ACT THE THIRD.

Lev.Thou art welcome into my chamber, Fresco.Prithee shut the door.—Nay; thou mistakest me.Come in and shut it.Free.'Tis somewhat late, madam.Lev.No matter. I have somewhat to say to thee.What, is not thy mistress towards a husband yet?

Fres.Faith, madam, she has suitors, but they will not suit her, methinks. They will not come off lustily, it seems.

Lev.They will not come on lustily, thou wouldst say.

Fres.I mean, madam they are not rich enough.

Lev.But ay, Fresco, they are not bold enough. Thy mistress is of a lively attractive blood, Fresco,and in truth she is of my mind for that. A poor spirit is poorer than a poor purse. Give me a fellow that brings not only temptation with him, but has the activity of wit and audacity of spirit to apply every word and gesture of a woman's speech and behaviour to his own desire, and make her believe she's the suitor herself; never give back till he has made her yield to it.

Fres.Indeed among our equals, madam; but otherwise we shall be put horribly out o' countenance.

Lev.Thou art deceived, Fresco. Ladies are as courteous as yeomen's wives, and methinks they should be more gentle. Hot diet and soft ease makes 'em like wax always kept warm, more easy to take impression.—Prithee, untie my shoe.—What, art thou shamefaced too? Go roundly to work, man. My leg is not gouty: 'twill endure the feeling, I warrant thee. Come hither, Fresco; thine ear. S'dainty, I mistook the place, I missed thine ear and hit thy lip.

Fres.Your ladyship has made me blush.

Lev.That shows thou art full o' lusty blood and thou knowest not how to use it. Let me see thy hand. Thou shouldst not be shamefaced by thy hand, Fresco. Here's a brawny flesh and a hairy skin, both signs of an able body. I do not like these phlegmatic, smooth-skinned, soft-fleshed fellows. They are like candied suckets[152]when they begin to perish, which I would always empty my closet of, and give 'em my chambermaid.—I have some skill in palmistry: by this line that stands directly against me thou shouldst be near a good fortune, Fresco, if thou hadst the grace to entertain it.

Fres.O what is that, madam, I pray?

Lev.No less than the love of a fair lady, if thou dost not lose her with faint-heartedness.

Fres.A lady, madam? Alas, a lady is a great thing: I cannot compass her.

Lev.No? Why, I am a lady. Am I so great I cannot be compassed? Clasp my waist, and try.

Fres.I could find i' my heart, madam—[Sebastianknocks within.

Lev.'Uds body, my husband! Faint-hearted fool! I think thou wert begotten between the North Pole and the congealed passage.[153]Now, like an ambitious coward that betrays himself with fearful delay, you must suffer for the treason you never committed. Go, hide thyself behind yon arras instantly. [Frescohides himself.

EnterSebastian.

Sebastian! What do you here so late?

Sebas.Nothing yet, but I hope I shall. [Kisses her.

Lev.Y'are very bold.

Sebas.And you very valiant, for you met me at full career.[154]

Lev.You come to ha' me move your father's reconciliation. I'll write a word or two i' your behalf.

Sebas.A word or two, madam? That you do for me will not be contained in less than the compass of two sheets. But in plain terms shall we take the opportunity of privateness.

Lev.What to do?

Sebas.To dance the beginning of the world after the English manner.

Lev.Why not after the French or Italian?

Sebas.Fie! they dance it preposterously; backward!

Lev.Are you so active to dance?

Sebas.I can shake my heels.

Lev.Y'are well made for't.

Sebas.Measure me from top to toe you shall not find me differ much from the true standard of proportion. [Belforestknocks within.

Lev.I think I am accursed, Sebastian. There's one at the door has beaten opportunity away from us. In brief, I love thee, and it shall not be long before I give thee a testimony of it. To save thee now from suspicion do no more but draw thy rapier, chafe thyself, and when he comes in, rush by without taking notice of him. Only seem to be angry, and let me alone for the rest.[155]

EnterBelforest.

Sebas.Now by the hand of Mercury—[Exit.

Bel.What's the matter, wife?

Lev.Oh, oh, husband!

Bel.Prithee what ail'st thou, woman?

Lev.O feel my pulse. It beats, I warrant you. Be patient a little, sweet husband: tarry but till my breath come to me again and I'll satisfy you.

Bel.What ails Sebastian? He looks so distractedly.

Lev.The poor gentleman's almost out on's wits, I think. You remember the displeasure his father took against him about the liberty of speech he used even now, when your daughter went to be married?

Bel.Yes. What of that?

Lev.'T has crazed him sure. He met a poor man i' the street even now. Upon what quarrel I know not, but he pursued him so violently that if my house had not been his rescue he had surely killed him.

Bel.What a strange desperate young man is that!

Lev.Nay, husband, he grew so in rage, when he saw the man was conveyed from him, that he was ready even to have drawn his naked weapon uponme. And had not your knocking at the door prevented him, surely he'd done something to me.

Bel.Where's the man?

Lev.Alas, here! I warrant you the poor fearful soul is scarce come to himself again yet.—If the fool have any wit he will apprehend me. [Aside.]—Do you hear, sir? You may be bold to come forth: the fury that haunted you is gone. [Frescopeeps fearfully forth from behind the arras.

Fres.Are you sure he is gone?

Bel.He's gone, he's gone, I warrant thee.

Fres.I would I were gone too. H's shook me almost into a dead palsy.

Bel.How fell the difference between you?

Fres.I would I were out at the back door.

Bel.Thou art safe enough. Prithee tell's the falling out.

Fres.Yes, sir, when I have recovered my spirits. My memory is almost frighted from me.—Oh, so, so, so!—Why, sir, as I came along the street, sir—this same gentleman came stumbling after me and trod o' my heel.—I cried O. Do you cry, sirrah? says he. Let me see your heel; if it be not hurt I'll make you cry for something. So he claps my head between his legs and pulls off my shoe. I having shifted no socks in a sen'night, the gentleman cried foh! and said my feet were base and cowardly feet, they stunk for fear. Then he knocked my shoe about my pate, and I cried O once more. In the meantime comes a shag-haired dog by, and rubs against his shins. The gentleman took the dog in shag-hair to be some watchman in a rug gown, and swore he would hang me up at the next door with my lanthorn in my hand, that passengers might see their way as they went, without rubbing against gentlemen's shins. So, for want of a cord, he took his own garters off, and as he was going to make a noose, I watched my time and ran away. And as Iran, indeed I bid him hang himself in his own garters. So he, in choler, pursued me hither, as you see.

Bel.Why, this savours of distraction.

Lev.Of mere distraction.

Fres.Howsover it savours, I am sure it smells like a lie. [Aside.

Bel.Thou may'st go forth at the back door, honest fellow; the way is private and safe.

Fres.So it had need, for your fore-door here is both common and dangerous. [ExitBelforest.

Lev.Good night, honest Fresco.

Fres.Good night, madam. If you get me kissing o' ladies again!—[Exit.

Lev.This falls out handsomely.But yet the matter does not well succeed,Till I have brought it to the very deed. [Exit.

EnterCharlemontin arms, aMusketeer,and aSerjeant.

Charl.Serjeant, what hour o' the night is't?

Serj.About one.

Charl.I would you would relieve me, for I amSo heavy that I shall ha' much adoTo stand out my perdu. [Thunder and lightning.Serj.I'll e'en but walkThe round, sir, and then presently return.

Sol.For God's sake, serjeant, relieve me. Above five hours together in so foul a stormy night as this!

Serj.Why 'tis a music, soldier. Heaven and earth are now in consort, when the thunder and the cannon play one to another. [ExitSerjeant.

Charl.I know not why I should be thus inclinedTo sleep. I feel my disposition pressedWith a necessity of heaviness.Soldier, if thou hast any better eyes,I prithee wake me when the serjeant comes.Sol.Sir, 'tis so dark and stormy that I shallScarce either see or hear him, ere he comesUpon me.Charl.I cannot force myself to wake.—[Sleeps.

Enter theGhostofMontferrers.

Mont.Return to France, for thy old father's dead,And thou by murder disinherited.Attend with patience the success of things,But leave revenge unto the King of kings. [Exit.[Charlemontstarts and wakes.

Charl.O my affrighted soul, what fearful dreamWas this that waked me? Dreams are but the raisedImpressions of premeditated thingsBy serious apprehension left uponOur minds; or else the imaginary shapesOf objects proper to the complexion, orThe dispositions of our bodies. TheseCan neither of them be the cause why IShould dream thus; for my mind has not been movedWith any one conception of a thoughtTo such a purpose; nor my nature wontTo trouble me with fantasies of terror.It must be something that my Genius wouldInform me of. Now gracious Heaven forbid!Oh! let my spirit be deprived of allForesight and knowledge, ere it understandThat vision acted, or divine that actTo come. Why should I think so? Left I notMy worthy father i' the kind regardOf a most loving uncle? Soldier, saw'stNo apparition of a man?Sol.You dream,Sir. I saw nothing.Charl.Tush! these idle dreamsAre fabulous. Our boyling fantasiesLike troubled waters falsify the shapesOf things retained in them, and make 'em seemConfounded when they are distinguished. So,My actions daily conversant with war,The argument of blood and death had leftPerhaps the imaginary presence ofSome bloody accident upon my mind,Which, mixed confusedly with other thoughts,Whereof the remembrance of my father mightBe one presented, all together seemIncorporate, as if his body wereThe owner of that blood, the subject ofThat death, when he's at Paris and that bloodShed here. It may be thus. I would not leaveThe war, for reputation's sake, uponAn idle apprehension, a vain dream.

Enter theGhost.

Sol.Stand! Stand, I say! No? Why then have at thee,Sir. If you will not stand, I'll make you fall. [Fires.Nor stand nor fall? Nay then, the devil's damHas broke her husband's head, for sure it isA spirit.I shot it through, and yet it will not fall. [Exit.[TheGhostapproachesCharlemontwho fearfully avoids it.Charl.O pardon me, my doubtful heart was slowTo credit that which I did fear to know. [Exeunt.

Enter the funeral ofMontferrers.

D'Am.Set down the body. Pay Earth what she lent.But she shall bear a living monumentTo let succeeding ages truly knowThat she is satisfied what he did owe,Both principal and use; because his worthWas better at his death than at his birth.

[A dead march. Enter the funeral ofCharlemontas aSoldier.

D'Am.And with his body place that memoryOf noble Charlemont, his worthy son;And give their graves the rites that do belongTo soldiers. They were soldiers both. The fatherHeld open war with sin, the son with blood:This in a war more gallant, that more good.[The first volley.D'Am.There place their arms, and here their epitaphsAnd may these lines survive the last of graves.[Reads.

"Here lie the ashes of that earth and fire,Whose heat and fruit did feed and warm the poor!And they (as if they would in sighs expire,And into tears dissolve) his death deplore.He did that good freely for goodness' sakeUnforced, for generousness he held so dearThat he feared but Him that did him makeAnd yet he served Him more for love than fear.So's life provided that though he did dieA sudden death, yet died not suddenly.

"His body lies interred within this mould,Who died a young man yet departed old,And in all strength of youth that man can haveWas ready still to drop into his grave.For aged in virtue, with a youthful eyeHe welcomed it, being still prepared to die,And living so, though young deprived of breathHe did not suffer an untimely death,But we may say of his brave blessed deceaseHe died in war, and yet he died in peace."[The second volley.D'Am.O might that fire revive the ashes ofThis Phœnix! yet the wonder would not beSo great as he was good, and wondered atFor that. His life's example was so trueA practique of religion's theoryThat her divinity seemed rather theDescription than the instruction of his life.And of his goodness was his virtuous sonA worthy imitator. So that onThese two Herculean pillars where their armsAre placed there may be writNon ultra.[156]ForBeyond their lives, as well for youth as age,Nor young nor old, in merit or in name,Shall e'er exceed their virtues or their fame.[The third volley.'Tis done. Thus fair accompliments make foulDeeds gracious. Charlemont, come now when thou wilt,I've buried under these two marble stonesThy living hopes, and thy dead father's bones.[Exeunt.

EnterCastabellamourning, to the monument ofCharlemont.

Cast.O thou that knowest me justly Charlemont's,Though in the forced possession of another,Since from thine own free spirit we receive itThat our affections cannot be compelledThough our actions may, be not displeased if onThe altar of his tomb I sacrificeMy tears. They are the jewels of my loveDissolved into grief, and fall uponHis blasted Spring, as April dew uponA sweet young blossom shaked before the time.

EnterCharlemontwith aServant.

Charl.Go see my trunks disposed of. I'll but walkA turn or two i' th' church and follow you.[ExitServant.O! here's the fatal monument of myDead father first presented to mine eye.What's here?—"In memory of Charlemont?"Some false relation has abused belief.I am deluded. But I thank thee, Heaven.For ever let me be deluded thus.My Castabella mourning o'er my hearse?Sweet Castabella, rise. I am not dead.Cast.O Heaven defend me! [Falls in a swoon.Charl.I—Beshrew my rashAnd inconsiderate passion.—Castabella!That could not think—my Castabella!—thatMy sudden presence might affright her sense.—I prithee, my affection, pardon me. [She rises.Reduce thy understanding to thine eye.Within this habit, which thy misinformedConceit takes only for a shape, live bothThe soul and body of thy Charlemont.Cast.I feel a substance warm, and soft, and moist,Subject to the capacity of sense.[157]Charl.Which spirits are not; for their essence isAbove the nature and the order ofThose elements whereof our senses areCreated. Touch my lip. Why turn'st thou from me?Cast.Grief above griefs! That which should woe relieveWished and obtained, gives greater cause to grieve.Charl.Can Castabella think it cause of griefThat the relation of my death prove false?Cast.The presence of the person we affect,Being hopeless to enjoy him, makes our griefMore passionate than if we saw him not.Charl.Why not enjoy? Has absence changed thee.Cast.Yes.From maid to wife.Charl.Art married?Cast.O! I am.Charl.Married?—Had not my mother been a woman,I should protest against the chastityOf all thy sex. How can the merchant orThe mariners absent whole years from wivesExperienced in the satisfaction ofDesire, promise themselves to find their sheetsUnspotted with adultery at theirReturn, when you that never had the senseOf actual temptation could not stayA few short months?Cast.O! do but hear me speak.Charl.But thou wert wise, and did'st consider thatA soldier might be maimed, and so perhapsLose his ability to please thee.Cast.No.That weakness pleases me in him I have.Charl.What, married to a man unable too?O strange incontinence! Why, was thy bloodIncreased to such a pleurisy of lust,[158]That of necessity there must a veinBe opened, though by one that had no skillTo do't?Cast.Sir, I beseech you hear me.Charl.Speak.Cast.Heaven knows I am unguilty of this act.Charl.Why? Wert thou forced to do't?Cast.Heaven knows I was.Charl.What villain did it?Cast.Your uncle D'Amville.And he that dispossessed my love of youHath disinherited you of possession.Charl.Disinherited? wherein have I deservedTo be deprived of my dear father's love?Cast.Both of his love and him. His soul's at rest;But here your injured patience may beholdThe signs of his lamented memory.[Charlemontfinds hisFather'smonument.He's found it. When I took him for a ghostI could endure the torment of my fearMore eas'ly than I can his sorrows hear. [Exit.Charl.Of all men's griefs must mine be singular?Without example? Here I met my grave.And all men's woes are buried i' their gravesBut mine. In mine my miseries are born,I prithee, sorrow, leave a little roomIn my confounded and tormented mindFor understanding to deliberateThe cause or author of this accident.—A close advantage of my absence madeTo dispossess me both of land and wife,And all the profit does arise to himBy whom my absence was first moved and urged,These circumstances, uncle, tell me youAre the suspected author of those wrongs,Whereof the lightest is more heavy thanThe strongest patience can endure to bear. [Exit.

EnterD'Amville, SebastianandLanguebeau.

D'Am.Now, sir, your business?

Sebas.My annuity.

D'Am.Not a denier.[159]

Sebas.How would you ha' me live?

D'Am.Why; turn crier. Cannot you turn crier?

Sebas.Yes.

D'Am.Then do so: y' have a good voice for't.Y'are excellent at crying of a rape.[160]

Sebas.Sir, I confess in particular respect to yourself I was somewhat forgetful. General honesty possessed me.

D'Am.Go, th'art the base corruption of my blood;And, like a tetter, growest unto my flesh.

Sebas.Inflict any punishment upon me. The severity shall not discourage me if it be not shameful, so you'll but put money i' my purse. The want of money makes a free spirit more mad than the possession does an usurer.

D'Am.Not a farthing.

Sebas.Would you ha' me turn purse-taker? 'Tis the next way to do't. For want is like the rack: it draws a man to endanger himself to the gallows rather than endure it.

EnterCharlemont. D'Amvillecounterfeits to take him for aGhost.

D'Am.What art thou? Stay—Assist my troubled sense—My apprehension will distract me—Stay.[Languebeau Snuffeavoids him fearfully.

Sebas.What art thou? Speak.

Charl.The spirit of Charlemont.

D'Am.O! stay. Compose me. I dissolve.

Lang.No. 'Tis profane. Spirits are invisible. 'Tis the fiend i' the likeness of Charlemont. I will have no conversation with Satan. [Exit.

Sebas.The spirit of Charlemont? I'll try that.[He strikes, and the blow is returned.'Fore God thou sayest true: th'art all spirit.

D'Am.Go, call the officers. [Exit.

Charl.Th'art a villain, and the son of a villain.

Sebas.You lie.

Charl.Have at thee. [They fight.Sebastianfalls.

Enter theGhostofMontferrers.

Revenge, to thee I'll dedicate this work.

Mont.Hold, Charlemont.Let him revenge my murder and thy wrongsTo whom the justice of revenge belongs. [Exit.Charl.You torture me between the passion ofMy blood and the religion of my soul.

Sebas.[Rising.] A good honest fellow!

Re-enterD'AmvillewithOfficers.

D'Am.What, wounded? Apprehend him. Sir, is thisYour salutation for the courtesyI did you when we parted last? You haveForgot I lent you a thousand crowns. First, letHim answer for this riot. When the lawIs satisfied for that, an action forHis debt shall clap him up again. I tookYou for a spirit and I'll conjure youBefore I ha' done.Charl.No, I'll turn conjuror. Devil!Within this circle, in the midst of allThy force and malice, I conjure thee doThy worst.D'Am.Away with him![ExeuntOfficerswithCharlemont.Sebas.Sir, I have gotA scratch or two here for your sake. I hopeYou'll give me money to pay the surgeon.D'Am.Borachio, fetch me a thousand crowns. I amContent to countenance the freedom ofYour spirit when 'tis worthily employed.'A God's name, give behaviour the full scopeOf generous liberty, but let it notDisperse and spend itself in courses ofUnbounded licence. Here, pay for your hurts.[Exit.

Sebas.I thank you, sir.—Generous liberty!—that is to say, freely to bestow my abilities to honest purposes. Methinks I should not follow that instruction now, if having the means to do an honest office for an honest fellow, I should neglect it. Charlemontlies in prison for a thousand crowns. Honesty tells me 'twere well done to release Charlemont. But discretion says I had much ado to come by this, and when this shall be gone I know not where to finger any more, especially if I employ it to this use, which is like to endanger me into my father's perpetual displeasure. And then I may go hang myself, or be forced to do that will make another save me the labour. No matter, Charlemont, thou gavest me my life, and that's somewhat of a purer earth than gold, fine as it is. 'Tis no courtesy, I do thee but thankfulness. I owe it thee, and I'll pay it. He fought bravely, but the officers dragged him villanously. Arrant knaves! for using him so discourteously; may the sins o' the poor people be so few that you sha' not be able to spare so much out of your gettings as will pay for the hire of a lame starved hackney to ride to an execution, but go a-foot to the gallows and be hanged. May elder brothers turn good husbands, and younger brothers get good wives, that there be no need of debt books nor use of serjeants. May there be all peace, but i' the war and all charity, but i' the devil, so that prisons may be turned to hospitals, though the officers live o' the benevolence. If this curse might come to pass, the world would say, "Blessed be he that curseth." [Exit.

Charlemontdiscovered.

Charl.I grant thee, Heaven, thy goodness doth commandOur punishments, but yet no further thanThe measure of our sins. How should they elseBe just? Or how should that good purpose ofThy justice take effect by bounding menWithin the confines of humanity,When our afflictions do exceed our crimes?Then they do rather teach the barbarous worldExamples that extend her crueltiesBeyond their own dimensions, and instructOur actions to be much more barbarous.O my afflicted soul! How torment swellsThy apprehension with profane conceit,Against the sacred justice of my God!Our own constructions are the authors ofOur misery. We never measure ourConditions but with men above us inEstate. So while our spirits labour toBe higher than our fortunes, they are more base.Since all those attributes which make men seemSuperior to us, are man's subjects andWere made to serve him. The repining manIs of a servile spirit to dejectThe value of himself below their estimation.

EnterSebastianwith theKeeper.

Sebas.Here. Take my sword.—How now, my wild swaggerer? Y'are tame enough now, are you not? The penury of a prison is like a soft consumption. 'Twill humble the pride o' your mortality, and arm your soul in complete patience to endure the weight of affliction without feeling it. What, hast no music in thee? Th' hast trebles and basses enough. Treble injury and base usage. But trebles and basses make poor music without means.[161]Thou wantest means, dost? What? Dost droop? art dejected?

Charl.No, sir. I have a heart above the reachOf thy most violent maliciousness;A fortitude in scorn of thy contempt(Since Fate is pleased to have me suffer it)That can bear more than thou hast power t' inflict.I was a baron. That thy father hasDeprived me of. Instead of that I amCreated king. I've lost a signiory[162]That was confined within a piece of earth,A wart upon the body of the world,But now I am an emperor of a world,This little world of man. My passions areMy subjects, and I can command them laugh,Whilst thou dost tickle 'em to death with misery.

Sebas.'Tis bravely spoken, and I love thee for't. Thou liest here for a thousand crowns. Here are a thousand to redeem thee. Not for the ransom o' my life thou gavest me,—that I value not at one crown—'tis none o' my deed. Thank my father for't. 'Tis his goodness. Yet he looks not for thanks. For he does it under hand, out of a reserved disposition to do thee good without ostentation.—Out o' great heart you'll refuse't now; will you?

Charl.No. Since I must submit myself to Fate,I never will neglect the offer ofOne benefit, but entertain them asHer favours and the inductions to some endOf better fortune. As whose instrument,I thank thy courtesy.

Sebas.Well, come along. [Exeunt.

EnterD'AmvilleandCastabella.

D'Am.Daughter, you do not well to urge me. IHa' done no more than justice. CharlemontShall die and rot in prison, and 'tis just.Cast.O father, mercy is an attributeAs high as justice, an essential partOf his unbounded goodness, whose divineImpression, form, and image man should bear!And, methinks, man should love to imitateHis mercy, since the only countenanceOf justice were destruction, if the sweetAnd loving favour of his mercy didNot mediate between it and our weakness.D'Am.Forbear. You will displease me. He shall rot.Cast.Dear sir, since by your greatness youAre nearer heaven in place, be nearer itIn goodness. Rich men should transcend the poorAs clouds the earth, raised by the comfort ofThe sun to water dry and barren grounds.If neither the impression in your soulOf goodness, nor the duty of your placeAs goodness' substitute can move you, thenLet nature, which in savages, in beasts,Can stir to pity, tell you that he isYour kinsman.—D'Am.You expose your honestyTo strange construction. Why should you so urgeRelease for Charlemont? Come, you professMore nearness to him than your modestyCan answer. You have tempted my suspicion.I tell thee he shall starve, and die, and rot.

EnterCharlemontandSebastian.

Charl.Uncle, I thank you.

D'Am.Much good do it you.—Who did release him?Sebas.I. [ExitCastabella.D'Am.You are a villain.Sebas.Y'are my father. [ExitSebastian.D'Am.I must temporize.—[Aside.Nephew, had not his open freedom madeMy disposition known, I would ha' borneThe course and inclination of my loveAccording to the motion of the sun,Invisibly enjoyed and understood.Charl.That shows your good works are directed toNo other end than goodness. I was rash,I must confess. But—D'Am.I will excuse you.To lose a father and, as you may think,Be disinherited, it must be grantedAre motives to impatience. But for death,Who can avoid it? And for his estate,In the uncertainty of both your lives'Twas done discreetly to confer't uponA known successor being the next in blood.And one, dear nephew, whom in time to comeYou shall have cause to thank. I will not beYour dispossessor but your guardian.I will supply your father's vacant placeTo guide your green improvidence of youth,And make you ripe for your inheritance.Charl.Sir, I embrace your generous promises.

EnterRousardlooking sickly, andCastabella.

Rous.Embracing! I behold the object thatMine eye affects. Dear cousin Charlemont!D'Am.My elder son! He meets you happily.For with the hand of our whole familyWe interchange the indenture[163]of our loves.Charl.And I accept it. Yet not so joyfullyBecause y'are sick.D'Am.Sir, his affection's soundThough he be sick in body.Rous.Sick indeed.A general weakness did surprise my healthThe very day I married Castabella,As if my sickness were a punishmentThat did arrest me for some injuryI then committed. Credit me, my love,I pity thy ill fortune to be matchedWith such a weak, unpleasing bedfellow.Cast.Believe me, sir, it never troubles me.I am as much respectless to enjoySuch pleasure, as ignorant what it is.Charl.Thy sex's wonder. Unhappy Charlemont!D'Am.Come, let's to supper. There we will confirmThe eternal bond of our concluded love. [Exeunt.

EnterCataplasmaandSoquettewith needlework.

Cata.Come, Soquette, your work! let's examine your work. What's here? a medlar with a plum tree growing hard by it; the leaves o' the plum tree falling off; the gum issuing out o' the perished joints; and the branches some of 'em dead, and some rotten; and yet but a young plum tree. In good sooth very pretty.

Soqu.The plum tree, forsooth, grows so near the medlar that the medlar sucks and draws all the sap from it and the natural strength o' the ground, so that it cannot prosper.

Cata.How conceited you are![164]But here th'ast made a tree to bear no fruit. Why's that?

Soqu.There grows a savin tree next it, forsooth.[165]

Cata.Forsooth you are a little too witty in that.

EnterSebastian.

Sebas.But this honeysuckle winds about this white thorn very prettily and lovingly, sweet Mistress Cataplasma.

Cata.Monsieur Sebastian! in good sooth very uprightly welcome this evening.

Sebas.What, moralizing upon this gentlewoman's needlework? Let's see.

Cata.No, sir. Only examining whether it be done to the true nature and life o' the thing.

Sebas.Here y' have set a medlar with a bachelor's button o' one side and a snail o' the tother. The bachelor's button should have held his head up more pertly towards the medlar: the snail o' the tother side should ha' been wrought with an artificial laziness, doubling his tail and putting out his horn but half the length. And then the medlar falling (as it were) from the lazy snail and ending towards the pert bachelor's button, their branches spreading and winding one within another as if they did embrace. But here's a moral. A poppring[166]pear tree growing upon the bank of a river seeming continually to look downwards into the water as if it were enamoured of it, and ever as the fruit ripens lets it fall for love (as it were) into her lap. Which the wanton stream, like a strumpet, no sooner receives but she carries it away and bestows it upon some other creature she maintains, still seeming to play and dally under the poppring so long that it has almost washed away the earth from the root, and now the poor tree stands as if it were ready to fall and perish by that whereon it spent all the substance it had.

Cata.Moral for you that love those wanton running waters.

Sebas.But is not my Lady Levidulcia come yet?

Cata.Her purpose promised us her company ere this. Sirrah, your lute and your book.

Sebas.Well said. A lesson o' the lute, to entertain the time with till she comes.

Cata. Sol, fa, mi, la.—Mi, mi, mi.—Precious! Dost not seemibetween the two crotchets? Strike me full there.—So—forward. This is a sweet strain, and thou finger'st it beastly.Miis alaerg[167]there, and the prick that stands beforemia long; always halve your note.—Now—Run your division pleasingly with these quavers. Observe all your graces i' the touch.—Here's a sweet close—strike it full; it sets off your music delicately.

EnterLanguebeau SnuffeandLevidulcia.

Lang.Purity be in this house.

Cata.'Tis now entered; and welcome with your good ladyship.

Sebas.Cease that music. Here's a sweeter instrument.

Lev.Restrain your liberty. See you not Snuffe?

Sebas.What does the stinkard here? put Snuffe out. He's offensive.

Lev.No. The credit of his company defends my being abroad from the eye of suspicion.

Cata.Wilt please your ladyship go up into the closet? There are those falls and tires[168]I told you of.

Lev.Monsieur Snuffe, I shall request your patience. My stay will not be long. [Exit withSebastian.

Lang.My duty, madam.—Falls and tires! I begin to suspect what falls and tires you mean. My lady and Sebastian the fall and the tire, and I the shadow. I perceive the purity of my conversation is used but for a property to cover the uncleanness of their purposes. The very contemplation o' the thing makes the spirit of the flesh begin to wriggle in my blood. And here my desire has met with an object already. This gentlewoman, methinks, should be swayed with the motion, living in a house where moving exampleis so common.—Mistress Cataplasma, my lady, it seems, has some business that requires her stay. The fairness o' the evening invites me into the air. Will it please you give this gentlewoman leave to leave her work and walk a turn or two with me for honest recreation?

Cata.With all my heart, sir. Go, Soquette: give ear to his instructions. You may get understanding by his company, I can tell you.

Lang.In the way of holiness, Mistress Cataplasma.

Cata.Good Monsieur Snuffe!—I will attend your return.

Lang.Your hand, gentlewoman.—[ToSoquette.]The flesh is humble till the spirit move it.But when 'tis raised it will command above it.[Exeunt.

EnterD'Amville, Charlemont,andBorachio.

D'Am.Your sadness and the sickness of my sonHave made our company and conferenceLess free and pleasing than I purposed it.Charl.Sir, for the present I am much unfitFor conversation or society.With pardon I will rudely take my leave.D'Am.Good night, dear nephew.[ExitCharlemont.Seest thou that same man?Bor.Your meaning, sir?D'Am.That fellow's life, Borachio,Like a superfluous letter in the law,Endangers our assurance.[169]Bor.Scrape him out.D'Am.Wilt do't?Bor.Give me your purpose—I will do't.D'Am.Sad melancholy has drawn CharlemontWith meditation on his father's deathInto the solitary walk behind the church.Bor.The churchyard? 'Tis the fittest place for death.Perhaps he's praying. Then he's fit to die.We'll send him charitably to his grave.D'Am.No matter how thou tak'st him. First take this—[Gives him a pistol.Thou knowest the place. Observe his passages,And with the most advantage make a stand,That, favoured by the darkness of the night,His breast may fall upon thee at so nearA distance that he sha' not shun the blow.The deed once done, thou may'st retire with safety.The place is unfrequented, and his deathWill be imputed to the attempt of thieves.Bor.Be careless. Let your mind be free and clear.This pistol shall discharge you of your fear. [Exit.D'Am.But let me call my projects to accountFor what effect and end have I engagedMyself in all this blood? To leave a stateTo the succession of my proper blood.But how shall that succession be continued?Not in my elder son, I fear. DiseaseAnd weakness have disabled him for issue.For the other,—his loose humour will endureNo bond of marriage. And I doubt his life,His spirit is so boldly dangerous.O pity that the profitable endOf such a prosperous murder should be lost!Nature forbid! I hope I have a bodyThat will not suffer me to lose my labourFor want of issue yet. But then't must beA bastard.—Tush! they only father bastardsThat father other men's begettings. Daughter!Be it mine own. Let it come whence it will,I am resolved. Daughter!

EnterServant.

Ser.My lord.

D'Am.I prithee call my daughter.

EnterCastabella.

Cast.Your pleasure, sir.

D'Am.Is thy husband i' bed?

Cast.Yes, my lord.

D'Am.The evening's fair. I prithee walk a turn or two.

Cast.Come, Jaspar.

D'Am.No.We'll walk but to the corner o' the church;And I have something to speak privately.

Cast.No matter; stay. [ExitServant.

D'Am.This falls out happily. [Exeunt.

EnterCharlemont.—Borachiodogging him. The clock strikes twelve.

Charl.Twelve.

Bor.'Tis a good hour: 'twill strike one anon.

Charl.How fit a place for contemplation is this dead of night, among the dwellings of the dead.—This grave—Perhaps the inhabitant was in his lifetime the possessor of his own desires. Yet in the midst of all his greatness and his wealth he was less rich and less contented than in this poor piece of earth lower and lesser than a cottage. For here he neither wants nor cares. Now that his body savours of corruptionHe enjoys a sweeter rest than e'er he didAmongst the sweetest pleasures of this life,For here there's nothing troubles him.—And there—In that grave lies another. He, perhaps,Was in his life as full of miseryAs this of happiness. And here's an endOf both. Now both their states are equal. OThat man with so much labour should aspireTo worldly height, when in the humble earthThe world's condition's at the best, or scornInferior men, since to be lower thanA worm is to be higher than a king.Bor.Then fall and rise.[Discharges the pistol, which misses fire.Charl.What villain's hand was that?Save thee, or thou shalt perish. [They fight.Bor.Zounds! unsavedI think. [Falls.Charl.What? Have I killed him? Whatsoe'er thou beest,I would thy hand had prospered. For I wasUnfit to live and well prepared to die.What shall I do? Accuse myself? SubmitMe to the law? And that will quickly endThis violent increase of misery.But 'tis a murder to be accessoryTo mine own death. I will not. I will takeThis opportunity to 'scape. It mayBe Heaven reserves me to some better end. [Exit.

EnterLanguebeau SnuffeandSoquette.

Soqu.Nay, good sir, I dare not. In good sooth I come of a generation both by father and mother that were all as fruitful as costermongers' wives.

Lang.Tush! then a tympany[170]is the greatest danger can be feared. Their fruitfulness turns but to a certain kind of phlegmatic windy disease.

Soqu.I must put my understanding to your trust, sir. I would be loth to be deceived.

Lang.No, conceive thou sha't not. Yet thou shalt profit by my instruction too. My body is not every day drawn dry, wench.

Soqu.Yet methinks, sir, your want of use should rather make your body like a well,—the lesser 'tis drawn, the sooner it grows dry.

Lang.Thou shalt try that instantly.

Soqu.But we want place and opportunity.

Lang.We have both. This is the back side of the house which the superstitious call St. Winifred's church, and is verily a convenient unfrequented place.—Where under the close curtains of the night—Soqu.You purpose i' the dark to make me light.[Snuffepulls out a sheet, a hair, and a beard.But what ha' you there?

Lang.This disguise is for security's sake, wench. There's a talk, thou know'st, that the ghost of old Montferrers walks. In this church he was buried. Now if any stranger fall upon us before our business be ended, in this disguise I shall be taken for that ghost, and never be called to examination, I warrant thee. Thus we shall 'scape both prevention and discovery. How do I look in this habit, wench?

Soqu.So like a ghost that notwithstanding I have some foreknowledge of you, you make my hair stand almost on end.

Lang.I will try how I can kiss in this beard. O, fie, fie, fie! I will put it off and then kiss, and then put it on. I can do the rest without kissing.

Re-enterCharlemontdoubtfully, with his sword drawn; he comes upon them before they are aware. They run out different ways, leaving the disguise behind.

Charl.What ha' we here? A sheet! a hair! a beard!What end was this disguise intended for?No matter what. I'll not expostulateThe purpose of a friendly accident.[171]Perhaps it may accommodate my 'scape.—I fear I am pursued. For more assurance,I'll hide me here i' th' charnel house,This convocation-house of dead men's skulls.[In getting into the charnel house he takes hold of a death's head; it slips, and he staggers.Death's head, deceivest my hold?Such is the trust to all mortality.[Hides himself in the charnel house.

EnterD'AmvilleandCastabella.

Cast.My lord, the night grows late. Your lordship spakeOf something you desired to move in private.D'Am.Yes. Now I'll speak it. The argument is love.The smallest ornament of thy sweet form(That abstract of all pleasure) can commandThe senses into passion and thy entirePerfection is my object, yet I love theeWith the freedom of my reason. I can giveThee reason for my love.Cast.Love me, my lord?I do believe it, for I am the wifeOf him you love.D'Am.'Tis true. By my persuasion thou wert forcedTo marry one unable to performThe office of a husband. I was the authorOf the wrong.My conscience suffers under't, and I wouldDisburthen it by satisfaction.Cast.How?D'Am.I will supply that pleasure to thee which he cannot.Cast.Are ye a devil or a man?D'Am.A man, and such a man as can returnThy entertainment with as prodigalA body as the covetous desire,Or woman ever was delighted with.So that, besides the full performance ofThy empty husband's duty, thou shalt haveThe joy of children to continue theSuccession of thy blood. For the appetiteThat steals her pleasure, draws the forces ofThe body to an united strength, and puts 'emAltogether into action, never failsOf procreation. All the purposesOf man aim but at one of these two ends—Pleasure or profit; and in this one sweetConjunction of our loves they both will meet.Would it not grieve thee that a stranger toThy blood should lay the first foundation ofHis house upon the ruins of thy family?Cast.Now Heaven defend me! May my memoryBe utterly extinguished, and the heirOf him that was my father's enemyRaise his eternal monument uponOur ruins, ere the greatest pleasure orThe greatest profit ever tempt me toContinue it by incest.D'Am.Incest? Tush!These distances affinity observesAre articles of bondage cast uponOur freedoms by our own objections.Nature allows a general libertyOf generation to all creatures else.Shall man,To whose command and use all creatures wereMade subject, be less free than they?Cast.O God!Is Thy unlimited and infiniteOmnipotence less free because thou doestNo ill?Or if you argue merely out of nature,Do you not degenerate from that, and areYou not unworthy the prerogativeOf Nature's masterpiece, when basely youPrescribe yourself authority and lawFrom their examples whom you should command?I could confute you, but the horror ofThe argument confutes my understanding.—Sir, I know you do but try me inYour son's behalf, suspecting thatMy strengthAnd youth of blood cannot contain themselvesWith impotence.—Believe me, sir,I never wronged him. If it be your lust,O quench it on their prostituted fleshWhose trade of sin can please desire with moreDelight and less offence.—The poison o' your breath,Evaporated from so foul a soul,Infects the air more than the damps that riseFrom bodies but half rotten in their graves.D'Am.Kiss me. I warrant thee my breath is sweet.These dead men's bones lie here of purpose toInvite us to supply the number ofThe living. Come we'll get young bones, and do't.I will enjoy thee. No? Nay then invokeYour great supposed protector; I will do't.Cast.Supposed protector! Are ye an atheist? ThenI know my prayers and tears are spent in vain.O patient Heaven! Why dost thou not expressThy wrath in thunderbolts to tear the frameOf man in pieces? How can earth endureThe burthen of this wickedness withoutAn earthquake? Or the angry face of HeavenBe not inflamed with lightning?D'Am.Conjure upThe devil and his dam: cry to the graves:The dead can hear thee: invocate their help.Cast.O would this grave might open and my bodyWere bound to the dead carcass of a man,For ever, ere it entertain the lustOf this detested villain!D'Am.Tereus-likeThus I will force my passage to—Charl.The Devil![Charlemontrises in the disguise, and frightensD'Amvilleaway.Now, lady, with the hand of CharlemontI thus redeem you from the arm of lust.—My Castabella!Cast.My dear Charlemont!Charl.For all my wrongs I thank thee, gracious Heaven.Th'ast made me satisfaction to reserveMe for this blessed purpose. Now, sweet Death,I'll bid thee welcome. Come, I'll guide thee home,And then I'll cast myself into the armsOf apprehension,[172]that the law may makeThis worthy work the crown of all my actions,Being the best and last.Cast.The last? The law?Now Heaven forbid! What ha' you done?Charl.Why, I haveKilled a man; not murdered him, my Castabella.He would ha' murdered me.Cast.Then, Charlemont,The hand of Heaven directed thy defence.That wicked atheist! I suspect his plot.Charl.My life he seeks. I would he had it, sinceHe has deprived me of those blessings thatShould make me love it. Come, I'll give it him.Cast.You sha' not. I will first expose myselfTo certain danger than for my defenceDestroy the man that saved me from destruction.Charl.Thou canst not satisfy me better thanTo be the instrument of my releaseFrom misery.Cast.Then work it by escape.Leave me to this protection that still guardsThe innocent. Or I will be a partnerIn your destiny.Charl.My soul is heavy. Come, lie down to rest;These are the pillows whereon men sleep best.[They lie down, each of them with a death's head for a pillow.

Re-enterLanguebeau Snuffe,seekingSoquette.

Lang.Soquette, Soquette, Soquette! O art thou there? [He mistakes the body ofBorachioforSoquette.

Verily thou liest in a fine premeditated readiness for the purpose. Come, kiss me, sweet Soquette.—Now purity defend me from the sin of Sodom!—This is a creature of the masculine gender.—Verily the man is blasted.—Yea, cold and stiff!—Murder, murder, murder! [Exit.

Re-enterD'Amvilledistractedly: he starts at the sight of a death's head.

D'Am.Why dost thou stare upon me? Thou art notThe soul of him I murdered. What hast thouTo do to vex my conscience? Sure thou wertThe head of a most doggèd usurer,Th'art so uncharitable. And that bawd,The sky there: she could shut the windows andThe doors of this great chamber of the world,And draw the curtains of the clouds betweenThose lights and me, above this bed of earth,When that same strumpet Murder and myselfCommitted sin together. Then she couldLeave us i' the dark till the close deed was done.But now that I begin to feel the loathsome horror of my sin, and, like a lecher emptied of his lust, desire to bury face under my eye-brows, and would steal from my shame unseen, she meets meI' the face with all her light corrupted eyesTo challenge payment o' me. O behold!Yonder's the ghost of old Montferrers, inA long white sheet climbing yon lofty mountainTo complain to Heaven of me.—Montferrers! pox o' fearfulness! 'Tis nothingBut a fair white cloud. Why, was I born a coward?He lies that says so. Yet the countenance ofA bloodless worm might ha' the courage nowTo turn my blood to water.The trembling motion of an aspen leafWould make me, like the shadow of that leaf,Lie shaking under 't. I could now commitA murder were it but to drink the freshWarm blood of him I murdered to supplyThe want and weakness o' mine own,'Tis grown so cold and phlegmatic.Lang.Murder, murder, murder! [Within.D'Am.Mountains o'erwhelm me: the ghost of old Montferrers haunts me.Lang.Murder, murder, murder!D'Am.O were my body circumvolvedWithin that cloud, that when the thunder tearsHis passage open, it might scatter meTo nothing in the air!

Re-enterLanguebeau Snuffewith theWatch.

Lang.Here you shall findThe murdered body.D'Am.Black Beelzebub,And all his hell-hounds, come to apprehend me?Lang.No, my good lord, we come to apprehendThe murderer.D'Am.The ghost (great Pluto!) wasA fool unfit to be employed inAny serious business for the state of hell.Why could not he ha' suffered me to raiseThe mountains o' my sins with one as damnableAs all the rest, and then ha' tumbled meTo ruin? But apprehend me e'en betweenThe purpose and the act before it wasCommitted!

Watch.Is this the murderer? He speaks suspiciously.

Lang.No, verily. This is my Lord D'Amville. And his distraction, I think, grows out of his grief for the loss of a faithful servant. For surely I take him to be Borachio that is slain.

D'Am.Hah! Borachio slain? Thou look'st like Snuffe, dost not?

Lang.Yes, in sincerity, my lord.

D'Am.Hark thee—sawest thou not a ghost?

Lang.A ghost? Where, my lord?—I smell a fox.

D'Am.Here i' the churchyard.

Lang.Tush! tush! their walking spirits are mere imaginary fables. There's no such thingin rerum natura. Here is a man slain. And with the spirit of consideration I rather think him to be the murderer got into that disguise than any such fantastic toy.

D'Am.My brains begin to put themselves in order. I apprehend thee now.—'Tis e'en so.—Borachio, I will search the centre, but I'll find the murderer.

Watch.Here, here, here.

D'Am.Stay. Asleep? so soundly,So sweetly upon Death's heads? and in a placeSo full of fear and horror? Sure there isSome other happiness within the freedomOf the conscience than my knowledge e'er attained to.—Ho, ho, ho!Charl.Y'are welcome, uncle. Had you sooner comeYou had been sooner welcome. I'm the manYou seek. You sha' not need examine me.D'Am.My nephew and my daughter! O my dearLamented blood, what fate has cast you thusUnhappily upon this accident?Charl.You know, sir, she's as clear as chastity.D'Am.As her own chastity. The time, the placeAll circumstances argue that unclear.Cast.Sir, I confess it; and repentantlyWill undergo the selfsame punishmentThat justice shall inflict on Charlemont.Charl.Unjustly she betrays her innocence.Watch.But, sir, she's taken with you, and she mustTo prison with you.D'Am.There's no remedy.Yet were it not my son's bed she abused,My land should fly, but both should be excused.[Exeunt.

EnterBelforestand aServant.

Bel.Is not my wife come in yet?

Ser.No, my lord.

Bel.Methinks she's very affectedly inclinedTo young Sebastian's company o' late.But jealousy is such a torment thatI am afraid to entertain it. YetThe more I shun by circumstances to meetDirectly with it, the more ground I findTo circumvent my apprehension. First,I know she has a perpetual appetite,Which being so oft encountered with a manOf such a bold luxurious freedom asSebastian is, and of so promisingA body, her own blood corrupted willBetray her to temptation.

EnterFrescoclosely.

Fres.Precious! I was sent by his lady to see if her lord were in bed. I should ha' done't slily without discovery, and now I am blurted upon 'em before I was aware. [Exit.

Bel.Know not you the gentlewoman my wife brought home?

Ser.By sight, my lord. Her man was here but now.

Bel.Her man? I prithee, run and call him quickly. This villain! I suspect him ever since I found him hid behind the tapestry.

Re-enterFresco.

Fresco! th'art welcome, Fresco. Leave us. [ExitServant.] Dost hear, Fresco? Is not my wife at thy mistress's?

Fres.I know not, my lord.

Bel.I prithee tell me, Fresco—we are private—tell me:Is not thy mistress a good wench?

Fres.How means your lordship that? A wench o' the trade?

Bel.Yes, faith, Fresco; e'en a wench o' the trade.

Fres.O no, my lord. Those falling diseases cause baldness, and my mistress recovers the loss of hair, for she is a periwig maker.

Bel.And nothing else?

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