Niece, your love’s welcome.
Alas, what draws that paleness to thy cheeks?
This enforc’d marriage towards?
[1027]Isa. It helps, good aunt,
Amongst some other griefs; but those I'll keep
Lock’d up in modest silence, for they’re sorrows
Would shame the tongue more than they grieve the thought.
Liv. Indeed, the Ward is simple.
Isa. Simple! that were well;
Why, one might make good shift with such a husband,
But he’s a fool entail’d, he halts downright in’t.
Liv. And knowing this, I hope ’tis at your choice
To take or refuse, niece.
Isa. You see it is not.
I loathe him more than beauty can hate death,
Or age her spiteful neighbour.
Liv. Let ’t appear then.
Isa. How can I, being born with that obedience
That must submit unto a father’s will?
If he command, I must of force consent.
Liv. Alas, poor soul! be not offended, prithee,
If I set by the name of niece awhile,
And bring in pity in a stranger fashion;
It lies here in this breast would cross this match.
Isa. How! cross it, aunt?
Liv. Ay, and give thee more liberty
Than thou hast reason yet to apprehend.
Isa. Sweet aunt, in goodness keep not hid from me
What may befriend my life!
Liv. Yes, yes, I must;
When I return to reputation,
And think upon the solemn vow I made
To your dead mother, my most loving sister;
As long as I've her memory ’twixt mine eyelids,
Look for no pity now.
Isa. Kind, sweet, dear aunt——
Liv. No, ’twas a secret I've took special care of,
Deliver’d by your mother on her deathbed,
That’s nine years now, and I'll not part from’t yet,
Though ne’er was fitter time, nor greater cause for’t.
Isa. As you desire the praises of a virgin——
Liv. Good sorrow, I would do thee any kindness
Not wronging secrecy or reputation.
Isa. Neither of which, as I have hope of fruit[ful]ness,
Shall receive wrong from me.
Liv. Nay, ’twould be your own wrong
As much as any’s, should it come to that once.
Isa. I need no better means to work persuasion then.
Liv. Let it suffice, you may refuse this fool,
Or you may take him, as you see occasion
For your advantage; the best wits will do’t;
You’ve liberty enough in your own will,
You cannot be enforc’d; there grows the flower,
If you could pick it out, makes whole life sweet to you.
That which you call your father’s command’s nothing,
Then your obedience must needs be as little:
If you can make shift here to taste your happiness,
Or pick out aught that likes
[1028] you, much good do you;
You see your cheer, I'll make you no set dinner.
Isa. And, trust me, I may starve for all the good
I can find yet in this: sweet aunt, deal plainlier.
Liv. Say I should trust you now upon an oath,
And give you, in a secret, that would start you,
How am I sure of you in faith and silence?
Isa. Equal assurance may I find in mercy
As you for that in me!
Liv. It shall suffice:
Then know, however custom has made good,
For reputation’s sake, the names of niece
And aunt ’twixt you and I, we’re nothing less.
Isa. How’s that?
Liv. I told you I should start your blood:
You are no more allied to any of us,
Save what the courtesy of opinion casts
Upon your mother’s memory and your name,
Than the merest stranger is, or one begot
At Naples when the husband lies at Rome;
There’s so much odds betwixt us. Since your knowledge
Wish’d more instruction, and I have your oath
In pledge for silence, it makes me talk the freelier.
Did never the report of that fam’d Spaniard,
Marquis of Coria, since your time was ripe
For understanding, fill your ear with wonder?
Isa. Yes; what of him? I've heard his deeds of honour
Often related when we liv’d in Naples.
Liv. You heard the praises of your father then.
Isa. My father!
Liv. That was he; but all the business
So carefully and so discreetly carried,
That fame receiv’d no spot by’t, not a blemish;
Your mother was so wary to her end,
None knew it but her conscience and her friend,
Till penitent confession made it mine,
And now my pity yours, it had been long else;
And I hope care and love alike in you,
Made good by oath, will see it take no wrong now.
How weak his commands now whom you call father!
How vain all his enforcements, your obedience!
And what a largeness in your will and liberty,
To take, or to reject, or to do both!
For fools will serve to father wise men’s children:
All this you’ve time to think on. O my wench,
Nothing o’erthrows our sex but indiscretion!
We might do well else of a brittle people
As any under the great canopy:
I pray, forget not but to call me aunt still;
Take heed of that; it may be mark’d in time else:
But keep your thoughts to yourself, from all the world,
Kindred, or dearest friend; nay, I entreat you,
From him that all this while you have call’d uncle;
And though you love him dearly, as I know
His deserts claim as much even from a stranger,
Yet let not him know this, I prithee, do not;
As ever thou hast hope of second pity,
If thou shouldst stand in need on’t, do not do’t.
Isa. Believe my oath, I will not.
Liv. Why, well said.—
Who shews more craft t' undo a maidenhead,
I'll resign my part to her. [Aside.