once was free, and she but the Camps Landress.
Corn. I, she then came sweet to me; no part about her
but smelt of Soap-suds, like a Dryad out of a wash-bowl. Pray,
or pay.
Nich. Hold.
Corn. Was thy cheese mouldy, or thy peny-worths small?
Was not thy Ale the mightiest of the earth in Malt,
And thy stope fill'd like a tide: was not thy bed soft, and
Thy Bacon fatter then a dropsie? Come, Sir.
Nich. Mars then inspire me with the fencing skill
Of our Tragedi[a]n Actors. Honor pricks;
And Sutler, now I come with thwacks and thwicks.
Grant us one crush, one pass, and now a high, Cavalto fall:
Then up again, now down again, yet do no harm at all.
Enter Wife.
Wife. O that ever I was born: why Gent?
Corn. Messaline of Rome, away, disloyal Concubine: I
will be deafer to thee, then thou art to others: I will have
my hundred drachma's he owes me, thou arrant whore.
Wife. I know he is an hundred drachmaes o'the score;
but what o' that? no bloodshed, sweet Cornelius. O my heart;
o' my conscience 't is faln thorow the bottom of my bellie.
O my sweet Didimus, if either of ye miskil one another, what
will become of [p]oor Florence? Pacifie your selves, I pray.
Corn. Go to, my heart is not stone; I am not marble:
drie your eyes, Florence; the scurvie apes-face knows my blinde
side well enough: leave your puling; will this content ye? let
him tast thy nether lip, which in signe of amitie I thus take off
again: go thy ways, and provide the Cows udder.
Nich. Lilie of Concord. And now, honest Sutler, since
I have had proof as well of thy good nature, as of thy wives
before, I will acquaint thee with a project shall fully satisfie
thee for thy debt. Thou shalt understand I am shortly to
be knighted.
Corn. The devil thou art.
Nich. Renounce me else; for the sustenance of which
Worship (which Worship many times wants sustenance) I have
here the Generals grant to have the leading of two hundred men.
Corn. You jest, you jest.
Nich. Refuse me else to the pit.
Corn. Mercie on us: ha you not forgot your self? by
you[r] swearing you should be knighted already.
Nich. Damn me, Sir, here's his hand, read it.
Corn. Alas, I cannot.
Nich. I know that.
It has pleas'd the General to look upon my service. Now,
Sir, shall you joyn with me in petitioning for fifty men more, in
regard of my arrearages to you; which if granted, I will bestow
the whole profit of those fifty men on thee and thine heirs for
ever, till Atropos do cut this simple thred.
Corn. No more, dear Corporal, Sir Nichodemus, that shall
be, I cry your wishes mercie: I am your servant body and
goods, moveables and immoveables; use my house, use my wife,
use me, abuse me, do what you list.
Nich. A figment is a candid lye: this is an old Pass.
Mark what follows. [Exeunt.
Enter Martius, and two Captains.
Mar. Pray leave me: you are Romans, honest men,
Keep me not company, I am turn'd knave,
Have lost my fame and nature. Athens, Athens,
This Dorigen is thy Palladium:
He that will sack thee, must betray her first,
Whose words wound deeper than her husbands sword;
Her eyes make captive still the Conqueror,
And here they keep her only to that end.
O subtill devil, what a golden ball
Did tempt, when thou didst cast her in my way!
Why, foolish Sophocles, broughtst thou not to field
Thy Lady, that thou mightst have overcome?
Martius had kneel'd, and yielded all his wreathes
That hang like Jewels on the seven-fold hill,
And bid Rome, send him out to fight with men,
(For that she knew he durst) and not 'gainst Fate
Or Deities, what mortal conquers them?
Insatiate Julius, when his Victories
Had run ore half the world, had he met her,
There he had stopt the legend of his deeds,
Laid by his Arms, been overcome himself,
And let her vanquish th' other half. And fame
Made beauteous Dorigen, the greater name.
Shall I thus fall? I will not; no, my tears
Cast on my heart, shall quench these lawless fires:
He conquers best, conquers his lewd desires.
Enter Dorigen, with Ladyes.
Dor. Great Sir, my Lord commands me visit you,
And thinks your retir'd melancholy proceeds
From some distast of worthless entertainment.
Will't please you take your chamber? how d'ye do, Sir?
Mar. Lost, lost again; the wild rage of my blood
Doth Ocean-like oreflow the shallow shore
Of my weak virtue: my desire's a vane,
That the least breath from her turns every way.
Dor. What says my Lord?
Mar. Dismiss your women, pray,
And I'll reveal my grief.
Dor. Leave me.
Mar. Long tales of love (whilst love it self
Might be enjoyed) are languishing delays.
There is a secret strange lies in my brest,
I will partake wi' you, which much concerns
Your Lord, your self, and me. Oh!
Dor. Strange secrets, Sir,
Should not be made so cheap to strangers: yet,
If your strange secret do no lower lie
Then in your brest, discover it.
Mar. I will.
Oh! can you not see it, Lady, in my sighs?
Dor. Sighs none can paint, and therefore who can see?
Mar. Scorn me not, Dorigen, with mocks: Alcides,
That master'd monsters, was by beautie tam'd,
Omphale smil'd his club out of his hand,
And made him spin her smocks. O sweet, I love you,
And I love Sophocles: I must enjoy you,
And yet I would not injure him.
Dor. Let go;
You hurt me, Sir: fare well. Stay, is this Martius?
I will not tell my Lord; he'll swear I lye.
Doubt my fidelitie, before thy honor.
How hast thou vex'd the gods, that they would let thee
Thus violate friendship, hospitalitie,
And all the bounds of sacred pietie?
Sure thou but tri'st me out of love to him,
And wouldst reject me, if I did consent.
O Martius, Martius, wouldst thou in one minute,
Blast all thy Laurels, which so many years
Thou hast been purchasing with blood and sweat?
Hath Dorigen never been written, read,
Without the epithet of chast, chast Dorigen?
And wouldst thou fall upon her chastitie,
Like a black drop of ink, to blot it out?
When men shall read the records of thy valour,
Thy hitherto-brave virtue, and approach
(Highly content yet) to this foul assault
Included in this leaf, this ominous leaf,
They shall throw down the Book, and read no more,
Though the best deeds ensue, and all conclude,
That ravell'd the whole story, whose sound heart
(Which should have been) prov'd the most leprous part.
Mar. O! thou confut'st divinely, and thy words
Do fall like rods upon me; but they have
Such silken lines, and silver hooks, that I
Am faster snar'd: my love has ta'en such hold,
That (like two wrestlers) though thou stronger be,
And hast cast me, I hope to pull thee after.
I must, or perish.
Dor. Perish, Martius, then;
For I here vow unto the gods, These rocks,
These rocks we see so fix'd, shall be removed,
Made champion field, ere I so impious prove,
To stain my Lords bed with adulterous love.
Enter Valerius.
Val. The gods protect fair Dorigen.
Dor. Amen,
From all you wolvish Romanes. [Exit.
Val. Ha? what's this?
Still, brother, in your moods? O th[e]n my doubts
Are truths. Have at it: I must try a way
To be resolv'd.
Mar. How strangely dost thou look! what ailst thou?
Val. What ailst thou?
Mar. Why, I 'm mad.
Val. Why, I [a]m madder. Martius, draw thy sword,
And lop a villain from the earth; for if
Thou wilt not, on some tree about this place
I'll hang my self; Valerius shall not live
To wound his brothers honor, stain his Countrey,
And branded with ingratitude to all times.
Mar. For what can all this be?
Val. I [a]m in love.
Mar. Why so am I. With whom? ha?
Val. Dorigen.
Mar. With Dorigen? how dost thou love her? speak.
Val. Even to the height of lust; and I must have her
or else I die.
Mar. Thou shalt, thou daring Traitor.
On all the confines I have rid my horse,
Was there no other woman for thy choice
But Dorigen? Why, villain, she is mine:
She makes me pine thus, sullen, mad, and fool;
'T is I must have her, or I die.
Val. O all ye gods,
With mercy look on this declining rock
Of valour, and of virtue; breed not up
(From infancie) in honor, to full man,
As you have done him, to destroy: here, strike;
For I have onely search'd thy wound: dispatch;
Far, far be such love from Valerius,
So far he scorns to live to be call'd brother
By him that dares own such folly and such vice.
Mar. 'T is truth thou speak'st; but I do hate it: peace,
If heaven will snatch my sword out of my hand,
And put a rattle in it, what can I do?
He that is destin'd to be odious
In his old age, must undergo his fate.
Enter Cornelius and Nichodemus.