Part 6

TOUCH. SEN. Never could death boast of a richer prize From the first parent; let the world bring forth A pair of truer hearts. To speak but truth Of this departed gentleman, in a brother Might, by hard censure, be call’d flattery, Which makes me rather silent in his right Than so to be deliver’d to the thoughts Of any envious hearer, starv’d in virtue, And therefore pining to hear others thrive; But for this maid, whom envy cannot hurt With all her poisons, having left to ages The true, chaste monument of her living name, Which no time can deface, I say of her The full truth freely, without fear of censure: What nature could there shine,[156] that might redeem Perfection home to woman, but in her Was fully glorious? beauty set in goodness Speaks what she was; that jewel so infix’d, There was no want of any thing of life To make these virtuous precedents man and wife. ALLWIT. Great pity of their deaths! FIRST MOUR.[157] Never more pity! LADY KIX. It makes a hundred weeping eyes, sweet gossip. TOUCH. SEN. I cannot think there’s any one amongst you In this full fair assembly, maid, man, or wife, Whose heart would not have sprung with joy and gladness To have seen their marriage-day. SEC. MOUR. It would have made A thousand joyful hearts. TOUCH. SEN. Up then apace, And take your fortunes, make these joyful hearts; Here’s none but friends. [MOLL _and_ TOUCHWOOD _junior rise out of their coffins_. THIRD MOUR. Alive, sir? FOURTH MOUR. O sweet, dear couple! TOUCH. SEN. Nay, do not hinder ’em now, stand from about ’em; If she be caught again, and have this time, I'll ne’er plot further for ’em, nor this honest chambermaid, That help’d all at a push. TOUCH. JUN.[158] Good sir, apace. PARSON. Hands join now, but hearts for ever, [MOLL _and_ TOUCHWOOD _junior join hands_. Which no parent’s mood shall sever. You shall forsake all widows, wives, and maids— You lords, knights, gentlemen, and men of trades;— And if in haste any article misses, Go interline it with a brace of kisses. TOUCH. SEN. Here’s a thing troll’d nimbly.—Give you joy, brother; Were’t not better thou shouldst have her than the maid should die? MIS. ALL. To you, sweet mistress bride. FIRST MOUR.[159] Joy, joy to you both. TOUCH. SEN. Here be your wedding-sheets you brought along with you; You may both go to bed when you please too. TOUCH. JUN. My joy wants utterance. TOUCH. SEN. Utter all at night Then, brother. MOLL. I am silent with delight. TOUCH. SEN. Sister, delight will silence any woman; But you’ll find your tongue again ’mong maid servants, Now you keep house, sister. SEC. MOUR. Never was hour so fill’d with joy and wonder. TOUCH. SEN. To tell you the full story of this chambermaid, And of her kindness in this business to us, 'Twould ask an hour’s discourse; in brief, ’twas she That wrought it to this purpose cunningly. THIRD MOUR. We shall all love her for’t. FOURTH MOUR. See, who comes here now!

_Enter_ YELLOWHAMMER _and_ MAUDLIN.

TOUCH. SEN. A storm, a storm! but we are shelter’d for it. YEL. I will prevent[160] you all, and mock you thus, You and your expectations; I stand happy, Both in your lives, and your hearts' combination. TOUCH. SEN. Here’s a strange day again! YEL. The knight’s prov’d villain; All’s come out now, his niece an arrant baggage; My poor boy Tim is cast away this morning, Even before breakfast, married a whore Next to his heart. MOURNERS. A whore! YEL. His niece, forsooth. ALLWIT. I think we rid our hands in good time of him. MIS. ALL. I knew he was past the best when I gave him over.— What is become of him, pray, sir? YEL. Who, the knight? He lies i' th' Knights' ward,[161]— now your belly, lady, [_To_ LADY KIX. Begins to blossom, there’s no peace for him, His creditors are so greedy. SIR OL. Master Touchwood, Hear’st thou this news? I'm so endear’d to thee For my wife’s fruitfulness, that I charge you both, Your wife and thee, to live no more asunder For the world’s frowns; I've purse, and bed, and board for you: Be not afraid to go to your business roundly; Get children, and I'll keep them. TOUCH. SEN. Say you so, sir? SIR OL. Prove me with three at a birth, and[162] thou dar’st now. TOUCH. SEN. Take heed how you dare a man, while you live, sir, That has good skill at his weapon. SIR OL. ’Foot, I dare you, sir!

_Enter_ TIM, _Welshwoman, and Tutor_.

YEL. Look, gentlemen, if e’er you saw[163] the picture Of the unfortunate marriage, yonder ’tis. WELSH. Nay, good sweet Tim—— TIM. Come from the university To marry a whore in London, with my tutor too! _O tempora! O mores!_ TUTOR. Prithee, Tim, be patient. TIM. I bought a jade at Cambridge; I'll let her out to execution, tutor, For eighteenpence a-day, or Brainford[164] horse-races, She’ll serve to carry seven miles out of town well. Where be these mountains? I was promis’d mountains, But there’s such a mist, I can see none of ’em. What are become of those two thousand runts?[165] Let’s have a bout with them in the meantime; A vengeance runt thee! MAUD. Good sweet Tim, have patience. TIM. _Flectere[166] si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo_, mother. MAUD. I think you have married her in logic, Tim. You told me once by logic you would prove A whore an honest woman; prove her so, Tim, And take her for thy labour. TIM. Troth, I thank you: I grant you, I may prove another man’s wife so, But not mine own. MAUD. There’s no remedy now, Tim; You must prove her so as well as you may. TIM. Why then My tutor and I will about her as well as we can: _Uxor non est meretrix, ergo falleris_.[167] WELSH. Sir, if your logic cannot prove me honest, There’s a thing call’d marriage, and that makes me honest. MAUD. O, there’s a trick beyond your logic, Tim! TIM. I perceive then a woman may be honest According to the English print, when she’s A whore in the Latin; so much for marriage and logic: I'll love her for her wit, I'll pick out my runts there; And for my mountains, I'll mount upon ——[168] YEL. So fortune seldom deals two marriages With one hand, and both lucky; the best is, One feast will serve them both: marry, for room, I'll have the dinner kept in Goldsmiths' Hall, To which, kind gallants, I invite you all. [_Exeunt omnes._

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THE SPANISH GIPSY.

_The Spanish Gipsie. As it was Acted (with great Applause) at the Privat House in Drury-Lane, and Salisbury Court._

{ _Thomas Midleton_ } _Written by_ { and } _Gent._ { _William Rowley_ }

_Never Printed before. London, Printed by J. G. for Richard Marriot in St. Dunstans Church-yard, Fleetstreet_, 1653. 4to.

Another ed. appeared in 1661. 4to.

_The Spanish Gipsy_ has been reprinted in the 4th vol. of _A Continuation of Dodsley’s Old Plays_, 1816.

I have met with no earlier mention of it than that which occurs under a “Note of such playes as were acted at court in 1623 and 1624,” in Sir Henry Herbert’s office-book; “Upon the fifth of November att Whitehall, the prince being there only, _The Gipsye_, by the Cockpitt company.” Malone’s _Shakespeare_ (by Boswell), vol. iii. p. 227.

“The Story of Roderigo and Clara,” says Langbaine, “has a near resemblance with (if it be not borrow’d from) a Spanish Novel, writ by Miguel de Cervantes, call’d _The Force of Blood_.” _Acc. of Engl. Dram. Poets_, p. 373. The editor of 1816 chooses to “think it not improbable that the other plot was suggested to our writers by the _Beggar’s Bush_ of Fletcher, and the play-scene by the similar one in the _Hamlet_ of Shakespeare.”

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

FERNANDO DE AZEVIDA, _corregidor of Madrid_. PEDRO DE CORTES. FRANCISCO DE CARCOMO. RODERIGO, _son to Fernando_. LOUIS DE CASTRO. DIEGO, _his friend_. JOHN, _son to Francisco_. SANCHO, _ward to Pedro_. SOTO, _his man_. ALVAREZ DE CASTILLA, _disguised as the father of the gipsies_. CARLO, } ANTONIO, } _disguised as gipsies_. _and others_, } _Servants._

MARIA, _wife to Pedro_. CLARA, _their daughter_. GUIAMARA, _wife to Alvarez and sister to Fernando, disguised as the mother of the gipsies, and called by the name of Eugenia_. CONSTANZA, _daughter to Fernando, disguised as a gipsy, and called by the name of Pretiosa_. CHRISTIANA, _disguised as a gipsy_. CARDOCHIA, _hostess to Alvarez and his companions_.

Scene, MADRID[169] and its neighbourhood.

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THE SPANISH GIPSY.

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ACT I. SCENE I.

_The neighbourhood of Madrid._

_Enter_ RODERIGO, LOUIS, _and_ DIEGO.

LOUIS. Roderigo! DIEGO. Art mad? ROD. Yes, not so much with wine: it’s as rare to see a Spaniard a drunkard as a German sober, an Italian no whoremonger, an Englishman to pay his debts. I am no borachio;[170] sack, malaga, nor canary, breeds the calenture in my brains; mine eye mads me, not my cups. LOUIS. What wouldst have us do? ROD. Do? DIEGO. So far as ’tis fit for gentlemen[171] we’ll venture. ROD. I ask no more. I ha' seen a thing has bewitched me; a delicate body, but this in the waist [_shewing the size by a sign_]; foot and leg tempting; the face I had [only] a glimpse of, but the fruit must needs be delicious, the tree being so beautiful. LOUIS. Prithee, to the point. ROD. Here ’tis: an old gentleman—no matter who he is—an old gentlewoman—I ha' nothing to do with her—but a young creature that follows them, daughter or servant, or whatsoever she be, her I must have: they are coming this way; shall I have her? I must have her. DIEGO. How, how? LOUIS. Thou speakest impossibilities. ROD. Easy, easy, easy! I'll seize the young girl; stop you the old man; stay you the old woman. LOUIS. How then? ROD. I'll fly off with the young bird, that’s all; many of our Spanish gallants act these merry parts every night. They are weak and old, we young and sprightly: will you assist me? LOUIS. Troth, Roderigo, any thing in the way of honour. ROD. For a wench, man, any course is honourable. LOUIS. Nay, not any; her father, if he be[172] her father, may be noble. ROD. I am as noble. LOUIS. Would the adventure were so! ROD. Stand close, they come.

_Enter_ PEDRO, MARIA, _and_ CLARA.

PED. ’Tis late; would we were in Madrill![173] MAR. Go faster, my lord. PED. Clara, keep close. [LOUIS _and_ DIEGO _hold_ PEDRO _and_ MARIA, _while_ RODERIGO _seizes_ CLARA. CLA. Help, help, help! ROD. Are you crying out? I'll be your midwife. [_Exit, bearing off_ CLARA. PED. What mean you, gentlemen? MAR. Villains! thieves! murderers! PED. Do you [not] know me? I am De Cortes, Pedro de Cortes. LOUIS. De Cortes?—Diego, come away. [_Exit with_ DIEGO. PED. Clara!—where is my daughter? MAR. Clara!—these villains Have robb’d us of our comfort, and will, I fear, Her of her honour. PED. This had not wont to be Our Spanish fashion; but now our gallants, Our gentry, our young dons, heated with wine,— A fire our countrymen do seldom sit at,— Commit these outrages.—Clara!—Maria, Let’s homeward; I will raise Madrill to find These traitors to all goodness.—Clara! MAR. Clara! [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Another place in the neighbourhood of Madrid._

_Enter_ LOUIS _and_ DIEGO.

LOUIS. O Diego, I am lost, I am mad! DIEGO. So we are all. LOUIS. ’Tis not with wine; I'm drunk with too much horror, Inflam’d with rage, to see us two made bawds To Roderigo’s lust: did not the old man Name De Cortes, Pedro de Cortes? DIEGO. Sure he did. LOUIS. O Diego, as thou lov’st me, nay, on the forfeit Of thine own life or mine, seal up thy lips, Let ’em not name De Cortes! stay, stay, stay; Roderigo has into his father’s house A passage through a garden—— DIEGO. Yes, my lord. LOUIS. Thither I must, find Roderigo out, And check him, check him home: if he but dare— No more!—Diego, along! my soul does fight A thousand battles blacker than this night. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A bed-chamber in_ FERNANDO’S _house_.

RODERIGO _and_ CLARA _discovered_.

CLA. Though the black veil of night hath overclouded The world in darkness, yet ere many hours The sun will rise again, and then this act Of my dishonour will appear before you More black than is the canopy that shrouds it: What are you, pray? what are you? ROD. Husht—a friend, a friend. CLA. A friend? be then a gentle ravisher, An honourable villain: as you have Disrob’d my youth of nature’s goodliest portion, My virgin purity, so with your sword Let out that blood which is infected now By your soul-staining lust. ROD. Pish! CLA. Are you noble? I know you then will marry me; say. ROD. Umh. CLA. Not speak to me? are wanton devils dumb? How are so many harmless virgins wrought By falsehood of prevailing words to yield Too easy forfeits of their shames and liberty, If every orator of folly plead In silence, like this untongu’d piece of violence? You shall not from me. [_Holding him._ ROD. Phew!—no more. CLA. You shall not: Whoe’er you are, disease of nature’s sloth, Birth of some monstrous sin, or scourge of virtue, Heaven’s wrath and mankind’s burden, I will hold you; I will: be rough, and therein merciful, I will not loose my hold else. ROD. There; ’tis gold. [_Offers money._ CLA. Gold? why, alas, for what? the hire of pleasure Perhaps is payment, mine is misery; I need no wages for a ruin’d name, More than a bleeding heart. ROD. Nay, then, you’re troublesome; I'll lock you safe enough. [_Shakes her off, and exit._ CLA. They cannot fear Whom grief hath arm’d with hate and scorn of life. Revenge, I kneel to thee! alas, ’gainst whom? By what name shall I pull confusion down From justice on his head that hath betray’d me? I know not where I am: up, I beseech thee, Thou lady regent of the air, the moon, And lead me by thy light to some brave vengeance! It is a chamber sure; the guilty bed, Sad evidence against my loss of honour, Assures so much. What’s here, a window-curtain? O heaven, the stars appear too! ha, a chamber, A goodly one? dwells rape in such a paradise? Help me, my quicken’d senses! ’tis a garden To which this window guides the covetous prospect, A large one and a fair one; in the midst A curious alablaster[174] fountain stands, Fram’d like—like what? no matter—swift, remembrance! Rich furniture within too? and what’s this? A precious crucifix! I have enough. [_Takes the crucifix, and conceals it in her bosom._ Assist me, O you powers that guard the innocent!

_Re-enter_ RODERIGO.

ROD. Now. CLA. Welcome, if you come armed in destruction: I am prepar’d to die. ROD. Tell me your name, And what you are. CLA. You urge me to a sin As cruel as your lust; I dare not grant it. Think on the violence of my defame; And if you mean to write upon my grave An epitaph of peace, forbear to question Or whence or who I am. I know the heat Of your desires is,[175] after the performance Of such a hellish act, by this time drown’d In cooler streams of penance;[176] and for my part, I have wash’d off the leprosy that cleaves To my just shame in true and honest tears; I must not leave a mention of my wrongs, The stain of my unspotted birth, to memory; Let it lie buried with me in the dust; That never time hereafter may report How such a one as you have made me live. Be resolute, and do not stagger; do not, For I am nothing. ROD. Sweet, let me enjoy thee Now with a free allowance. CLA. Ha, enjoy me? Insufferable villain! ROD. Peace, speak low; I mean no second force; and since I find Such goodness in an unknown frame of virtue, Forgive my foul attempt, which I shall grieve for So heartily, that could you be yourself Eye-witness to my constant vow’d repentance, Trust me, you’d pity me. CLA. Sir, you can speak now. ROD. So much I am the executioner Of mine own trespass, that I have no heart Nor reason to disclose my name or quality; You must excuse me that; but, trust me, fair one, Were this ill deed undone, this deed of wickedness, I would be proud to court your love like him Whom my first birth presented to the world. This for your satisfaction: what remains, That you can challenge as a service from me, I both expect and beg it. CLA. First, that you swear, Neither in riot of your mirth, in passion Of friendship, or in folly of discourse, To speak of wrongs done to a ravish’d maid. ROD. As I love truth, I swear! CLA. Next, that you lead me Near to the place you met me, and there leave me To my last fortunes, ere the morning rise. ROD. Say more. CLA. Live[177] a new man, if e’er you marry— O me, my heart’s a-breaking!—but if e’er You marry, in a constant love to her That shall be then your wife, redeem the fault Of my undoing. I am lost for ever: Pray, use no more words. ROD. You must give me leave To veil you close. CLA. Do what you will; no time Can ransom me from sorrows or dishonours. [RODERIGO _throws a veil over her_. Shall we now go? ROD. My shame may live without me, But in my soul I bear my guilt about me. Lend me your hand; now follow. [_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

_Before_ FERNANDO’S _house_.

_Enter_ LOUIS, DIEGO, _and Servant_.

LOUIS. Not yet come in, not yet? SER. No, I'll assure your lordship; I've seldom known him Keep out so long; my lord usually observes More seasonable hours. LOUIS. What time of night is’t? SER. On the stroke of three. LOUIS. The stroke of three? ’tis wondrous strange! Dost hear?—— SER. My lord? LOUIS. Ere six I will be here again; Tell thy lord so; ere six; ’a must not sleep; Or if ’a do, I shall be bold to wake him: Be sure thou tell’st him, do. SER. My lord, I shall. [_Enters the house._ LOUIS. Diego, Walk thou the street that leads about the Prado; I'll round the west part of the city: meet me At the Inquisition-chapel; if we miss him, We’ll both back to his lodgings.[178] DIEGO. At the chapel? LOUIS. Ay, there we’ll meet. DIEGO. Agreed, I this way. [_Exit_ LOUIS:[179] _as_ DIEGO _is going out_,

_Enter_ JOHN _reading_.[180]

JOHN. She is not noble, true; wise nature meant Affection should ennoble[181] her descent, For love and beauty keep[182] as rich a seat Of sweetness in the mean-born as the great. I am resolv’d. [_Exit._ DIEGO. ’Tis Roderigo certainly, Yet his voice makes me doubt; but I'll o’erhear him. [_Exit._

SCENE V.

_A street._

_Enter_ LOUIS.

LOUIS. That if [I], only I should be the man Made accessary and a party both To mine own torment, at a time so near The birth of all those comforts I have travail’d with So many, many hours of hopes and fears; Now at the instant—

_Enter_ RODERIGO.

Ha! stand! thy name, Truly and speedily. ROD. Don Louis? LOUIS. The same; But who art thou? speak! ROD. Roderigo. LOUIS. Tell me, As you’re a noble gentleman, as ever You hope to be enroll’d amongst the virtuous, As you love goodness, as you wish t' inherit The blessedness and fellowship of angels, As you’re my friend, as you are Roderigo, As you are any thing that would deserve A worthy name, where have you been to-night? O, how have you dispos’d of that fair creature Whom you led captive from me? speak, O speak! Where, how, when, in what usage have you left her? Truth, I require all truth. ROD. Though I might question The strangeness of your importunity, Yet, ’cause I note distraction in the height Of curiosity, I will be plain And brief. LOUIS. I thank you, sir. ROD. Instead of feeding Too wantonly upon so rich a banquet, I found, even in that beauty that invited me, Such a commanding majesty of chaste And humbly glorious virtue, that it did not More check my rash attempt than draw to ebb The float[183] of those desires, which in an instant Were cool’d in their own streams of shame and folly. LOUIS. Now all increase of honours Fall in full showers on thee, Roderigo, The best man living! ROD. You are much transported With this discourse, methinks. LOUIS. Yes, I am. She told ye her name too? ROD. I could not urge it By any importunity. LOUIS. Better still! Where did you leave her? ROD. Where I found her; farther She would by no means grant me to wait on her: O Louis, I am lost! LOUIS. This self-same lady Was she to whom I have been long a suiter, And shortly hope to marry. ROD. She your mistress, then? Louis, since friendship And noble honesty conjure[184] our loves To a continu’d league, here I unclasp The secrets of my heart. O, I have had A glimpse of such a creature, that deserves A temple! if thou lov’st her—and I blame thee not, For who can look on her, and not give up His life unto her service?—if thou lov’st her, For pity’s sake conceal her; let me not As much as know her name, there’s a temption[185] in’t; Let me not know her dwelling, birth, or quality, Or any thing that she calls hers, but thee; In thee, my friend, I'll see her: and t' avoid The surfeits and[186] those rarities that tempt me, So much I prize the happiness of friendship, That I will leave the city—— LOUIS. Leave it? ROD. Speed me For Salamanca; court my studies now For physic ’gainst infection of the mind. LOUIS. You do amaze me. ROD. Here to live, and live Without her, is impossible and wretched. For heaven’s sake, never tell her what I was, Or that you know me! and when I find that absence Hath lost her to my memory, I'll dare To see ye again. Meantime, the cause that draws me From hence shall be to all the world untold; No friend but thou alone, for whose sake only I undertake this voluntary exile, Shall be partaker of my griefs: thy hand, Farewell; and all the pleasures, joys, contents, That bless a constant lover, henceforth crown thee A happy bridegroom! LOUIS. You have conquer’d friendship Beyond example.

_Enter_ DIEGO.