Re-enter Louis.
How fares the lady?
Louis. Callèd back to life,
But full of sadness.
Fer. Talks she nothing?
Louis. Nothing;
For when the women that attend on her
Demanded how she did, she turn’d about,
And answer’d with a sigh: when I came near,
And by the love I bore her begg’d a word
Of hope to comfort me in her well-doing,
Before she would reply, from her fair eyes
She greets me with a bracelet of her tears,
Then wish’d me not to doubt; she was too well;
Entreats that she may sleep without disturbance
Or company until her father came:
And thus I left her.
Fran. Sir,[293] she’s past the worst.
Young maids are oft so troubled.
Fer. Here come they
You talk of.—
Re-enter Pedro and Maria.
Sir, your daughter, for your comfort,
Is now upon amendment.
Mar. O, my lord,
You speak an angel’s voice!
Fer. Pray, in and visit her;
I'll follow instantly. [Exeunt. Pedro and Maria.]—
You shall not part[294]
Without a cup of wine, my lord.
Fran. ’Tis now
Too troublesome a time.—Which way take you,
Don Louis?
Louis. No matter which; for till I hear
My Clara be recover’d, I am nothing.—
My lord corregidor, I am your servant
For this free entertainment.
Fer. You have conquer’d me
In noble courtesy.
Louis. O, that no art
But love itself can cure a love-sick heart! [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A room in Fernando’s house.
Clara discovered seated in a chair, Pedro and Maria standing by.
Mar. Clara, hope of mine age!
Ped. Soul of my comfort!
Kill us not both at once: why dost thou speed
Thine eye in such a progress ’bout these walls?
Cla. Yon large window
Yields some fair prospect; good my lord, look out
And tell me what you see there.
Ped. Easy suit:
Clara, it overviews a spacious garden,
Amidst which stands an alablaster[295] fountain,
A goodly one.
Cla. Indeed, my lord!
Mar. Thy griefs grow wild,[296]
And will mislead thy judgment through thy weakness,
If thou obey thy weakness.
Cla. Who owns these glorious buildings?
Ped. Don Fernando
De Azevida,[297] the corregidor
Of Madrill,[298] a true noble gentleman.
Cla. May I not see him?
Mar. See him, Clara? why?
Cla. A truly noble gentleman, you said, sir?
Ped. I did: lo, here he comes in person.—
Enter Fernando.
We are,
My lord, your servants.
Fer. Good, no compliment.—
Young lady, there attends below a surgeon
Of worthy fame and practice; is’t your pleasure
To be his patient?
Cla. With your favour, sir,
May I impart some few but needful words
Of secrecy to you, to you yourself,
None but yourself?
Fer. You may.
Ped. Must I not hear ’em?
Mar. Nor I?
Cla. O yes.—Pray, sit, my lord.
Fer. Say on.
Cla. You have been married?
Fer. To a wife, young lady,[299]
Who, whiles the heavens did lend her me, was fruitful
In all those virtues which style[300] woman good.
Cla. And you had children by her?
Fer. Had, ’tis true;
Now have but one, a son, and he yet lives;
The daughter, as if in her birth the mother
Had perfected the errand she was sent for
Into the world, from that hour took her life
In which the other that gave it her lost hers;
Yet shortly she unhappily, but fatally,
Perish’d at sea.
Cla. Sad story!
Fer. Roderigo,
My son——
Cla. How is he call’d, sir?
Fer. Roderigo:
He lives at Salamanca; and I fear
That neither time, persuasions, nor his fortunes,
Can draw him thence.
Cla. My lord, d’ye know this crucifix?[301]
[Shewing the crucifix.
Fer. You drive me to amazement! ’twas my son’s,
A legacy bequeath’d him from his mother
Upon her deathbed, dear to him as life;
On earth there cannot be another treasure
He values at like rate as he does this.
Cla. O, then I am a cast-away!
Mar. How’s that?
Ped. Alas, she will grow frantic!
Cla. In my bosom,
Next to my heart, my lord, I have laid up,
In bloody characters, a tale of horror.
Pray, read the paper; and if there you find
[Giving a paper.
Ought that concerns a maid undone and miserable,
Made so by one[302] of yours, call back the piety
Of nature to the goodness of a judge,
An upright judge, not of a partial father;
For do not wonder that I live to suffer
Such a full weight of wrongs, but wonder rather
That I have liv’d to speak them: thou, great man,
Yet read, read on, and as thou read’st consider
What I have suffer’d, what thou ought’st to do,[303]
Thine own name, fatherhood, and my dishonour:
Be just as heaven and fate are, that by miracle
Have in my weakness wrought a strange discovery:
Truth copied from my heart is texted there:
Let now my shame be throughly understood;
Sins are heard farthest when they cry in blood.
Fer. True, true, they do not cry but holla here;
This is the trumpet of a soul drown’d deep
In the unfathom’d seas of matchless sorrows.
I must lock fast the door. [Exit.
Mar. I have no words
To call for vengeance.
Ped. I am lost in marvel.
Re-enter Fernando.
Fer. Sir,[304] pray sit as you sat before. White paper,
This should be innocence; these letters gules[305]
Should be the honest oracles of revenge:
What’s beauty but a perfect white and red?
Both here well mix’d limn truth so beautiful,
That to distrust it, as I am a father,
Speaks me as foul as rape hath spoken my son;
’Tis true.
Cla. ’Tis true.
Fer. Then mark me how I kneel
Before the high tribunal of your injuries. [Kneels.
Thou too, too-much-wrong’d maid, scorn not my tears,
For these are tears of rage, not tears of love,—
Thou father of this too, too-much-wrong’d maid,—
Thou mother of her counsels and her cares,
I do not plead for pity to a villain;
O, let him die as he hath liv’d, dishonourably,
Basely and cursedly! I plead for pity
To my till now untainted blood and honour:
Teach me how I may now be just and cruel,
For henceforth I am childless.
Cla. Pray, sir, rise;
You wrong your place and age.
Fer. [rising] Point me my grave
In some obscure by-path, where never memory
Nor mention of my name may be found out.
Cla. My lord, I can weep with you, nay, weep for ye,
As you for me; your passions are instructions,
And prompt my faltering tongue to beg at least
A noble satisfaction, though not revenge.
Fer. Speak that again.
Cla. Can you procure no balm
To heal a wounded name?
Fer. O, thou’rt as fair
In mercy as in beauty! wilt thou live,
And I'll be thy physician?
Cla. I'll be yours.
Fer. Don Pedro, we’ll to counsel;
This[306] daughter shall be ours.—Sleep, sleep, young angel,
My care shall wake about thee.
Cla. Heaven is gracious,
And I am eas’d!
Fer. We will be yet more private;
Night[307] curtains o’er the world; soft dreams rest with thee!
The best revenge is to reform our crimes,
Then time crowns sorrows, sorrows sweeten times.
[Exeunt all except Clara, on whom the scene shuts.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A court before an inn.

Alvarez, Guiamara, Constanza, Christiana, Sancho, Soto, Antonio, Carlo, Roderigo, and others discovered, disguised as before. A shout within. Enter John.

Alv.
Gui., &c.[308] bracket Welcome, welcome, welcome!

Soto. More sacks to the mill.

San. More thieves to the sacks.

Alv. Peace!

Consti. I give you now my welcome without noise.

John. ’Tis music to me. [Offering to kiss Const.

Alv.
Gui., &c. bracket O Sir!

San. You must not be in your mutton[309] before we are out of our veal.

Soto. Stay for vinegar to your oysters; no opening till then.

Gui. No kissing till you’re sworn.

John. Swear me then quickly,
I have brought gold for my admission.
Alv. What you bring leave, and what you leave count lost.

San. I brought all my teeth, two are struck out; them I count lost, so must you.

Soto. I brought all my wits; half I count lost, so must you.

John. To be as you are, I lose father, friends,
Birth, fortunes, all the world: what will you do
With the beast I rode on hither?

San. A beast? is’t a mule? send him to Muly Crag a whee[310] in Barbary.

Soto. Is’t an ass? give it to a lawyer, for in Spain they ride upon none else.

John. Kill him by any means, lest, being pursu’d,
The beast betray me.

Soto. He’s a beast betrays any man.

San. Except a bailiff to be pumped.

John. Pray, bury the carcass and the furniture.

San. Do, do; bury the ass’s household stuff, and in his skin sew any man that’s mad for a woman.

Alv. Do so then, bury it: now to your oath.

Gui. All things are ready.

Alv. [sings[311]]

Thy best[312] hand lay on this turf of grass,
There thy heart lies, vow not to pass
From us two years for sun nor snow,
For hill nor dale, howe’er winds blow;
Vow the hard earth to be thy bed,
With her green cushions under thy head;
Flower-banks or moss to be thy board,
Water thy wine——

San. [sings] And drink like a lord.

Chorus.
Kings can have but coronations;
We are as proud of gipsy-fashions:
Dance, sing, and in a well-mix’d border
Close this new brother of our order.

Alv. [sings]

What we get with us come share,
You to get must vow to care;
Nor strike gipsy, nor stand by
When strangers strike, but fight or die;
Our gipsy-wenches are not common,
You must not kiss a fellow’s leman;[313]
Nor to your own, for one you must,
In songs send errands of base lust.
Chorus.
Dance, sing, and in a well-mix’d border
Close this new brother of our order.

John. [sings]

On this turf of grass I vow
Your laws to keep, your laws allow.

All. A gipsy! a gipsy! a gipsy!

Gui. [sings]

Now choose what maid has yet no mate,
She’s yours.

John. [sings] Here then fix I my fate.

[Takes Constanza by the hand, and offers to kiss her.

San. Again fall to before you ha' washed?

Soto. Your nose in the manger before the oats are measured, jade so hungry?

Alv. [sings]

Set foot to foot; those garlands hold;
Now mark[314] [well] what more is told.
By cross arms, the lover’s sign,
Vow, as these flowers themselves entwine,
Of April’s wealth building a throne
Round, so your love to one or none;
By those touches of your feet,
You must each night embracing meet,
Chaste, howe’er disjoin’d by day;
You the sun with her must play,
She to you the marigold,
To none but you her leaves unfold;
Wake she or sleep, your eyes so charm,
Want, woe, nor weather do her harm.

Car.[315] [sings]

This is your market now of kisses,
Buy and sell free each other blisses.

John. Most willingly.

Chorus.
Holydays, high days, gipsy fairs,
When kisses are fairings, and hearts meet in pairs.

Alv. All ceremonies end here: welcome, brother gipsy!

San. And the better to instruct thee, mark what a brave life ’tis all the year long. [Sings.

Brave don, cast your eyes
On our gipsy fashions:
In our antic hey-de-guize[316]
We go beyond all nations;
Plump Dutch
At us grutch,
So do English, so do French,
He that lopes[317]
On the ropes,
Shew me such another wench.[318]
We no camels have to shew,
Nor elephant with growt[319] head;
We can dance, he cannot go,
Because the beast is corn-fed;[320]
No blind bears
Shedding tears,
For a collier’s whipping;
Apes nor dogs,
Quick as frogs,
Over cudgels skipping,
Jack[s]-in-boxes,[321] nor decoys,
Puppets, nor such poor things,
Nor are we those roaring boys
That cozen fools with gilt rings;[322]
For an ocean,
Not[323] such a motion
As the city Nineveh;[324]
Dancing, singing,
And fine ringing,
You these sports shall hear and see.

Come now, what shall his name be?

Consti. His name shall now be Andrew.—Friend Andrew, mark me:
Two years I am to try you; prove fine gold,
The uncrack’d diamond of my faith shall hold.
John. My vows are rocks of adamant.
Consti. Two years you are to try me: black[325] when I turn
May I meet youth and want, old age and scorn!
John. Kings' diadems shall not buy thee.
Car.[326] Do you think
You can endure the life, and love it?
John. As usurers doat upon their treasure.
Soto. But when your face shall be tann’d
Like a sailor’s worky-day hand——
San. When your feet shall be gall’d,
And your noddle be mall’d[327]——
Soto. When the woods you must forage,
And not meet with poor pease-porridge——
San. Be all to-be-dabbled,[328] yet lie in no sheet——
Soto. With winter’s frost, hail, snow, and sleet;
What life will you say it is then?
John. As now, the sweetest.

Diego. [within] Away! away! the corregidor has sent for you.

San. [sings]
Hence merrily fine to get money!
Dry are the fields, the banks are sunny,
Silver is sweeter far than honey;
Fly like swallows,
We for our conies must get mallows;
Who loves not his dill,[329] let him die at the gallows.
Hence, bonny girls, foot it trimly,
Smug up your beetle-brows, none look grimly;
To shew a pretty foot, O ’tis seemly!
[Exeunt all except Soto: as he is going out,
Enter Cardochia, who stays him.
Card. Do you hear, you gipsy? gipsy!
Soto. Me?
Card. There’s a young gipsy newly entertain’d;
Sweet gipsy, call him back for one two words,
And here’s a jewel for thee.
Soto. I'll send him.
Card. What’s his name?
Soto. Andrew. [Exit.
Card. A very handsome fellow; I ha' seen courtiers
Jet[330] up and down in their full bravery,[331]
Yet here’s a gipsy worth a drove of ’em.
Re-enter John.
John. With me, sweetheart?
Card. Your name is Andrew?
John. Yes.
Card. You can tell fortunes, Andrew?
John. I could once,
But now I ha' lost that knowledge; I'm in haste,
And cannot stay to tell you yours.
Card. I cannot tell yours then;
And ’cause you’re in haste, I'm quick; I am a maid——
John. So, so, a maid quick?
Card. Juanna Cardochia,
That’s mine own name; I am my mother’s heir
Here to this house, and two more.
John. I buy no lands.
Card. They shall be given you, with some plate and money,
And free possession during life of me,
So the match like[332] you; for so well I love you,
That I, in pity of this trade of gipsying,
Being base, idle, and slavish, offer you
A state to settle you, my youth and beauty,
Desir’d by some brave Spaniards, so I may call you
My husband: shall I, Andrew?
John. ’Las, pretty soul,
Better stars guide you! may that hand of Cupid
Ache, ever shot this arrow at your heart!
Sticks there one such indeed?
Card. I would there did not,
Since you’ll not pluck it out.
John. Good sweet, I cannot;
For marriage, ’tis a law amongst us gipsies
We match in our own tribes; for me to wear you,
I should but wear you out.
Card. I do not care;
Wear what you can out, all my life, my wealth,
Ruin me, so you lend me but your love,
A little of your love!
John. Would I could give it,
For you are worth a world of better men,
For your free noble mind! all my best wishes
Stay with you; I must hence.
Card. Wear for my sake
This jewel.
John. I'll not rob you, I'll take nothing.
Card. Wear it about your neck but one poor moon;
If in that time your eye be as ’tis now,
Send my jewel home again, and I protest
I'll never more think on you; deny not this,
Put it about your neck.
John. Well then,’tis done. [Putting on jewel.
Card. And vow to keep it there.
John. By all the goodness
I wish attend your fortunes, I do vow it! [Exit.
Card. Scorn’d! thou hast temper’d poison to kill me
Thyself shall drink; since I cannot enjoy thee,
My revenge shall.
Enter Diego.
Diego. Where are the gipsies?
Card. Gone.
Diego, do you love me?
Diego. Love thee, Juanna?
Is my life mine? it is but mine so long
As it shall do thee service.
Card. There’s a young[333] gipsy newly entertain’d.
Diego. A handsome rascal; what of him?
Card. That slave in obscene language courted me,
Drew reals[334] out, and would have bought my body,
Diego, from thee.
Diego. Is he so itchy? I'll cure him.
Card. Thou shalt not touch the villain, I'll spin his fate;
Woman strikes sure, fall the blow ne’er so late.
Diego. Strike on, since[335] thou wilt be a striker.[336] [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A room in Fernando’s house.
Enter Fernando, Francisco, Pedro, and Louis.
Fer. See, Don Louis; an arm,[337]
The strongest arm in Spain, to the full length
Is stretch’d to pluck old count Alvarez home
From his sad banishment.
Louis. With longing eyes,
My lord, I expect the man: your lordship’s pardon,
Some business calls me from you.
Fer. Prithee, Don Louis,
Unless th' occasion be too violent,
Stay and be merry with us; all the gipsies
Will be here presently.
Louis. I'll attend your lordship
Before their sports be done.
Fer. Be your own carver. [Exit Louis.
[To Fran.] Not yet shake off these fetters? I see a son
Is heavy when a father carries him
On his old heart.
Fran. Could I set up my rest
That he were lost, or taken prisoner,
I could hold truce with sorrow; but to have him
Vanish I know not how, gone none knows whither,
’Tis that mads me.
Ped. You said he sent a letter.
Fran. A letter? a mere riddle; he’s gone to see[k]
His fortune in the wars; what wars have we?
Suppose we had, goes any man to th' field
Naked, unfurnish’d both [of] arms and money?
Fer. Come, come, he’s gone a-wenching; we in our youth
Ran the self-same bias.