Part 18

SEB. Now, my fortune!— [_Aside._ By your kind favour, madam. ISA. With me, sir? SEB. The words shall not be many, but the faithfulness And true respect that are[541] included in 'em Is worthy your attention, and may put upon me The fair repute of a just, honest servant. ISA. What’s here to do, sir, There’s such great preparation toward? SEB. In brief, that goodness in you is abus’d, madam; You have the married life, but ’tis a strumpet That has the joy on’t and the fruitfulness; There goes away your comfort. ISA. How? a strumpet? SEB. Of five years’ cost and upwards, a dear mischief, As they are all of 'em; his fortnight’s journey Is to that country: if it be not rudeness To speak the truth, I’ve found it all out, madam. ISA. Thou’st found out thine own ruin; for to my knowledge Thou dost belie him basely: I dare swear He’s a gentleman as free from that folly As ever took religious life upon him. SEB. Be not too confident to your own abuse, madam. Since I’ve begun the truth, neither your frowns— The only curses that I have on earth, Because my means depend[542] upon your service— Nor all the execration of man’s fury, Shall put me off: though I be poor, I’m honest, And too just in this business. I perceive now Too much respect and faithfulness to ladies May be a wrong to servants. ISA. Art thou yet So impudent to stand in’t? SEB. Are you yet so cold, madam, In the belief on’t? there my wonder’s fix’d; Having such blessed health and youth about you, Which makes the injury mighty. ISA. Why, I tell thee, It were too great a fortune for thy lowness To find out such a thing; thou dost not look As if thou’rt made for’t. By the sweets[543] of love, I would give half my wealth for such a bargain, And think 'twere bought too cheap: thou canst not guess Thy means and happiness, should I find this true. First, I’d prefer thee to the lord my uncle; He’s governor of Ravenna, all th’ advancements I’ th’ kingdom flow[544] from him: what need I boast that Which common fame can teach thee? SEB. Then thus, madam: Since I presume now on your height of spirit, And your regard to your own youth and fruitfulness, Which every woman naturally loves and covets, Accept but of my labour in directions, You shall both find your wrongs, which you may right At your own pleasure, yet not miss’d to-night Here in the house neither; none shall take notice Of any absence in you, as I’ve thought on’t. ISA. Do this, and take my praise and thanks for ever. SEB. As I deserve, I wish 'em, and will serve you. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Field._

_Enter_ HECATE, STADLIN, HOPPO, _and other Witches_; FIRESTONE _in the back-ground_.

HEC. The moon’s a gallant; see how brisk she rides! STAD. Here’s a rich evening, Hecate. HEC. Ay, is’t not, wenches, To take a journey of five thousand mile? HOP. Ours will be more to-night. HEC. O 'twill be precious! Heard you the owl yet?[545] STAD. Briefly in the copse, As we came through now. HEC. ’Tis high time for us then. STAD. There was a bat hung at my lips three times As we came through the woods, and drank her fill: Old Puckle saw her. HEC. You are fortunate still; The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder And woos you, like a pigeon. Are you furnish’d? Have you your ointments? STAD. All. HEC. Prepare to flight then; I’ll overtake you swiftly. STAD. Hie thee, Hecate; We shall be up betimes. HEC. I’ll reach you quickly. [_Exeunt all the Witches except_ HECATE. FIRE. They are all going a-birding to-night: they talk of fowls i’ th’ air that fly by day; I am sure they’ll be a company of foul sluts there to-night: if we have not mortality after’t, I’ll be hanged, for they are able to putrefy it, to infect a whole region. She spies me now. HEC. What, Firestone, our sweet son? FIRE. A little sweeter than some of you, or a dunghill were too good for me. [_Aside._ HEC. How much hast here? FIRE. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones, Besides six lizards and three serpentine eggs. HEC. Dear and sweet boy! what herbs hast thou? FIRE. I have some marmartin and mandragon. HEC. Marmaritin and mandragora, thou wouldst say. FIRE. Here’s panax too—I thank thee—my pan aches, I’m sure, With kneeling down to cut 'em. HEC. And selago, Hedge-hyssop too: how near he goes my cuttings! Were they all cropt by moonlight? FIRE. Every blade of 'em, Or I’m a moon-calf, mother. HEC. Hie thee home with 'em: Look well to the house to-night; I’m for aloft. FIRE. Aloft, quoth you? I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly! [_Aside._]— Hark, hark, mother! they are above the steeple already, flying over your head with a noise[546] of musicians. HEC. They’re they indeed. Help, help me; I’m too late else.

_Song above._[547]

Come away, come away, Hecate, Hecate, come away! HEC. I come, I come, I come, I come, With all the speed I may, With all the speed I may. Where’s Stadlin? [_Voice above._] Here. HEC. Where’s Puckle? [_Voice above._] Here; And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too; We lack but you, we lack but you; Come away, make up the count. HEC. I will but 'noint, and then I mount. [_A Spirit like a cat descends._

[_Voice above._] There’s one comes down to fetch his dues, A kiss, a coll,[548] a sip of blood; And why thou stay’st so long I muse, I muse, Since the air’s so sweet and good. HEC. O, art thou come? What news, what news? SPIRIT. All goes still to our delight: Either come, or else Refuse, refuse. HEC. Now I’m furnish’d for the flight. FIRE. Hark, hark, the cat sings a brave treble in her own language! HEC. [_going up_] Now I go, now I fly, Malkin my sweet spirit and I. O what a dainty pleasure ’tis To ride in the air When the moon shines fair, And sing and dance, and toy and kiss! Over woods, high rocks, and mountains, Over seas, our mistress’ fountains, Over steep[549] towers and turrets, We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits: No ring of bells to our ears sounds, No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds; No, not the noise of water’s breach, Or cannon’s throat our height can reach. [_Voices above._] No ring of bells, _&c._ FIRE. Well, mother, I thank your kindness: you must be gambolling i’ th’ air, and leave me to walk here like a fool and a mortal. [_Exit._

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_An Apartment in the Duke’s House._

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

ALM. Though the fates have endued me with a pretty kind of lightness, that I can laugh at the world in a corner on’t, and can make myself merry on fasting nights to rub out a supper (which were a precious quality in a young formal student), yet let the world know there is some difference betwixt my jovial condition and the lunary state of madness. I am not quite out of my wits: I know a bawd from an aqua-vitæ shop,[550] a strumpet from wildfire, and a beadle from brimstone. Now shall I try the honesty of a great woman soundly. She reckoning the duke’s made away, I’ll be hanged if I be not the next now. If I trust her, as she’s a woman, let one of her long hairs wind about my heart, and be the end of me; which were a piteous lamentable tragedy, and might be entituled _A fair Warning for all hair-bracelets_.[551]

Already there’s an insurrection Among the people; they are up in arms Not out of any reason, but their wills, Which are in them their saints, sweating and swearing, Out of their zeal to rudeness, that no stranger, As they term her, shall govern over them; They say they’ll raise a duke among themselves first.

_Enter Duchess._

DUCH. O Almachildes, I perceive already Our loves are born to curses! we’re beset By multitudes; and, which is worse, I fear me Unfriended too of any: my chief care Is for thy sweet youth’s safety. ALM. He that believes you not Goes the right way to heaven, o’ my conscience. [_Aside._ DUCH. There is no trusting of 'em; they’re all as barren In pity as in faith: he that puts confidence In them, dies openly to the sight of all men, Not with his friends and neighbours in peace private; But as his shame, so his cold farewell is, Public and full of noise. But keep you close, sir, Not seen of any, till I see the way Plain for your safety. I expect the coming Of the lord governor, whom I will flatter With fair entreaties, to appease their wildness; And before him take a great grief upon me For the duke’s death, his strange and sudden loss; And when a quiet comes, expect thy joys. ALM. I do expect now to be made away 'Twixt this and Tuesday night: if I live Wednesday, Say I have been careful, and shunn’d spoon-meat. [_Aside and exit._

DUCH. This fellow lives too long after the deed; I’m weary of his sight; he must die quickly, Or I’ve small hope of safety. My great aim’s At the lord governor’s love; he is a spirit Can sway and countenance; these obey and crouch. My guiltiness had need of such a master, That with a beck can suppress multitudes, And dim misdeeds with radiance of his glory, Not to be seen with dazzled popular eyes: And here behold him come.

_Enter Lord Governor, attended by Gentlemen._ GOV. Return back to 'em, Say we desire 'em to be friends of peace Till they hear farther from us. [_Exeunt Gentlemen._ DUCH. O my lord, I fly unto the pity of your nobleness, The grieved’st lady that was e’er beset With storms of sorrows, or wild rage of people! Never was woman’s grief for loss of lord Dearer[552] than mine to me. GOV. There’s no right done To him now, madam, by wrong done to yourself; Your own good wisdom may instruct you so far: And for the people’s tumult, which oft grows From liberty, or rankness of long peace, I’ll labour to restrain, as I’ve begun, madam. DUCH. My thanks and praises shall ne’er forget you, sir, And, in time to come, my love. GOV. Your love, sweet madam? You make my joys too happy; I did covet To be the fortunate man that blessing visits, Which I’ll esteem the crown and full reward Of service present and deserts to come: It is a happiness I’ll be bold to sue for, When I have set a calm upon these spirits That now are up for ruin. DUCH. Sir, my wishes Are so well met in yours, so fairly answer’d, And nobly recompens’d, it makes me suffer In those extremes that few have ever felt; To hold two passions in one heart at once, Of gladness and of sorrow. GOV. Then, as the olive Is the meek ensign of fair fruitful peace, So is this kiss of yours. DUCH. Love’s power be with you, sir! GOV. How sh’as betray’d her! may I breathe no longer Than to do virtue service, and bring forth The fruits of noble thoughts, honest and loyal! This will be worth th’ observing; and I’ll do’t. [_Aside and exit._ DUCH. What a sure happiness confirms joy to me, Now in the times of my most imminent dangers! I look’d for ruin, and increase of honour Meets me auspiciously. But my hopes are clogg’d now With an unworthy weight; there’s the misfortune! What course shall I take now with this young man? For he must be no hinderance: I have thought on’t; I’ll take some witch’s counsel for his end, That will be sur’st: mischief is mischief’s friend. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_An Apartment in_ FERNANDO’S _House_.

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ FERNANDO.

SEB. If ever you knew force of love in life, sir, Give to mine pity. FER. You do ill to doubt me. SEB. I could make bold with no friend seemlier Than with yourself, because you were in presence At our vow-making. FER. I’m a witness to’t. SEB. Then you best understand, of all men living, This is no wrong I offer, no abuse Either to faith or friendship, for we’re register’d Husband and wife in heaven; though there wants that Which often keeps licentious men[553] in awe From starting from their wedlocks, the knot public, ’Tis in our souls knit fast; and how more precious The soul is than the body, so much judge The sacred and celestial tie within us More than the outward form, which calls but witness Here upon earth to what is done in heaven: Though I must needs confess the least is honourable; As an ambassador sent from a king Has honour by th’ employment, yet there’s greater Dwells in the king that sent him; so in this.

_Enter_ FLORIDA.

FER. I approve all you speak, and will appear to you A faithful, pitying friend. SEB. Look, there is she, sir, One good for nothing but to make use of; And I’m constrain’d t’ employ her to make all things Plain, easy, and probable; for when she comes And finds one here that claims him, as I’ve taught Both this to do’t, and he to compound with her, 'Twill stir belief the more of such a business. FER. I praise the carriage well. SEB. Hark you, sweet mistress, I shall do you a simple turn in this; For she disgrac’d thus, you are up in favour For ever with her husband. FLO. That’s my hope, sir, I would not take the pains else. Have you the keys Of the garden-side, that I may get betimes in Closely, and take her lodging? SEB. Yes, I’ve thought upon you: Here be the keys. [_Giving keys._ FLO. Marry, and thanks, sweet sir: Set me to work so still. SEB. Your joys are false ones, You’re like to lie alone; you’ll be deceiv’d Of the bed-fellow you look for, else my purpose Were in an ill case: he’s on his fortnight’s journey; You’ll find cold comfort there; a dream will be Even the best market you can make to-night. [_Aside._ She’ll not be long now: you may lose no time neither; If she but take you at the door, ’tis enough: When a suspect doth catch once, it burns mainly. There may you end your business, and as cunningly As if you were i’ th’ chamber, if you please To use but the same art. FLO. What need you urge that Which comes so naturally I cannot miss on’t? What makes the devil so greedy of a soul, But 'cause has lost his own, to all joys lost? So ’tis our trade to set snares for other women, 'Cause we were once caught ourselves. [_Exit._ SEB. A sweet allusion! Hell and a whore it seems are partners then In one ambition: yet thou’rt here deceiv’d now; Thou canst set none to hurt or wrong her honour, It rather makes it perfect. Best of friends That ever love’s extremities were bless’d with, I feel mine arms with thee, and call my peace The offspring of thy friendship. I will think This night my wedding-night; and with a joy As reverend as religion can make man’s, I will embrace this blessing. Honest actions Are laws unto themselves, and that good fear Which is on others forc’d, grows kindly there. [_Knocking within._ FER. Hark, hark! one knocks: away, sir; ’tis she certainly: [_Exit_ SEBASTIAN.

It sounds much like a woman’s jealous 'larum.

_Enter_ ISABELLA.

ISA. By your leave, sir. FER. You’re welcome, gentlewoman. ISA. Our ladyship then stands us in no stead now. [_Aside._ One word in private, sir. [_Whispers him._ FER. No, surely, forsooth, There is no such here, you’ve mistook the house. ISA. O sir, that have I not; excuse me there, I come not with such ignorance; think not so, sir. 'Twas told me at the entering of your house here By one that knows him too well. FER. Who should that be? ISA. Nay, sir, betraying is not my profession: But here I know he is; and I presume He would give me admittance, if he knew on’t, As one on’s nearest friends. FER. You’re not his wife, forsooth? ISA. Yes, by my faith, am I. FER. Cry you mercy then, lady. ISA. She goes here by the name on’s wife: good stuff! But the bold strumpet never told me that. [_Aside._ FER. We are so oft deceiv’d that let our lodgings, We know not whom to trust: ’tis such a world, There are so many odd tricks now-a-days Put upon housekeepers. ISA. Why, do you think I’d wrong You or the reputation of your house? Pray, shew me the way to him. FER. He’s asleep, lady, The curtains drawn about him. ISA. Well, well, sir, I’ll have that care I’ll not disease[554] him much, Tread you but lightly.—O, of what gross falsehood Is man’s heart made of! had my first love liv’d And return’d safe, he would have been a light To all men’s actions, his faith shin’d so bright. [_Aside, and exit with_ FERNANDO.

_Re-enter_ SEBASTIAN.

SEB. I cannot so deceive her, 'twere too sinful, There’s more religion in my love than so. It is not treacherous lust that gives content T’ an honest mind; and this could prove no better. Were it in me a part of manly justice, That have sought strange hard means to keep her chaste To her first vow, and I t’ abuse her first? Better I never knew what comfort were In woman’s love than wickedly to know it. What could the falsehood of one night avail him That must enjoy for ever, or he’s lost? ’Tis the way rather to draw hate upon me; For, known, ’tis as impossible she should love me, As youth in health to doat upon a grief, Or one that’s robb’d and bound t’ affect the thief: No, he that would soul’s sacred comfort win Must burn in pure love, like a seraphin.

_Re-enter_ ISABELLA.

ISA. Celio! SEB. Sweet madam? ISA. Thou hast deluded me; There’s nobody. SEB. How? I wonder he would miss, madam, Having appointed too: 'twere a strange goodness If heaven should turn his heart now by the way. ISA. O, never, Celio! SEB. Yes, I ha’ known the like: Man is not at his own disposing, madam, The bless’d powers have provided better for him, Or he were miserable. He may come yet; ’Tis early, madam: if you would be pleas’d T’ embrace my counsel, you should see this night over, Since you’ve bestow’d this pains. ISA. I intend so. SEB. That strumpet would be found, else she should go. I curse the time now I did e’er make use Of such a plague: sin knows not what it does. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Hall in_ ANTONIO’S _House_.

_Enter_ FRANCISCA _above_.[555]

FRAN. ’Tis now my brother’s time, even much about it; For though he dissembled a whole fortnight’s absence, He comes again to-night; ’twas so agreed Before he went. I must bestir my wits now, To catch this sister of mine, and bring her name To some disgrace first, to preserve mine own: There’s profit in that cunning. She cast off My company betimes to-night by tricks and slights,[556] And I was well contented. I’m resolv’d[557] There’s no hate lost between us; for I know She does not love me now, but painfully, Like one that’s forc’d to smile upon a grief, To bring some purpose forward; and I’ll pay her In her own metal. They’re now all at rest, And Gaspar there, and all: list! fast asleep; He cries it hither: I must disease you straight, sir. For the maid-servants and the girls o’ th’ house, I spic’d them lately with a drowsy posset[558] They will not hear in haste. [_Noise within._] My brother’s come: O, where’s this key now for him? here ’tis, happily: But I must wake him first.—Why, Gaspar, Gaspar! GAS. [_within_] What a pox gasp you for? FRAN. Now I’ll throw’t down. GAS. [_within_] Who’s that call’d me now? somebody call’d Gaspar? FRAN. O, up, as thou’rt an honest fellow, Gaspar! GAS. [_within_] I shall not rise to-night then. What’s the matter? Who’s that? young mistress? FRAN. Ay; up, up, sweet Gaspar!

_Enter_ GASPARO.

My sister hath both knock’d and call’d this hour, And not a maid will stir. GAS. They’ll stir enough sometimes. FRAN. Hark, hark, again! Gaspar, O run, run, prithee! GAS. Give me leave to clothe myself. FRAN. Stand’st upon clothing In an extremity? Hark, hark again! She may be dead ere thou com’st: O, in quickly!— [_Exit_ GASPARO. He’s gone: he cannot choose but be took now, Or met in his return; that will be enough.—

_Enter_ ANTONIO.

Brother? here, take this light. ANT. My careful sister! FRAN. Look first in his own lodging ere you enter. [_Exit_ ANTONIO. ANT. [_within_] O abus’d confidence! there’s nothing of him But what betrays him more. FRAN. Then ’tis too true, brother? ANT. [_within_] I’ll make base lust a terrible example; No villany e’er paid dearer. FLO.[559] [_within_] Help! hold, sir! ANT. [_within_] I’m deaf to all humanity. FRAN. List, list! A strange and sudden silence after all: I trust has spoil’d 'em both; too dear a happiness! O how I tremble between doubts and joys! ANT. [_within_] There perish both, down to the house of falsehood, Where perjurous wedlock weeps! [_Re-entering with his sword drawn._