Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WITCH, by THOMAS MIDDLETON

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WITCH, by THOMAS MIDDLETON Poet's Biography
First Line: My three years spent in war has now undone
Last Line: A day of triumph, joy, and honest love! [exeunt.
Subject(s): Supernatural; Witchcraft & Witches

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duke.
Lord Governor of Ravenna.
SEBASTIAN, formerly contracted to ISABELLA, now disguised as a servant.
FERNANDO, his friend.
ANTONIO, husband of ISABELLA.
ABERZANES, a gentleman.
ALMACHILDES,
GASPARO, servant to ANTONIO.
HERMIO, servant to ANTONIO.
FIRESTONE, the clown and HECATE'S son.
Servants, &c.

Duchess.
ISABELLA, wife of ANTONIO, and niece of the governor.
FRANCISCA, sister of ANTONIO.
AMORETTA, the duchess's woman.
FLORIDA, a courtesan.
HECATE, the chief witch.
STADLIN, witch.
HOPPO, witch.
Other witches, &c.

SCENE—RAVENNA and its neighbourhood.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the House of the Lord Governor.
A Banquet set out.

Enter SEBASTIAN and FERNANDO.

SEB. My three years spent in war has now undone
My peace for ever.
Fer. Good, be patient, sir.
Seb. She is my wife by contract before Heaven
And all the angels, sir.
Fer. I do believe you;
But where's the remedy now? you see she's gone,
Another has possession.
Seb. There's the torment!
Fer. This day, being the first of your return,
Unluckily proves the first too of her fastening.
Her uncle, sir, the governor of Ravenna,
Holding a good opinion of the bridegroom,
As he's fair spoken, sir, and wonderous mild—
Seb. There goes the devil in a sheep-skin!
Fer. With all speed
Clapped it up suddenly: I cannot think, sure,
That the maid over-loves him; though being married,
Perhaps, for her own credit, now she intends
Performance of an honest, duteous wife.
Seb. Sir, I've a world of business: question nothing;
You will but lose your labour; 'tis not fit
For any, hardly mine own secrecy,
To know what I intend. I take my leave, sir.
I find such strange employments in myself,
That unless death pity me and lay me down,
I shall not sleep these seven years; that's the least, sir.
[Exit.
Fer. That sorrow's dangerous can abide no counsel;
'Tis like a wound past cure: wrongs done to love
Strike the heart deeply; none can truly judge on't
But the poor sensible sufferer whom it racks
With unbelievèd pains, which men in health,
That enjoy love, not possibly can act,
Nay, not so much as think. In troth, I pity him:
His sighs drink life-blood in this time of feasting.
A banquet towards too! not yet hath riot
Played out her last scene? at such entertainments still
Forgetfulness obeys, and surfeit governs:
Here's marriage sweetly honoured in gorged stomachs
And overflowing cups!

Enter GASPARO and Servant.

Gas. Where is she, sirrah?
Ser.Not far off. Gas. Prithee, where? go fetch her hither:
I'll rid him away straight.— [Exit Servant.
The duke's now risen, sir.
Fer. I am a joyful man to hear it, sir,
It seems h'as drunk the less; though I think he
That has the least has certainly enough. [Exit.
Gas. I have observed this fellow: all the feast-time
He hath not pledged one cup, but looked most wickedly
Upon good Malaga; flies to the black-jack still,
And sticks to small drink like a water-rat.
O, here she comes.

Enter FLORIDA.

Alas, the poor whore weeps!
'Tis not for grace now, all the world must judge;
It is for spleen and madness 'gainst this marriage:
I do but think how she could beat the vicar now,
Scratch the man horribly that gave the woman,
The woman worst of all if she durst do it.— [Aside.
Why, how now, mistress? this weeping needs not; for though
My master marry for his reputation,
He means to keep you too.
Flo. How, sir?
Gas. He doth indeed;
He swore 't to me last night. Are you so simple,
And have been five years traded, as to think
One woman would serve him? fie, not an empress!
Why, he'll be sick o' the wife within ten nights,Or never trust my judgment.
Flo. Will he, think'st thou?
Gas. Will he!
Flo. I find thee still so comfortable,
Beshrew my heart, if I know how to miss thee:
They talk of gentlemen, perfumers, and such things;
Give me the kindness of the master's man
In my distress, say I.
Gas. 'Tis your great love, forsooth.
Please you withdraw yourself to yond private parlour;
I'll send you venison, custard, parsnip-pie;
For banqueting stuff, as suckets, jellies, sirups,
I will bring in myself.
Flo. I'll take 'em kindly, sir. [Exit.
Gas. Sh'as your grand strumpet's complement to a title.
'Tis a fair building: it had need; it has
Just at this time some one and twenty inmates;
But half of 'em are young merchants, they'll depart shortly;
They take but rooms for summer, and away they
When 't grows foul weather: marry, then come the termers,
And commonly they're well-booted for all seasons
But peace, no word; the guests are coming in.
[Retires.

Enter ALMACHILDES and AMORETTA.

Alm. The fates have blessed me; have I met you privately?
Am. Why, sir, why, Almachildes!—
Alm. Not a kiss?
Am. I'll call aloud, i'faith.
Alm. I'll stop your mouth.
Am. Upon my love to reputation,
I'll tell the duchess once more.
Alm. 'Tis the way
To make her laugh a little.
Am. She'll not think.
That you dare use a maid of honour thus.
Alm. Amsterdam swallow thee for a Puritan,
And Geneva cast thee up again! like she that sunk
At Charing Cross, and rose again at Queenhithe!
Am. Ay, these are the silly fruits of the sweet vine, sir.
[Retires.
Alm. Sweet venery be with thee, and I at the tail
Of my wish! I am a little headstrong, and so
Are most of the company. I will to the witches.
They say they have charms and tricks to make
A wench fall backwards, and lead a man herself
To a country-house, some mile out of the town,
Like a fire-drake. There be such whoreson kind girls
And such bawdy witches; and I'll try conclusions.

Enter Duke, Duchess, Lord Governor, ANTONIO, ISABELLA, and
FRANCISCA.

Duke. A banquet yet! why surely, my lord governor,
Bacchus could ne'er boast of a day till now,
To spread his power, and make his glory known.
Duch. Sir, you've done nobly; though in modesty
You keep it from us, know, we understand so much,
All this day's cost 'tis your great love bestows,
In honour of the bride, your virtuous niece.
Gov. In love to goodness and your presence, madam;
So understood, 'tis rightly.
Duke. Now will I
Have a strange health after all these.
Gov. What's that, my lord?
Duke. A health in a strange cup; and 't shall go round.
Gov. Your grace need not doubt that, sir, having seen
So many pledged already: this fair company
Cannot shrink now for one, so it end there.
Duke. It shall, for all ends here: here's a full period.
[Produces a skull set as a cup.
Gov. A skull, my lord?
Duke. Call it a soldier's cup, man:
Fie, how you fright the women! I have sworn
It shall go round, excepting only you, sir,
For your late sickness, and the bride herself,
Whose health it is.
Isa. Marry, I thank Heaven for that!
Duke. Our duchess, I know, will pledge us, though the cup
Was once her father's head, which, as a trophy,
We'll keep till death in memory of that conquest.
He was the greatest foe our steel e'er struck at,
And he was bravely slain: then took we thee
Into our bosom's love: thou mad'st the peace
For all thy country, thou, that beauty, did.
We're dearer than a father, are we not?
Duch. Yes, sir, by much.
Duke. And we shall find that straight.
Ant. That's an ill bride-cup for a marriage-day,
I do not like the face on't.
Gov. Good my lord,
The duchess looks pale: let her not pledge you there.
Duke. Pale?
Duch. Sir, not I.
Duke. See how your lordship fails now;
The rose not fresher, nor the sun at rising
More comfortably pleasing.
Duch. Sir, to you,
The lord of this day's honour. [Drinks.
Ant. All first moving
From your grace, madam, and the duke's great favour,
Since it must. [Drinks.
Fran. This the worst fright that could come
To a concealed great belly! I'm with child;
And this will bring it out, or make me come
Some seven weeks sooner than we maidens reckon,
[Aside.
Duch. Did ever cruel barbarous art match this?
Twice hath his surfeits brought my father's memory
Thus spitefully and scornfully to mine eyes;
And I'll endure 't no more; 'tis in my heart since:
I'll be revenged as far as death can lead me. [Aside.
Alm. Am I the last man, then? I may deserve
To be first one day. [Drinks.
Gov. Sir, it has gone round now.
Duke. The round? an excellent way to train up soldiers!
Where's bride and bridegroom?
Ant. At your happy service.
Duke. A boy to-night at least; I charge you look to't,
Or I'll renounce you for industrious subjects.
Ant. Your grace speaks like a worthy and tried soldier.
Gas. And you'll do well for one that ne'er tossed pike, sir.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Abode of HECATE.

Enter HECATE.

Hec. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin and Pidgen, Liard and Robin! white
spirits, black spirits, grey spirits, red spirits! devil-toad, devil-ram,
devil-
cat, and devil-dam! why, Hoppo and Stadlin, Hellwain and Puckle!
Stad. [Within.] Here, sweating at the vessel.
Hec. Boil it well.
Hop. [Within.] It gallops now.
Hec. Are the flames blue enough?
Or shall I use a little seething more?
Stad. [Within.] The nips of fairies upon maids' white hips.
Are not more perfect azure.
Hec. Tend it carefully.
Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish,
That I may fall to work upon these serpents,
And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour:
Why, when?

Enter STADLIN with a dish.

Stad. Here's Stadlin and the dish.
Hec. There, take this unbaptizèd brat;
[Giving the dead body of a child.
Boil it well; preserve the fat:
You know 'tis precious to transfer
Our 'nointed flesh into the air,
In moonlight nights, on steeple-tops,
Mountains, and pine-trees, that like pricks or stops
Seem to our height; high towers and roofs of princes
Like wrinkles in the earth; whole provinces
Appear to our sight then even leek
A russet mole upon some lady's cheek.
When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing,
Dance, kiss, and coll, use everything:
What young man can we wish to pleasure us,
But we enjoy him in an incubus?
Thou know'st it, Stadlin?
Stad. Usually that's done.
Hec. Last night thou gott'st the mayor of Whelplie's son;
I knew him by his black cloak lined with yellow;
I think thou'st spoiled the youth, he's but seventeen:
I'll have him the next mounting. Away, in:
Go, feed the vessel for the second hour. Stad. Where be the magical
herbs?
Hec. They're down his throat;
His mouth crammed full, his ears and nostrils stuffed.
I thrust in eleoselinum lately.
Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot—
You may see that, he looks so black i' the mouth—
Then sium, acorum vulgare too,
Pentaphyllon, the blood of a flitter-mouse,
Solanum somnificum et oleum.
Stad. Then there's all, Hecate.
Hec. Is the heart of wax
Stuck full of magic needles?
Stad. 'Tis done, Hecate.
Hec. And is the farmer's picture and his wife's
Laid down to the fire yet?
Stad. They're a-roasting both too.
Hec. Good; [Exit STADLIN.] then their marrows are a-melting
subtly,
And three months' sickness sucks up life in 'em.
They denied me often flour, barm, and milk,
Goose-grease and tar, when I ne'er hurt their churnings,
Their brew-locks, nor their batches, nor forespoke
Any of their breedings. Now I'll be meet with 'em:
Seven of their young pigs I've bewitched already,
Of the last litter;
Nine ducklings, thirteen goslings, and a hog,
Fell lame last Sunday after even-song too;
And mark how their sheep prosper, or what sup
Each milch-kine gives to the pail: I'll send these snakes
Shall milk 'em all
Beforehand; the dew-skirted dairy-wenches
Shall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing;
I'll mar their sillabubs, and swathy feastings
Under cows' bellies with the parish youths.
Where's Firestone, our son Firestone?

Enter FIRESTONE.

Fire. Here am I, mother.
Hec. Take in this brazen dish full of dear ware:
[Gives dish.
Thou shalt have all when I die; and that will be
Even just at twelve a'clock at night come three year.
Fire. And may you not have one a'clock in to the dozen, mother?
Hec. No.
Fire. Your spirits are, then, more unconscionable than bakers. You'll
have lived then, mother, sixscore year to the hundred; and, methinks, after
sixscore years, the devil might give you a cast, for he's a fruiterer, too,
and
has been from the beginning; the first apple that e'er was eaten came through
his fingers: the costermonger's, then, I hold to be the ancientest trade,
though
some would have the tailor pricked down before him.
Hec. Go, and take heed you shed not by the way;
The hour must have her portion! 'tis dear sirup;
Each charmèd drop is able to confound
A family consisting of nineteen
Or one-and-twenty feeders.
Fire. Marry, here's stuff indeed!
Dear sirup call you it? a little thing
Would make me give you a dram on't in a posset,
And cut you three years shorter. [Aside.
Hec. Thou art now
About some villany.
Fire. Not I, forsooth.—
Truly the devil's in her, I think: how one villain smells out another
straight!
there's no knavery but is nosed like a dog, and can smell out a dog's meaning.
[Aside.] —Mother, I pray, give me leave to ramble abroad tonight with
the Night-mare, for I have a great mind to overlay a fat parson's daughter.
Hec. And who shall lie with me, then?
Fire. The great cat
For one night, mother; 'tis but a night:
Make shift with him for once.
Hec. You're a kind son!
But 'tis the nature of you all; I see that
You had rather hunt after strange women still
Than lie with your own mothers. Get thee gone;
Sweat thy six ounces out about the vessel,
And thou shalt play at midnight; the Night-mare
Shall call thee when it walks.
Fire. Thanks, most sweet mother. [Exit.
Hec. Urchins, Elves, Hags, Satyrs, Pans, Fawns, Sylvans, Kitt-with-the-
candlestick, Tritons, Centaurs, Dwarfs, Imps, the Spoorn, the Mare, the
Man-i'-
the-oak, the Hellwain, the Fire-drake, the Puckle! A ab hur hus!

Enter SEBASTIAN.

Seb. Heaven knows with what unwillingness and hate
I enter this damned place: but such extremes
Of wrongs in love fight 'gainst religion's knowledge,
That were I led by this disease to deaths
As numberless as creatures that must die,
I could not shun the way. I know what 'tis
To pity madmen now; they're wretched things
That ever were created, if they be
Of woman's making, and her faithless vows.
I fear they're now a-kissing: what's a'clock?
'Tis now but supper-time; but night will come,
And all new-married couples make short suppers.—
Whate'er thou art, I've no spare time to fear thee;
My horrors are so strong and great already,
That thou seemest nothing. Up, and laze not.
Hadst thou my business, thou couldst ne'er sit so
'Twould firk thee into air a thousand mile,
Beyond thy ointments. I would I were read
So much in thy black power as mine own griefs!
I'm in great need of help; wilt give me any? Hec. Thy boldness
takes me
bravely; we're all sworn
To sweat for such a spirit: see, I regard thee;
I rise and bid thee welcome. What's thy wish now?
Seb. O, my heart swells with't! I must take breath first.
Hec. Is't to confound some enemy on the seas?
It may be done to-night: Stadlin's within;
She raises all your sudden ruinous storms,
That shipwreck barks, and tears up growing oaks,
Flies over houses, and takes Anno Domini
Out of a rich man's chimney—a sweet place for't!
He'd be hanged ere he would set his own years there;
They must be chambered in a five-pound picture,
A green silk curtain drawn before the eyes on't;
His rotten, diseased years!—or dost thou envy
The fat prosperity of any neighbour?I'll call forth Hoppo, and her incantation
Can straight destroy the young of all his cattle;
Blast vineyards, orchards, meadows; or in one night
Transport his dung, hay, corn, by reeks, whole stacks,
Into thine own ground.
Seb. This would come most richly now
To many a country grazier; but my envy
Lies not so low as cattle, corn, or wines:
'Twill trouble your best powers to give me ease.
Hec. Is it to starve up generation?
To strike a barrenness in man or woman?
Seb. Hah!
Hec. Hah, did you feel me there? I knew your grief.
Seb. Can there be such things done?
Hec. Are these the skins
Of serpents? these of snakes?
Seb. I see they are.
Hec. So sure into what house these are conveyed,
[Giving serpent-skins, &c., to SEBASTIAN.
Knit with these charms and retentive knots,
Neither the man begets nor woman breeds,
No, nor performs the least desires of wedlock,
Being then a mutual duty. I could give thee
Chirocineta, adincantida,
Archimedon, marmaritin, calicia,
Which I could sort to villanous barren ends;
But this leads the same way. More I could instance;
As, the same needles trust into their pillows
That sews and socks up dead men in their sheets;
A privy gristle of a man that hangs
After sunset; good, excellent; yet all's there, sir.
Seb. You could not do a man that special kindness
To part 'em utterly now? could you do that?
Hec. No, time must do't: we cannot disjoin wedlock;
'Tis of Heaven's fastening. Well may we raise jars,
Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements,
Like a thick scurf o'er life, as did our master
Upon that patient miracle; but the work itself
Our power cannot disjoint.
Seb. I depart happy
In what I have then, being constrained to this.—
And grant, you greater powers that dispose men,
That I may never need this hag agen! [Aside, and exit.
Hec. I know he loves me not, nor there's no hope on't;
'Tis for the love of mischief I do this,
And that we're sworn to the first oath we take.

Re-enter FIRESTONE.

Fire. O mother, mother!
Hec. What's the news with thee now?
Fire. There's the bravest young gentleman within, and the fineliest
drunk! I thought he would have fallen into the vessel; he stumbled at a pipkin
of child's grease; reeled against Stadlin, overthrew her, and in the tumbling-
cast struck up old Puckle's heels with her clothes over her ears.
Hec. Hoyday!
Fire. I was fain to throw the cat upon her to save her honesty, and
all
little enough; I cried out still, I pray, be covered. See where he comes now,
mother.

Enter ALMACHILDES.

Alm. Call you these witches? they be tumblers methinks.
Very flat tumblers.
Hec. 'Tis Almachildes—fresh blood stirs in me—
The man that I have lusted to enjoy:
I've had him thrice in incubus already. [Aside.
Alm. Is your name Goody Hag?
Hec. 'Tis anything:
Call me the horrid'st and unhallowed things
That life and nature trembles at, for thee
I'll be the same. Thou com'st for a love-charm now?
Alm. Why, thou'rt a witch, I think.
Hec. Thou shalt have choice of twenty, wet or dry.
Alm. Nay, let's have dry ones.
Hec. If thou wilt use't by way of cup and potion,
I'll give thee a remora shall bewitch her straight.
Alm. A remora? what's that?
Hec. A little suck-stone;
Some call it a sea-lamprey, a small fish.
Alm. And must be buttered?
Hec. The bones of a green frog too, wondrous precious,
The flesh consumed by pismires.
Alm. Pismires? give me a chamber-pot!
Fire. You shall see him go nigh to be so unmannerly, he'll make water
before my mother anon. [Aside.
Alm. And now you talk of frogs, I've somewhat here;
I come not empty-pocketed from a banquet,
I learned that of my haberdasher's wife;
Look, goody witch, there's a toad in marchpane for you. [Gives marchpane.
Hec. O sir, you've fitted me?
Alm. And here's a spawn or two
Of the same paddock-brood too, for your son.
[Gives other pieces of marchpan
Fire. I thank your worship, sir: how comes your handkercher
So sweetly thus berayed? sure 'tis wet sucket, sir.
Alm. 'Tis nothing but the sirup the toad spit;
Take all, I prithee.
Hec. This was kindly done, sir:
And you shall sup with me to-night for this.
Alm. How? sup with thee? dost think I'll eat fried rats
And pickled spiders?
Hec. No; I can command, sir,
The best meat i' the whole province for my friends,
And reverently served in to.
Alm. How?
Hec. In good fashion.
Alm. Let me but see that, and I'll sup with you.
[HECATE conjures; enter a Cat playing on a fiddle, and Spirits
with meat.
The Cat and Fiddle's an excellent ordinary:
You had a devil once in a fox-skin?
Hec. O, I have him still: come, walk with me, sir.
[Exeunt all except FIRESTONE.
Fire. How apt and ready is a drunkard now to reel to the devil! Well,
I'll even in and see how he eats; and I'll be hanged if I be not the fatter of
the twain with laughing at him. [Exit.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

A Hall in ANTONIO'S House.

Enter ANTONIO and GASPARO.

GAS. Good, sir, whence springs this sadness? trust me, sir,
You look not like a man was married yesterday:
There could come no ill tidings since last night
To cause that discontent. I was wont to know all,
Before you had a wife, sir: you ne'er found me
Without those parts of manhood, trust and secrecy
Ant. I will not tell thee this.
Gas. Not your true servant, sir?
Ant. True? you'll all flout according to your talent,
The best a man can keep of you: and a hell 'tis
For masters to pay wages to be laughed at.
Give order that two cocks be boiled to jelly.
Gas. How? two cocks boiled to jelly?
Ant. Fetch half an ounce of pearl. [Exit.
Gas. This is a cullis
For a consumption; and I hope one night
Has not brought you to need the cook already,
And some part of the goldsmith: what, two trades
In four-and-twenty hours, and less time?
Pray Heaven, the surgeon and the pothecary
Keep out! and then 'tis well. You'd better fortune,
As far as I see, with your strumpet sojourner,
Your little four nobles a week: I ne'er knew you
Eat one panado all the time you've kept her;
And is't in one night now come up to two-cock-broth?
I wonder at the alteration strangely.

Enter FRANCISCA.

Fran. Good morrow, Gaspar.
Gas. Your hearty wishes, mistress,
And your sweet dreams come upon you!
Fran. What's that, sir?
Gas. In a good husband; that's my real meaning.
Fran. Saw you my brother lately?
Gas. Yes.
Fran. I met him now,
As sad, methought, as grief could make a man:
Know you the cause?
Gas. Not I: I know nothing,
But half an ounce of pearl, and kitchen business,
Which I will see performed with all fidelity:
I'll break my trust in nothing, not in porridge, I. [Exit.
Fran. I have the hardest fortune, I think, of a hundred gentlewomen:
Some can make merry with a friend seven year,
And nothing seen; as perfect a maid still,
To the world's knowledge, as she came from rocking.
But 'twas my luck, at the first hour, forsooth,
To prove too fruitful; sure I'm near my time;
I'm yet but a young scholar, I may fail
In my account; but certainly I do not.
These bastards come upon poor venturing gentlewomen ten to one faster than
your
legitimate children: if I had been married, I'll be hanged if I had been with
child so soon now. When they are our husbands, they'll be whipped ere they take

such pains as a friend will do; to come by water to the back-door at midnight,
there stay perhaps an hour in all weathers, with a pair of reeking watermen
laden with bottles of wine, chewets, and currant-custards. I may curse those
egg-pies; they are meat that help forward too fast.
This hath been usual with me night by night,
Honesty forgive me! when my brother has been
Dreaming of no such junkets; yet he hath fared
The better for my sake, though he little think
For what, nor must he ever. My friend promised me
To provide safely for me, and devise
A means to save my credit here i' the house.
My brother sure would kill me if he knew't,
And powder up my friend, and all his kindred,
For an East Indian voyage.

Enter ISABELLA.

Isa. Alone, sister?
Fran. No, there's another with me, though you see't
not.—[Aside.
Morrow, sweet sister: how have you slept to-night?
Isa. More than I thought I should; I've had good rest.
Fran. I am glad to hear't.
Isa. Sister, methinks you are too long alone,
And lose much good time, sociable and honest:
I'm for the married life; I must praise that now.
Fran. I cannot blame you, sister, to commend it;
You've happened well, no doubt, on a kind husband,
And that's not every woman's fortune, sister:
You know if he were any but my brother,
My praises should not leave him yet so soon.
Isa. I must acknowledge, sister, that my life
Is happily blest with him: he is no gamester,
That ever I could find or hear of yet,
Nor midnight surfeiter; he does intend
To leave tobacco too.
Fran. Why, here's a husband!
Isa. He saw it did offend me, and swore freely
He'd ne'er take pleasure in a toy again
That should displease me: some knights' wives in town
Will have great hope, upon his reformation,To bring their husbands' breaths
into
the old fashion,
And make 'em kiss like Christians, not like Pagans.
Fran. I promise you, sister, 'twill be a worthy work
To put down all these pipers; 'tis great pity
There should not be a statute against them,
As against fiddlers.
Isa. These good offices,
If you had a husband, you might exercise,
To the good o' the commonwealth, and do much profit:
Beside, it is a comfort to a woman
T' have children, sister; a great blessing certainly.
Fran. They will come fast enough.
Isa. Not so fast neither
As they're still welcome to an honest woman.
Fran. How near she comes to me! I protest she grates
My very skin. [Aside.
Isa. Were I conceived with child,
Beshrew my heart, I should be so proud on't!
Fran. That's natural; pride is a kind of swelling:—
But yet I've small cause to be proud of mine. [Aside.
Isa. You are no good companion for a wife:
Get you a husband; prithee, sister, do,
That I may ask you counsel now and then:
'Twill mend your discourse much; you maids know nothing.
Fran. No, we are fools; but commonly we prove
Quicker mothers than you that have husbands:—
I'm sure I shall else: I may speak for one. [Aside.

Re-enter ANTONIO.

Ant. I will not look upon her; I'll pass by,
And make as though I see her not. [Aside.
Isa. Why, sir,—
Pray, your opinion, by the way, with leave, sir:
I'm counselling your sister here to marry.
Ant. To marry? soft; the priest is not at leisure yet;
Some five year hence.—Would you fain marry, sister?
Fra. I've no such hunger to't, sir,—for I think
I've a good bit that well may stay my stomach,
As well as any that broke fast, a sinner. [Aside.
Ant. Though she seem tall of growth, she's short in years
Of some that seem much lower.—How old, sister?
Not seventeen, for a yard of lawn!
Fran. Not yet, sir.
Ant. I told you so.
Fran. I would he'd laid a wager of old shirts rather,
I shall have more need of them shortly; and yet,
A yard of lawn will serve for a christening-cloth;
I've use for everything, as my case stands. [Aside.
Isa. I care not if I try my voice this morning;
But I have got a cold, sir, by your means.
Ant. I'll strive to mend that fault.
Isa. I thank you, sir
[Sings.] In a maiden-time profest,
Then we say that life is best;
Tasting once the married life,
Then we only praise the wife:
There's but one state more to try,
Which makes women laugh or cry—
Widow, widow: of these three
The middle's best, and that give me.
Ant. There's thy reward. [Kisses her.
Isa. I will not grumble, sir,
Like some musician; if more come, 'tis welcome.
Fran. Such tricks has made me do all that I have done:
Your kissing married folks spoil all the maids
That ever live i' the house with 'em. O, here
He comes with his bags and bottles; he was born
To lead poor watermen and I. [Aside.

Enter ABERZANES, and Servants carrying baked meats and bottles.

Aber. Go, fellows, into the larder; let the bake-meats Be sorted by
themselves.
Ant. Why, sir—
Aber. Look the canary bottles be well stopped;
The three of claret shall be drunk at dinner.
[Exeunt Servants.
Ant. My good sir, you're too plenteous of these courtesies,
Indeed you are; forbear 'em, I beseech ye:
I know no merit in me, but poor love
And a true friend's well-wishing, that can cause
This kindness in excess.—I' the state that I am,I shall go near to kick
this fellow shortly,
And send him down stairs with his bag and baggage:
Why comes he now I'm married? there's the point.—
[Aside.
ray, forbear these things.
Aber. Alas! you know, sir,
These idle toys, which you call courtesies,
They cost me nothing but my servants' travail!
One office must be kind, sir, to another:
You know the fashion. What! the gentlewoman
Your sister's sad, methinks.
Ant. I know no cause she has.
Fran. Nor shall you, by my good will.—[Aside.] What do you
mean, sir?
Shall I stay here, to shame myself and you?
The time may be to-night, for aught you know.
Aber. Peace; there's means wrought, I tell thee

Enter SEBASTIAN and Gentleman.

Fran. Ay, sir, when?
Ant. How now? what's he?
Isa. O, this is the man, sir,
I entertained this morning for my service;
Please you to give your liking.
Ant. Yes, he's welcome;
I like him not amiss.—Thou wouldst speak business,
Wouldst thou not?
Seb. Yes; may it please you, sir,
There is a gentleman from the northern parts
Hath brought a letter, as it seems, in haste.
Ant. From whom?
Gent. Your bonny lady mother, sir.
[Giving letter to ANTONIO.
Ant. You are kindly welcome, sir: how doth she:
Gent. I left her heal varray well, sir.
Ant. [Reads.] "I pray send your sister down with all speed to me:
I
hope it will prove much for her good in the way of her preferment. Fail me
not,
I desire you, son, nor let any excuse of hers withold her: I have sent, ready
furnished, horse and man for her."
Aber. Now, have I thought upon you?
Fran. Peace, good sir;
You're worthy of a kindness another time.
Ant. Her will shall be obeyed.—Sister, prepare yourself;
You must down with all speed.
Fran. I know, down I must;
And good speed send me! [Aside.
Ant. 'Tis our mother's pleasure.
Fran. Good sir, write back again, and certify her
I'm at my heart's wish here; I'm with my friends,
And can be but well, say.
Ant. You shall pardon me, sister;
I hold it no wise part to contradict her,
Nor would I counsel you to't.
Fran. 'Tis so uncouth
Living i' the country, now I'm used to the city,
That I shall ne'er endure't.
Aber. Perhaps, forsooth,
'Tis not her meaning you shall live there long;
I do not think but after a month or so,
You'll be sent up again; that's my conceit.
However, let her have her will.
Ant. Ay, good sir,
Great reason 'tis she should.
Isa. I'm sorry, sister,
'Tis our hard fortune thus to part so soon.
Fran. The sorrow will be mine.
Ant. Please you walk in, sir;
We'll have one health unto those northern parts,
Though I be sick at heart.
[Exeunt ANTONIO, ISABELLA, and Gentleman.
Aber. Ay, sir, a deep one—
Which you shall pledge too.
Fran. You shall pardon me;
I have pledged one too deep already, sir.
Aber. Peace; all's provided for: thy wine's laid in,
Sugar and spice; the place not ten mile hence.
What cause have maids now to complain of men,
When a farmhouse can make all whole agen?
[Exeunt ABERZANES and FRANCISCA.
Seb. It takes; has no content: how well she bears it yet!
Hardly myself can find so much from her
That am acquainted with the cold disease:
O, honesty's a rare wealth in a woman!
It knows no want, at least will express none,
Not in a look. Yet I'm not throughly happy:
His ill does me no good; well may it keep me
From open rage and madness for a time,
But I feel heart's grief in the same place still.
What makes the greatest torment 'mongst lost souls?
'Tis not so much the horror of their pains,
Though they be infinite, as the loss of joys;
It is that deprivation is the mother
Of all the groans in hell, and here on earth
Of all the red sighs in the hearts of lovers.
Still she's not mine, that can be no man's else
Till I be nothing, if religion
Have the same strength for me as 't has for others:
Holy vows, witness that our souls were married!

Re-enter GASPARO, ushering in Lord Governor attended by
Gentlemen.

Gas. Where are you, sir? come, pray, give your attendance;
Here's my lord governor come.
Gov. Where's our new kindred?
Not stirring yet, I think.
Gas. Yes, my good lord:
Please you, walk near.
Gov. Come, gentlemen, we'll enter.
Seb. I ha' done't upon a breach; this is a less venture.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Gallery in the Duke's House.

Enter ALMACHILDES.

Alm. What a mad toy took me to sup with witches!
Fie of all drunken humours! by this hand,
I could beat myself when I think on't: and the rascals
Made me good cheer too; and to my understanding then
Eat some of every dish, and spoiled the rest:
But coming to my lodging, I remember
I was as hungry as a tirèd foot-post.
What's this? [Takes from his pocket a ribbon.
O, 'tis the charm her hagship gave me
For my duchess' obstinate woman; round about
A threepenny silk ribbon of three colours,
Necte tribus nodis ternos Amoretta colores:
Amoretta! why, there's her name indeed:
Necte Amoretta; again, two boughts,
Nodo et Veneris die vincula necte;
Nay, if Veneris be one, I'm sure there's no dead flesh in it.
If I should undertake to construe this now,
I should make a fine piece of work of it,
For few young gallants are given to good construction
Of anything, hardly of their best friends' wives,
Sisters, or nieces. Let me see what I can do now.
Necte tribus nodis,—Nick of the tribe of noddies:
Ternos colores,—that makes turned colours;
Nodo et Veneris,—goes to his venery like a noddy;
Dic vincula,—with Dick the vintner's boy.
Here were a sweet charm now, if this were the meaning on't, and very likely to
overcome an honourable gentlewoman. The whorson old hellcat would have given
me
the brain of a cat once in my handkercher; I bade her make sauce with't,
with a
vengeance! and a little bone in the hithermost part of a wolf's tail; I
bad her
pick her teeth with't, with a pestilence! Nay, this is some-what
cleanly yet and
handsome; a coloured ribbon, a fine, gentle charm! a man may
give't his sister,
his brother's wife, ordinarily. See, here she comes, luckily.

Enter AMORETTA.

Amo. Blest powers, what secret sin have I committed
That still you send this punishment upon me?
Alm. 'Tis but a gentle punishment; so take it.
Amo. Why, sir, what mean you? will you ravish me?
Alm. What, in the gallery, and the sun peep in?
There's fitter time and place.—
[As he embraces her, he thrusts the ribbon into her bosom.
'Tis in her bosom now. [Aside.
Amo. Go, you're the rudest thing e'er came at court?
Alm. Well, well; I hope you'll tell me another tale
Ere you be two hours older: a rude thing?
I'll make you eat your word; I'll make all split else.
[Exit.
Amo. Nay, now I think on't better, I'm to blame too;
There's not a sweeter gentleman in court;
Nobly descended too, and dances well.
Beshrew my heart, I'll take him when there's time;
He will be catched up quickly. The duchess says
Sh'as some employment for him, and has sworn me
To use my best art in't; life of my joys,
There were good stuff! I will not trust her with him.
I'll call him back again; he must not keep
Out of my sight so long; I shall grow mad then.

Enter Duchess.

Duch. He lives not now to see to-morrow spent,
If this means take effect, as there's no hardness in't.
Last night he played his horrid game again,
Came to my bedside at the full of midnight,
And in his hand that fatal, fearful cup;
Waked me, and forced me pledge him, to my trembling
And my dead father's scorn: that wounds my sight,
That his remembrance should be raised in spite:
But either his confusion or mine ends it.—[Aside.
O, Amoretta,—hast thou met him yet?
Speak, wench, hast done that for me?
Amo. What, good madam?
Duch. Destruction of my hopes! dost ask that now?
Didst thou not swear to me, out of thy hate
To Almachildes, thou'dst dissemble him
A loving entertainment, and a meeting
Where I should work my will?
Amo. Good madam, pardon me:
A loving entertainment I do protest
Myself to give him, with all speed I can too;But, as I'm yet a maid, a perfect
one
As the old time was wont to afford, when
There was few tricks and little cunning stirring,
I can dissemble none that will serve your turn;
He must have even a right one and a plain one.
Duch. Thou mak'st me doubt thy health; speak, art thou well?
Amo. O, never better! if he would make haste
And come back quickly! he stays now too long.
[The ribbon falls out of her bosom.
Duch. I'm quite lost in this woman: what's that fell
Out of her bosom now? some love-token?[Aside.
Amo. Nay, I'll say that for him, he's the uncivil'st gentleman,
And every way desertless.
Duch. Who's that now
She discommends so fast?[Aside.
Amo. I could not love him, madam,
Of any man in court.
Duch. What's he now, prithee?
Amo. Who should it be but Almachildes, madam?
I never hated man so deeply yet.
Duch. As Almachildes?
Amo. I am sick, good madam,
When I but hear him named.
Duch. How is this possible?
But now thou saidst thou lov'dst him, and didst raise him
'Bove all the court in praises.
Amo. How great people
May speak their pleasure, madam! but surely I
Should think the worse of my tongue while I lived then.
Duch. No longer have I patience to forbear thee,
Thou that retain'st an envious soul to goodness!
He is a gentleman deserves as much
As ever fortune yet bestowed on man;
The glory and prime lustre of our court;
Nor can there any but ourself be worthy of him.
And take you notice of that now from me,
Say you have warning on't, if you did love him,
You must not now.
Amo. Let your grace never fear it.
Duch. Thy name is Amoretta, as ours is;
'Thas made me love and trust thee.
Amo. And my faithfulness
Has appeared well i' the proof still; has't not, madam?
Duch. But if't fail now, 'tis nothing.
Amo. Then it shall not.
I know he will not be long from fluttering
'Bout this place, now has had a sight of me;
And I'll perform
In all that I vowed, madam, faithfully.
Duch. Then am I best both in revenge and love,
And thou shalt taste the sweetness. [Exit.
Amo. What your aims be
I list not to inquire; all I desire
Is to preserve a competent honesty,
Both for mine own and his use that shall have me,

Re-enter ALMACHILDES.

Whose luck soe'er it be. O, he's returned already;
I knew he would not fail.
Alm. It works by this time,
Or the devil's in't, I think; I'll ne'er trust witch else,
Nor sup with 'em this twelvemonth. [Aside.
Amo. I must soothe him now;
And 'tis great pain to do't against one's stomach. [Aside.
Alm. Now, Amoretta!
Amo. Now you're welcome, sir,
If you'd come always thus.
Alm. O, am I so?
Is the case altered since?
Amo. If you'd be ruled,
And know your times, 'twere somewhat; a great comfort
'Las, I could be as loving and as venturous
As any woman—we're all flesh and blood, man—
If you could play the game out modestly,
And not betray your hand. I must have care, sir;
You know I have a marriage-time to come,
And that's for life; your best folks will be merry,
But look to the main chance, that's reputation,
And then do what they list.
Alm. Wilt hear my oath?
By the sweet health of youth, I will be careful,
And never prate on't, nor, like a cunning snarer,
Make thy clipped name the bird to call in others.
Amo. Well, yielding then to such conditions
As my poor bashfulness shall require from you,
I shall yield shortly after.
Alm. I'll consent to 'em;
And may thy sweet humility be a pattern
For all proud women living!
Amo. They're beholding to you. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Neighbourhood of Ravenna.

Enter ABERZANES, and Old Woman carrying an infant.

Aber. So, so, away with him! I love to get 'em,
But not to keep 'em. Dost thou know the house?
Old Wom. No matter for the house, I know the porch.
Aber. There's sixpence more for that: away, keep close.—
[Exit
Old Woman.
My tailor told me he sent away a maid-servant
Well ballast of all sides within these nine days;
His wife ne'er dreamed on't; gave the drab ten pounds,
And she ne'er troubles him: a common fashion
He told me 'twas to rid away a scape;
And I have sent him this for't. I remember
A friend of mine once served a prating tradesman
Just on this fashion, to a hair in troth.
'Tis a good ease to a man; you can swell a maid up,
And rid her for ten pound; there's the purse back again,
Whate'er becomes of your money or your maid.
This comes of bragging, now. It's well for the boy too;
He'll get an excellent trade by't; and on Sundays
Go like a gentleman that has pawned his rapier:
He need not care what countryman his father was.
Nor what his mother was when he was gotten:
The boy will do well certain: give him grace
To have a quick hand and convey things cleanly!

Enter FRANCISCA.

'Twill be his own another day. O, well said!
Art almost furnished? there's such a toil always
To set a woman to horse, a mighty trouble.
The letter came to your brother's hands, I know,
On Thursday last by noon: you were expected there
Yesterday night.
Fran. It makes the better, sir.
Aber. We must take heed we ride through all the puddles
'Twixt this and that now, that your safeguard there
May be most probably dabbled.
Fran. Alas! sir,
I never marked till now—I hate myself—
How monstrous thin I look!
Aber. Not monstrous neither:
A little sharp i' the nose, like a country woodcock.
Fran. Fie, fie, how pale I am! I shall betray myself.
I would you'd box me well and handsomely,
To get me into colour.
Aber. Not I, pardon me;
That let a husband do when he has married you:
A friend at court will never offer that.
Come, how much spice and sugar have you left now.
At this poor one month's voyage?
Fran. Sure, not much, sir;
I think some quarter of a pound of sugar,
And half an ounce of spice.
Aber. Here's no sweet charge!
And there was thirty pound good weight and true,
Beside what my man stole when 'twas a-weighing,
And that was three pound more, I'll speak with least.
The Rhenish wine, is't all run out in caudles too?
Fran. Do you ask that, sir? 'tis of a week's departure.
You see what 'tis now to get children, sir.

Enter Boy.

Boy. Your mares are ready both, sir.
Aber. come, we'll up, then.—
Youth, give my sister a straight wand: there's twopence.
Boy. I'll give her a fine whip, sir.
Aber. No, no, no;
Though we have both deserved it.
Boy. Here's a new one.
Aber. Prithee, talk to us of no whips, good boy;
My heart aches when I see 'em.—Let's away. [Exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Duke's House.

Enter Duchess, leading ALMACHILDES blindfold.

ALM. This you that was a maid? how are you born?
To deceive men! I'd thought to have married you:
I had been finely handled, had I not?
I'll say that man is wise ever hereafter
That tries his wife beforehand. 'Tis no marvel
You should profess such bashfulness, to blind one,
As if you durst not look a man i' the face,
Your modesty would blush so. Why do you not run
And tell the duchess now? go; you should tell all:
Let her know this too.—Why, here's the plague now:
'Tis hard at first to win 'em; when they're gotten,
There's no way to be rid on 'em; they stick
To a man like bird-lime.—My oath is out:
Will you release me? I'll release myself else.
Duch. Nay, sure, I'll bring you to your sight again.
[Taking off the bandage from his eyes.
Say, thou must either die, or kill the duke;
For one of them thou must do.
Alm. How, good madam?
Duch. Thou hast thy choice, and to that purpose, sir,
I've given thee knowledge now of what thou hast,
And what thou must do, to be worthy on't.
You must not think to come by such a fortune
Without desert; that were unreasonable.
He that's not born to honour must not look
To have it come with ease to him; he must win't.
Take but unto thine actions wit and courage
That's all we ask of thee. But if through weakness
Of a poor spirit thou deniest me this,
Think but how thou shalt die! as I'll work means for't,
No murderer ever like thee; for I purpose
To call this subtle, sinful snare of mine
An act of force from thee. Thou'rt proud and youthful;
I shall be believed: besides, thy wantonness
Is at this hour in question 'mongst our women
Which will make ill for thee.
Alm. I had hard chance
To light upon this pleasure that's so costly;
'Tis not content with what a man can do,
And give him breath, but seeks to have that too.
Duch. Well, take thy choice.
Alm. I see no choice in't, madam,
For 'tis all death, methinks.
Duch. Thou'st an ill sight then
Of a young man. 'Tis death if thou refuse it;
And say, my zeal has warned thee. But consenting,
'Twill be new life, great honour, and my love,
Which in perpetual bands I'll fasten to thee.
Alm. How, madam?
Duch. I'll do't religiously;
Make thee my husband; may I lose all sense
Of pleasure in life else, and be more miserable
Than ever creature was! for nothing lives
But has a joy in somewhat.
Alm. Then by all
The hopeful fortunes of a young man's rising,
I will perform it, madam.
Duch. There's a pledge then
Of a duchess' love for thee; and now trust me
For thy most happy safety. I will choose
That time shall never hurt thee: when a man
Shows resolution, and there's worth in him,
I'll have a care of him. Part now for this time;
But still be near about us, till thou canst
Be nearer, that's ourself.
Alm. And that I'll venture hard for.
Duch. Good speed to thee! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in ANTONIO'S House.

Enter GASPARO and FLORIDA.

Flo. Prithee, be careful of me, very careful now
Gas. I warrant you; he that cannot be careful of a quean, can be
careful of nobody; 'tis every man's humour that: I should never look to a wife
half so handsomely.
Flo. O softly, sweet sir! should your mistress meet me now
In her own house, I were undone for ever. Gas. Never fear her: she's
at
her prick-song close;
There's all the joy she has, or takes delight in.
Look, here's the garden key, my master gave't me,
And willed me to be careful: doubt not you on't.
Flo. Your master is a noble complete gentleman
And does a woman all the right that may be.

Enter SEBASTIAN.

Seb. How now? what's she?
Gas. A kind of doubtful creature:
I'll tell thee more anon.
[Exeunt GASPARO and FLORIDA.
Seb. I know that face
To be a strumpet's, or mine eye is envious,
And would fain wish it so where I would have it.
I fail, if the condition of this fellow
Wears not about it a strong scent of baseness.
I saw her once before here, five days since 'tis,
And the same wary panderous diligence
Was then bestowed on her: she came altered then,
And more inclining to the city-tuck.
Whom should this piece of transformation visit,
After the common courtesy of frailty,
In our house here? surely not any servant;
They are not kept so lusty, she so low.
I'm at a strange stand: love and luck assist me!

Re-enter GASPARO.

The truth I shall win from him by false play.
He's now returned.—Well, sir, as you were saying,—
Go forward with your tale.
Gas. What? I know nothing.
Seb. The gentlewoman.
Gas. She's gone out at the back-door now.
Seb. Then farewell she, and you, if that be all.
Gas. Come, come, thou shalt have more: I have no power
To lock myself up from thee.
Seb. So methinks.
Gas. You shall not think, trust me, sir, you shall not:
Your ear; she's one o' the falling family,
A quean my master keeps; she lies at Rutney's.
Seb. Is't possible? I thought I'd seen her somewhere,
Gas. I tell you truth sincerely. Sh'as been thrice here
By stealth within these ten days, and departed still
With pleasure and with thanks, sir; 'tis her luck.
Surely I think if ever there were man
Bewitched in this world, 'tis my master, sirrah.
Seb. Thinks't thou so, Gaspar?
Gas. O sir, too apparent.
Seb. This may prove happy: 'tis the likeliest means
That fortune yet e'er showed me. [Aside.

Enter ISABELLA with a letter.

Isa. You're both here now,
And strangers newly lighted! where's your attendance?
Seb. I know what makes you waspish: a pox on't!
She'll every day be angry now at nothing. [Aside.
[Exeunt GASPARO and SEBASTIAN.
Isa. I'll call her stranger in my heart:
Sh'as killed the name of sister through base lust,
And fled to shifts. O how a brother's good thoughts
May be beguiled in woman! here's a letter,
Found in her absence, reports strangely of her,
And speaks her impudence: sh'as undone herself—
I could not hold from weeping when I read it—
Abused her brother's house and his good confidence.
'Twas done not like herself; I blame her much:
But if she can but keep it from his knowledge,
I will not grieve him first; it shall not come
By my means to his heart.—

Re-enter GASPARO.

Now, sir, the news.
Gas. You called 'em strangers; 'tis my master's sister, madam.
Isa. O, is it so? she's welcome: who's come with her?
Gas. I see none but Aberzanes. [Exit.
Isa. He's enough
To bring a woman to confusion,
More than a wiser man or a far greater.
A letter came last week to her brother's hands,
To make way for her coming up again,
After her shame was lightened; and she writ there,
The gentleman her mother wished her to,
Taking a violent surfeit at a wedding,
Died ere she came to see him: what strange cunning
Sin helps a woman to! Here she comes now.—

Enter FRANCISCA and ABERZANES.

Sister, you're welcome home again.
Fran. Thanks, sweet sister.
Isa. You've had good speed.
Fran. What says she? [Aside.]—I have made
All the best speed I could.
Isa. I well believe you.—
Sir, we're all much beholding to your kindness.
Aber. My service ever, madam, to a gentlewoman.
I took a bonny mare I keep, and met her
Some ten mile out of town,—eleven, I think.—
Twas at the stump I met you, I remember,
At bottom of the hill.
Fran. 'Twas thereabout, sir.
Aber. Full eleven then, by the rod, if they were measured.
Isa. You look ill, methinks: have you been sick of late?—
Troth, very bleak, doth she not? how think you, sir?
Aber. No, no; a little sharp with riding; sh'as rid sore.
Fran. I ever look lean after a journey, sister;
One shall do that has travelled, travelled hard.
Aber. Till evening I commend you to yourselves, ladies. [Exit.
Isa. And that's best trusting to, if you were hanged.—[Aside.
You're well acquainted with his hand went out now?
Fran. His hand?
Isa. I speak of nothing else; I think 'tis there
[Giving letter.
Please you to look upon't; and when you've done,
If you did weep, it could not be amiss,
A sign you could say grace after a full meal.
You had not need look paler, yet you do.
'Twas ill done to abuse yourself and us,
To wrong so good a brother, and the thoughts
That we both held of you. I did doubt you much
Before our marriage; but then my strangeness
And better hope still kept me off from speaking.
Yet may you find a kind and peaceful sister of me,
If you desist here, and shake hands with folly,
Which you ha' more cause to do than I to wish you.
As truly as I bear a love to goodness
Your brother knows not yet on't, nor shall ever
For my part, so you leave his company.
But if I find you impudent in sinning,
I will not keep't an hour, nay, prove your enemy,
And you know who will aid me. As you've goodness,
You may make use of this; I'll leave it with you. [Exit.
Fran. Here's a sweet churching after a woman's labour,
And a fine Give you joy! why, where the devil
Lay you to be found out? the sudden hurry
Of hastening to prevent shame brought shame forth:
That's still the curse of all lascivious stuff;Misdeeds could never yet be
wary
enough.
Now must I stand in fear of every look,
Nay, tremble at a whisper. She can keep it secret?
That's very likely, and a woman too!
I'm sure I could not do't; and I am made
As well as she can be for any purpose:
'Twould ne'er stay with me two days—I have cast it—
The third would be a terrible sick day with me,
Not possible to bear it: should I then
Trust to her strength in't, that lies every night
Whispering the day's news in a husband's ear?
No; and I've thought upon the means: blest fortune!
I must be quit with her in the same fashion,
Or else 'tis nothing: there is no way like it,
To bring her honesty into question cunningly.
My brother will believe small likelihoods,
Coming from me too. I lying now i' the house
May work things to my will, beyond conceit too:
Disgrace her first, her tale will ne'er be heard;
I learned that counsel first of a sound guard.
I do suspect Gaspar, my brother's squire there,
Had some hand in this mischief, for he's cunning,
And I perhaps may fit him.

Enter ANTONIO.

Ant. Your sister told me you were come; thou'rt welcome.
Fran. Where is she?
Ant. Who, my wife?
Fran. Ay, sir.
Ant. Within.
Fran. Not within hearing, think you?
Ant. Within hearing?
What's thy conceit in that? why shak'st thy head so,
And look'st so pale and poorly?
Fran. I'm a fool indeed
To take such grief for others; for your fortune, sir.
Ant. My fortune? worse things yet? farewell life then
Fran. I fear your're much deceived, sir, in this woman
Ant. Who? in my wife? speak low; come hither; softly, sister.
Fran. I love her as a woman you made choice of;
But when she wrongs you, natural love is touched, brother,
And that will speak, you know.
Ant. I trust it will.
Fran. I held a shrewd suspicion of her lightness
At first, when I went down, which made me haste the sooner;
But more, to make amends, at my return now,
I found apparent signs.
Ant. Apparent, sayst thou?
Fran. Ay, and of base lust too: that makes the affliction.
Ant. There has been villany wrought upon me then:
'Tis too plain now.
Fran. Happy are they, I say still,
That have their sisters living i' the house with 'em,
Their mothers, or some kindred; a great comfort
To all poor married men; it is not possible
A young wife can abuse a husband then;
'Tis found straight. But swear service to this, brother.
Ant. To this, and all thou wilt have.
Fran. Then this follows, sir. [Whispers him.
Ant. I praise thy counsel well; I'll put't in use straight.
See where she comes herself. [Exit FRANCISCA.

Re-enter ISABELLA.

Kind, honest lady,
I must now borrow a whole fortnight's leave of thee.
Isa. How, sir, a fortnight's?
Ant. It may be but ten days, I know not yet;
'Tis business for the state, and 't must be done.
Isa. I wish good speed to't then.
Ant. Why, that was well spoke.
I'll take but a foot-boy; I need no more;
The rest I'll leave at home to do you service.
Isa. Use your own pleasure, sir.
Ant. Till my return
You'll be good company, my sister and you.
Isa. We shall make shift, sir.
Ant. I'm glad now she's come;
And so the wishes of my love to both!
Isa. And our good prayers with you, sir!
[Exit ANTONIO.

Re-enter SEBASTIAN.

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 is 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 abused, 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 depends 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 fixed;
Having such blessèd 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 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 the advancements
I' the kingdom flows 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 missed 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
background.

Hec. The moon's a gallant; see how brisk she rides!
Stad. Here's 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?
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 furnished?
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' the
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 some 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 cropped 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 of musicians.
Hec. They're they indeed. Help, help me; I'm too late else.

SONG.

Voice. [Above.] 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, 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 furnished 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 steeples, towers, and turrets,
We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits:
No ring of bells to our ear 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'
the air, and leave me to walk here like a fool and a mortal. [Exit.

ACT THE FOURTH.

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, 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."
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 shunned 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,
That 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 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 covetTo 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 answered,
And nobly recompensed, 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 betrayed 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 the 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 looked for ruin, and increase of honour
Meets me auspiciously. But my hopes are clogged 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 registered
Husband and wife in Heaven; though there wants that
Which often keeps licentious men 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 the 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 constrained 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 disgraced 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 deceived
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' the 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 h'as 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 deceived 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 blessed 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 forced, 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 deceived that let out 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, show 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 him much,
Tread you but lightly.—O, of what gross falsehood
Is man's heart made of! had my first love lived
And returned safe, he would have been a light
To all men's actions, his faith shined 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 dote upon a grief,
Or one that's robbed 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 blessed powers have provided better for him,
Or he were miserable. He may come yet;
'Tis early, madam: if you would be pleased
T' embrace my counsel, you should see this night over,
Since you've bestowed 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.

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 sleights,
And I was well contented. I'm resolved
There's no hate lost between us; for I know
She does not love me now, but painfully,
Like one that's forced 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' the house,
I spiced them lately with a drowsy posset,
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 called me now? somebody called 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 knocked and called 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 abused 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. [Within.] Help! hold, sir!
Ant. [Within.] I'm deaf to all humanity.
Fran. List, list!A strange and sudden silence after all:
I trust h'as spoiled '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.

O perjurous woman
Sh'ad took the innocence of sleep upon her
At my approach, and would not see me come;
As if sh'ad lain there like a harmless soul,
And never dreamed of mischief. What's all this now?
I feel no ease; the burden's not yet off
So long as the abuse sticks in my knowledge.
O, 'tis a pain of hell to know one's shame!
Had it been hid and done, 't had been done happy,
For he that's ignorant lives long and merry.
Fran. I shall know all now. [Aside.]—Brother!
Ant. Come down quickly,
For I must kill thee too.
Fran. Me?
Ant. Stay not long:
If thou desir'st to die with little pain,
Make haste I'd with thee, and come willingly;
If I be forced to come, I shall be cruel
Above a man to thee.
Fran. Why, sir!—my brother!—
Ant. Talk to thy soul, if thou wilt talk at all;
To me thou'rt lost for ever.
Fran. This is fearful in you:
Beyond all reason, brother, would you thus
Reward me for my care and truth shown to you?
Ant. A curse upon 'em both, and thee for company!
'Tis that too diligent, thankless care of thine
Makes me a murderer, and that ruinous truth
That lights me to the knowledge of my shame.
Hadst thou been secret, then had I been happy,
And had a hope, like man, of joys to come:
Now here I stand a stain to my creation;
And, which is heavier than all torments to me,
The understanding of this base adultery;
And that thou toldst me first, which thou deserv'st
Death worthily for.
Fran. If that be the worst, hold, sir,
Hold, brother; I can ease your knowledge straight,
By my soul's hopes, I can! there's no such thing.
Ant. How?
Fran. Bless me but with life, I'll tell you all:
Your bed was never wronged.
Ant. What? never wronged?
Fran. I ask but mercy as I deal with truth now:
'Twas only my deceit, my plot, and cunning,
To bring disgrace upon her; by that means
To keep mine own hid, which none knew but she:
To speak troth, I had a child by Aberzanes, sir.
Ant. How? Aberzanes?
Fran. And my mother's letter
Was counterfeited, to get time and place
For my delivery.
Ant. O, my wrath's redoubled!
Fran. At my return she could speak all my folly,
And blamed me, with good counsel. I, for fear
It should be made known, thus rewarded her;
Wrought you into suspicion without cause,
And at your coming raised up Gaspar suddenly,
Sent him but in before you, by a falsehood,
Which to your kindled jealousy I knew
Would add enough: what's now confessed is true.
Ant. The more I hear, the worse it fares with me.
I ha' killed 'em now for nothing; yet the shame
Follows my blood still. Once more, come down:
Look you, my sword goes up. [Sheathing his sword.
Call Hermio to me:
Let the new man alone; he'll wake too soon
[Exit FRANCISCA above.
To find his mistress dead, and lose a service.
Already the day breaks upon my guilt;

Enter HERMIO.

I must be brief and sudden.—Hermio.
Her. Sir?
Ant. Run, knock up Aberzanes speedily;
Say I desire his company this morning
To yonder horse-race, tell him; that will fetch him:
O, hark you, by the way—[Whispers.
Her. Yes, sir.
Ant. Use speed now,
Or I will ne'er use thee more; and, perhaps,
I speak in a right hour. My grief o'erflows;
I must in private go and vent my woes. [Exeunt.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.

A Hall in ANTONIO'S House.

Enter ANTONIO and ABERZANES.

ANT. You're welcome, sir.
Aber. I think I'm worthy on't,
For, look you, sir, I come untrussed, in troth.
Ant. The more's the pity—honester men go to't—
That slaves should 'scape it. What blade have you got there?
Aber. Nay, I know not that, sir: I am not acquainted greatly with the
blade; I am sure 'tis a good scabbard, and that satisfies me.
Ant. 'Tis long enough indeed, if that be good.
Aber. I love to wear a long weapon; 'tis a thing commendable.
Ant. I pray, draw it, sir.
Aber. It is not to be drawn.
Ant. Not to be drawn?
Aber. I do not care to see't: to tell you troth, sir, 'tis only a
holyday thing, to wear by a man's side.
Ant. Draw it, or I'll rip thee down from neck to navel. Though
there's
small glory in't.
Aber. Are you in earnest, sir?
Ant. I'll tell thee that anon.
Aber. Why, what's the matter, sir?
Ant. What a base misery is this in life now
This slave had so much daring courage in himTo act a sin would shame whole
generations,
But hath not so much honest strength about him
To draw a sword in way of satisfaction.
This shows thy great guilt, that thou dar'st not fight.
Aber. Yes, I dare fight, sir, in an honest cause.
Ant. Why, come then, slave! thou'st made my sister a whore.
Aber. Prove that an honest cause, and I'll be hanged.
Ant. So many starting-holes? can I light no way?
Go to, you shall have your wish, all honest play.—
Come forth, thou fruitful wickedness, thou seed
Of shame and murder! take to thee in wedlock
Baseness and cowardice, a fit match for thee!—
Come, sir, along with me.

Enter FRANCISCA.

Aber. 'Las, what to do?
I am too young to take a wife, in troth.
Ant. But old enough to take a strumpet though:
You'd fain get all your children beforehand,
And marry when you've done; that's a strange course, sir.
This woman I bestow on thee: what dost thou say?
Aber. I would I had such another to bestow on you, sir.
Ant. Uncharitable slave! dog, coward as thou art,
To wish a plague so great as thine to any!
Aber. To my friend, sir, where I think I may be bold.
Ant. Down, and do't solemnly; contract yourselves With truth
and zeal,
or ne'er rise up again.
I will not have her die i' the state of strumpet,
Though she took pride to live one.—Hermio, the wine!

Enter HERMIO with wine.

Her. 'Tis here, sir.—Troth, I wonder at some things;
But I'll keep honest. [Aside.
Ant. So, here's to you both now,[They drink.
And to your joys, if't be your luck to find 'em:
I tell you, you must weep hard, if you do.
Divide it 'twixt you both; you shall not need
A strong bill of divorcement after that,
If you mislike your bargain. Go, get in now;
Kneel and pray heartily to get forgiveness
Of those two souls whose bodies thou hast murdered.—
[Exeunt ABERZANES and FRANCISCA.
Spread, subtle poison! Now my shame in her
Will die when I die; there's some comfort yet.
I do but think how each man's punishment
Proves still a kind of justice to himself.
I was the man that told this innocent gentlewoman,
Whom I did falsely wed and falsely kill,
That he that was her husband first by contract
Was slain i' the field; and he's known yet to live
So did I cruelly beguile his heart,
For which I'm well rewarded; so is Gaspar,
Who, to befriend my love, swore fearful oaths
He saw the last breath fly from him. I see now
'Tis a thing dreadful t' abuse holy vows,
And falls most weightily.
Her. Take comfort, sir;
You're guilty of no death; they're only hurt,
And that not mortally.

Enter GASPARO.

Ant. Thou breath'st untruths.
Her. Speak, Gaspar, for me then.
Gas. Your unjust rage, sir,
Has hurt me without cause.
Ant. 'Tis changed to grief for't.
How fares my wife?
Gas. No doubt, sir, she fares well,
For she ne'er felt your fury. The poor sinner
That hath this seven year kept herself sound for you,
'Tis your luck to bring her into the surgeon's hands now.
Ant. Florida?
Gas. She: I know no other, sir;
You were ne'er at charge yet but with one light-horse.
Ant. Why, where's your lady? where's my wife to-night then?
Gas. Nay, ask not me, sir; your struck doe within
Tells a strange tale of her.
Ant. This is unsufferable!
Never had man such means to make him mad.
O that the poison would but spare my life
Till I had found her out!
Her. Your wish is granted, sir:
Upon the faithfulness of a pitying servant,
I gave you none at all; my heart was kinder.
Let not conceit abuse you; you're as healthful,
For any drug, as life yet ever found you.
Ant. Why, here's a happiness wipes off mighty sorrows:
The benefit of ever-pleasing service
Bless thy profession!—

Enter Lord Governor, attended by Gentlemen.

O my worthy lord,
I've an ill bargain, never man had worse!
The woman that, unworthy, wears your blood
To countenance sin on her, your niece, she's false.
Gov. False?
Ant. Impudent, adulterous.
Gov. You're too loud,
And grow too bold too with her virtuous meekness.

Enter FLORIDA.

Who dare accuse her?
Flo. Here's one dare and can.
She lies this night with Celio, her own servant:
The place, Fernando's house.
Gov. Thou dost amaze us.
Ant. Why, here's but lust translated from one baseness
Into another: here I thought t' have caught 'em,
But lighted wrong, by false intelligence,
And made me hurt the innocent. But now
I'll make my revenge dreadfuller than a tempest;
An army should not stop me, or a sea
Divide 'em from my revenge. [Exit.
Gov. I'll not speak
To have her spared, if she be base and guilty:
If otherwise, Heaven will not see her wronged,
I need not take care for her. Let that woman
Be carefully looked to, both for health and sureness.—
It is not that mistaken wound thou wear'st
Shall be thy privilege.
Flo. You cannot torture me
Worse than the surgeon does: so long I care not. [Exit with
GASPARO and a Gentleman.
Gov. If she be adulterous, I will never trust
Virtues in women; they're but veils for lust.
[Exit with Gentlemen.
Her. To what a lasting ruin mischief runs!
I had thought I'd well and happily ended all,
In keeping back the poison; and new rage now
Spreads a worse venom. My poor lady grieves me:
'Tis strange to me that her sweet-seeming virtues
Should be so meanly overtook with Celio,
A servant: 'tis not possible.

Enter ISABELLA and SEBASTIAN

Isa. Good morrow, Hermio:
My sister stirring yet?
Her. How? stirring, forsooth!
Here has been simple stirring. Are you not hurt, madam?
Pray, speak; we have a surgeon ready.
Isa. How? a surgeon!
Her. Hath been at work these five hours.
Isa. How he talks!
Her. Did you not meet my master?
Isa. How, your master?
Why, came he home to-night?
Her. Then know you nothing, madam?
Please you but walk in, you shall hear strange business.
Isa. I'm much beholding to your truth now, am I not?
You've served me fair; my credit's stained for ever!
[Exit with HERMIO.
Seb. This is the wicked'st fortune that e'er blew:
We're both undone, for nothing: there's no way
Flatters recovery now, the thing's so gross:
Her disgrace grieves me more than a life's loss. [Exit.

SCENE II.

The Abode of HECATE. A cauldron in the centre.

Enter Duchess, HECATE, and FIRESTONE.

Hec. What death is't you desire for Almachildes?
Duch. A sudden and a subtle
Hec. Then I've fitted you.
Here lie the gifts of both; sudden and subtle:
His picture made in wax, and gentle molten
By a blue fire kindled with dead men's eyes,
Will waste him by degrees.
Duch. In what time, prithee?
Hec. Perhaps in a moon's progress.
Duch. What, a month?
Out upon pictures, if they be so tedious!
Give me things with some life.
Hec. Then seek no farther.
Duch. This must be done with speed, dispatched this night,
If it may possible.
Hec. I have it for you;
Here's that will do't: stay but perfection's time,
And that's not five hours hence.
Duch. Canst thou do this?
Hec. Can I!
Duch. I mean, so closely.
Hec. So closely
Do you mean too!
Duch. So artfully, so cunningly.
Hec. Worse and worse; doubts and incredulities!
They make me mad. Let scrupulous creatures know
Cum volui, ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnes
In fontes rediere suos; concussaque sisto,
Stantia concutio cantu freta; nubila pello,
Nubilaque induco; ventos abigoque vocoque;
Viperaes rumpo verbis et carmine fauces;
Et silvas moveo; jubeoque tremiscere montes,
Et mugire solum, manesque exire sepulchris.
Te quoque, luna, traho. Can you doubt me then, daughter,
That can make mountains tremble, miles of woods walk,
Whole earth's foundations bellow, and the spirits
Of the entombed to burst out from their marbles,
Nay, draw yond moon to my involved designs?
Fire. I know as well as can be when my mother's mad, and our great
cat
angry, for one spits French then, and the other spits Latin. [Aside.
Duch. I did not doubt you, mother.
Hec. No! what did you?
My power's so firm, it is not to be questioned.
Duch. Forgive what's past: and now I know the offensiveness
That vexes art, I'll shun the occasion ever.
Hec. Leave all to me and my five sisters, daughter:
It shall be conveyed in at howlet-time;
Take you no care: my spirits know their moments;
Raven or screech-owl never fly by the door
But they call in—I thank 'em—and they lose not by't
I give 'em barley soaked in infants' blood;
They shall have semina cum sanguine,
Their gorge crammed full, if they come once to our house;
We are no niggard. [Exit Duchess.
Fire. They fare but too well when they come hither; they eat up as muc
h
t'other night as would have made me a good conscionable pudding.
Hec. Give me some lizard's-brain; quickly, Firestone.
[FIRESTONE brings the different ingredients for the charm,
as HECATE calls for them.
Where's grannam Stadlin, and all the rest o' the sisters?
Fire. All at hand, forsooth.

Enter STADLIN, HOPPO, and other Witches.

Hec. Give me marmaritin, some bear-breech: when?

Fire. Here's bear-breech and lizard's brain, forsooth.
Hec. Into the vessel;
And fetch three ounces of the red-haired girl
I killed last midnight.
Fire. Whereabouts, sweet mother?
Hec. Hip; hip or flank. Where is the acopus?
Fire. You shall have acopus, forsooth.
Hec. Stir, stir about, whilst I begin the charm.
Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may!
Titty, Tiffin,
Keep it stiff in;
Firedrake, Puckey,
Make it lucky;
Liard, Robin,
You must bob in.
Round, around, around, about, about!
All ill come running in, all good keep out!
1st Witch. Here's the blood of a bat.
Hec. Put in that, O, put in that!
2nd Witch. Here's libbard's-bane.
Hec. Put in again!
1st Witch. The juice of toad, the oil of adder.
2nd Witch. Those will make the younker madder.
Hec. Put in—there's all—and rid the stench.
Fire. Nay, here's three ounces of the red-haired wench.
All the Witches. Round, around, around, &c.
Hec. So, so, enough: into the vessel with it.
There, 't hath the true perfection. I'm so light
At any mischief! there's no villany
But is a tune, methinks.
Fire. A tune? 'tis to the tune of damnation then I warrant you, and
that song hath a villanous burthen. [Aside.
Hec. Come, my sweet sisters; let the air strike our tune,
Whilst we show reverence to yond peeping moon.
[They dance the Witches' Dance, and exeunt.

SCENE III.

An Apartment in the House of the Lord Governor.

Enter Lord Governor, ISABELLA, FLORIDA, SEBASTIAN, GASPARO, and
Servants.

Isa. My lord, I've given you nothing but the truth
Of a most plain and innocent intent.
My wrongs being so apparent in this woman—
A creature that robs wedlock of all comfort,
Where'er she fastens—I could do no less
But seek means privately to shame his folly.
No farther reached my malice; and it glads me
That none but my base injurer is found
To be my false accuser.
Gov. This is strange,
That he should give the wrongs, yet seek revenge.—
But, sirrah, you; you are accused here doubly:
First, by your lady, for a false intelligence
That caused her absence, which much hurts her name,
Though her intents were blameless; next, by this woman,
For an adulterous design and plot
Practised between you to entrap her honour,
Whilst she, for her hire, should enjoy her husband.
Your answer.
Seb. Part of this is truth, my lord,
To which I'm guilty in a rash intent,
But clear in act; and she most clear in both,
Not sanctity more spotless.

Enter HERMIO.

Her. O, my lord!
Gov. What news breaks there?
Her. Of strange destruction:
Here stands the lady that within this hour
Was made a widow.
Gov. How?
Her. Your niece, my lord.
A fearful, unexpected accident
Brought death to meet his fury: for my lord
Entering Fernando's house, like a raised tempest,
Which nothing heeds but its own violent rage,
Blinded with wrath and jealousy, which scorn guides,
From a false trap-door fell into a depth
Exceeds a temple's height, which takes into it
Part of the dungeon that falls three-score fathom
Under the castle.
Gov. O you seed of lust,
Wrongs and revenges wrongful, with what terrors
You do present yourselves to wretched man
When his soul least expects you!
Isa. I forgive him
All his wrongs now, and sign it with my pity.
Flo. O my sweet servant! [Swoons.
Gov. Look to yond light mistress.
Gas. She's in a swoon, my lord.
Gov. Convey her hence:
It is a sight would grieve the modest eye
To see a strumpet's soul sink into passion
For him that was the husband of another—
[Servants remove FLORIDA.
Yet all this clears not you.
Seb. Thanks to Heaven
That I am now of age to clear myself then.
[Discovers himself.
Gov. Sebastian!
Seb. The same much wronged, sir.
Isa. Am I certain
Of what mine eye takes joy to look upon?
Seb. Your service cannot alter me from knowledge;
I am your servant ever.
Gov. Welcome to life, sir.—
Gaspar, thou swor'st his death.
Gas. I did indeed, my lord,
And have been since well paid for't: one forsworn mouth
Hath got me two or three more here.
Seb. I was dead, sir,
Both to my joys and and all men's understanding,
Till this my hour of life; for 'twas my fortune
To make the first of my return to Urbin
A witness to that marriage; since which time
I've walked beneath myself, and all my comforts
Like one on earth whose joys are laid above:
And though it had been offence small in me
T' enjoy mine own, I left her pure and free.
Gov. The greater and more sacred is thy blessing;
For where Heaven's bounty holy ground-work finds,
'Tis like a sea, encompassing chaste minds.
Her. The duchess comes, my lord.

Enter Duchess and AMORETTA.

Gov. Be you then all witnesses
Of an intent most horrid.
Duch. One poor night,
Ever Almachildes now.
Better his meaner fortunes wept than ours,
That took the true height of a princess' spirit
To match unto their greatness. Such lives as his
Were only made to break the force of fate
Ere it came at us, and receive the venom.
'Tis but a usual friendship for a mistress
To lose some forty years' life in hopeful time,
And hazard an eternal soul for ever:
As young as he has done't, and more desertful. [Aside.
Gov. Madam.
Duch. My lord?
Gov. This is the hour that I've so long desired
The tumult's full appeased: now may we both
Exchange embraces with a fortunate arm,
And practise to make love-knots, thus.
[A curtain is drawn, and the Duke discovered on a couch, as
if
dead.
Duch. My lord!
Gov. Thus, lustful woman and bold murderess, thus.
Blessed powers,
To make my loyalty and truth so happy!
Look thee, thou shame of greatness, stain of honour,
Behold thy work, and weep before thy death!
If thou be'st blest with sorrow and a conscience,
Which is a gift from Heaven, and seldom knocks
At any murderer's breast with sounds of comfort,
See this thy worthy and unequalled piece;
A fair encouragement for another husband!
Duch. Bestow me upon death, sir; I am guilty,
And of a cruelty above my cause:
His injury was too low for my revenge.
Perform a justice that may light all others
To noble actions: life is hateful to me,
Beholding my dead lord. Make us an one
In death, whom marriage made one of two living,
Till cursèd fury parted us: my lord,
I covet to be like him.
Gov. No, my sword
Shall never stain the virgin brightness on't
With blood of an adulteress.
Duch. There, my lord,
I dare my accusers, and defy the world,
Death, shame, and torment: blood I'm guilty of,
But not adultery, not the breach of honour.
Gov. No?—Come forth, Almachildes!

Enter ALMACHILDES.

Duch. Almachildes?
Hath time brought him about to save himself
By my destruction? I am justly doomed.
Gov. Do you know this woman?
Alm. I've known her better, sir, than at this time.
Gov. But she defies you there.
Alm. That's the common trick of them all.
Duch. Nay, since I'm touched so near, before my death then,
In right of honour's innocence, I'm bold
To call Heaven and my woman here to witness.
My lord, let her speak truth, or may she perish!
Amo. Then, sir, by all the hopes of a maid's comfort
Either in faithful service or blest marriage,
The woman that his blinded folly knew
Was only a hired strumpet, a professor
Of lust and impudence, which here is ready
To approve what I have spoken.
Alm. A common strumpet?
This comes of scarfs: I'll never more wear
An haberdasher's shop before mine eyes again.
Gov. My sword is proud thou'rt lightened of that sin:
Die then a murderess only!
Duke. [Rising and embracing her.] Live a duchess!
Better than never loved, embraced, and honoured.
Duch. My lord!
Duke. Nay, since in honour thou canst justly rise,
Vanish all wrongs, thy former practice dies!—
I thank thee, Almachildes, for my life,
This lord for truth, and Heaven for such a wife,
Who, though her intent sinned, yet she makes amends
With grief and honour, virtue's noblest ends.—
What grieved you then shall never more offend you;
Your father's skull with honour we'll inter,
And give the peace due to the sepulchre:
And in all times may this day ever prove
A day of triumph, joy, and honest love! [Exeunt.

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