I salute you both with the spirit of copulation, [...] already informed of your matrimoniall purposes, and will [...] testimonie to the integritie.

Fie, fie, fie, these carnall kisses doe stirre vp the Concupisences of the flesh.

Sir, I want words and protestation to insinuate into your credit; but in plainnesse and truth, I wil quallifie her griefe with the spirit of consolation.

Mounsieur Languebeau! Happily encountred. The honestie of your conuersation, makes me request more int'rest in your familiaritie.

If your Lordship will be pleased to salute me without ceremonie, I shall be willing to exchange my seruice for your fauour; but this worshipping kinde of entertainment, is a super­stitious vanitie; in plainnesse and truth I loue it not.

I embrace your disposition; and desire to giue you as liberall assurance of my loue, as my Lord Belforest your de­serued fauourer.

His Lordship is pleased with my plainnesse and truth of conuersation.

It cannot displease him. In the behauiour of his no­ble daughter Castabella; a man may read her worth and your instruction.

That Gentlewoman is most sweetly modest, faire, ho­nest, handsome, wise, well-borne, and rich.

You haue giuen me her picture in small.

Shee's like your Dyamond; a temptation in euery mans eye, yet not yeelding to any light impression her selfe.

The praise is hers; but the comparison your owne.

You shall forgiue me that, Sir.

I will not doeso much at your request as forgiue you it. I will onely giue you it Sir. By—You will make mee sweare.

O! by no meanes. Prophanemot your lippes with the foulnesse of that sinne. I will rather take it. To saue your oath, you shall lose your Ring.—Verily my Lord; my praise came short of her worth. Shee exceedes a Iewell. This is but onely for ornament; Shee both for ornament and vse.

Yet vnprofitably kept without vse. Shee deserues a worthy Husband, Sir. I haue often wish'd a match betweene my elder Sonne and her. The marriage would ioyne the houses of Belforest and Damville into a noble alliance.

And the vnitie of Families is a worke of loue and cha­ritie.

And that worke an imployment well becomming the goodnesse of your disposition.

If your Lordship please to impose it vpon mee; I will carry it without any second end, the surest way to satisfie your wish.

Most ioyfully accepted.— Rousard! Here are Letters to my Lord Belforest touching my desire to that pur­pose.

I send you a suitor to Castabella. To this Gentlemans discretion I commit the managing of your suite His good suc­cesse shall be most thankefull to your trust. Follow his instru­ctions, he will be your leader.

In plainnesse and truth.

My leader? does your Lordship thinke mee too weake to giue the on-set my selfe.

I will onely assist your proceedings.

To say true, so I thinke you had neede, for a sicke man can hardly get a womans good will without help.

Charlemont! thy gratuitie and my promises were both but words; and both like words shall vanish into ayre.—For thy poore empty hand I must be mute:

Nay good Sir; in troth if you knew how little it plea­ses mee, you would forbeare it.

I will not leaue thee, till th'ast entertain'd mee for thy seruant.

My seruant? You are sicke you say. You would taxe mee of indiscretion to entertaine one that is not able to doe me seruice.

The seruice of a Gentlewoman consists most in cham­ber worke, and sicke men are fittest for the chamber. I pr [...]thee giue me a fauour.

Mee thinkes you haue a very sweet fauour of you owne.

I lacke but your blacke eye.

If you goe to buffets among the Boyes, they'l giue you one.

Nay if you grow bitter, Ile dispraise your blacke eye. The gray eie'd Morning makes the fairest day.

Now that you dissemble not, I could be willing to giue you a fauour. What fauour would you haue?

Any toy: any light thing.

Fie. Will you be so vnciuill to aske a light thing at a Gentlewomans hand?

Wilt giue mee a bracelet o'thy haire then?

Doe you want haire Sir?

No faith Ile want no haire, so long as I can haue it for mony.

What would you doe with my haire then?

Weare it for thy sake sweet hart.

Doe you thinke I loue to haue my haire worne off?

Come you are so witty now, and so sensible.

Tush. I would I wanted one o'my sences now.

Bitter againe? What's that? Smelling?

No, no, no. Why now y'are satisfied I hope. I haue giuen you a fauour.

What fauour? a kisse? I prithee giue mee another.

Shew mee that I gaue you then.

How should I shew it?

You are vnworthie of a fauour if you will not bestow the keeping of it one minute.

Well in plaine termes, doest loue mee? That's the purpose of my comming.

Loue you? Yes Very well.

Giue mee thy hand vpon't.

Nay, you mistake mee. If I loue you very well, I must not loue you now. For now your are not very well, y'are sicke.

This Equiuocation is for the iest now.

I speak't as t'is now in fashion, in earnest. But I shall not be in quiet for you I perceiue, till I haue giuen you a fauour. Doe you loue mee?

With all my hart.

Then with all my hart, Ile giue you a Iewell to hang in your eare,—Harke yee—I can neuer loue you.

Call you this a Iewell to hang in mine eare? T'is no light fauour, for Ile be sworne it comes somewhat heauily to mee. Well. I will not leaue her for all this. Mee thinkes it animates a man to stand too't, when a woman desires to be rid of him at the first sight.

Verily that disobedience doth not become a Childe. It proceedeth from an vnsanctified libertie. You will be acces­sarie to your owne dishonour if you suffer it.

And instantly, least fearing your constraint; her con­trary affection teach her some deuise that may preuent you.

Since Charlemont's absence, I haue waighed his loue with the spirit of consideration; and in sinceritie I finde it to be friuolous and vaine. With-draw your respect; his affection de­serueth it not.

Can he deserue your loue, who in neglect of your de­lightfull conuersation; and in obstinate contempt of all your prayers and teares; absents himselfe so far from your sweet fel­lowship, and with a purpose so contracted to that absence, that you see hee purchases your separation with the hazard of his bloud and life; fearing to want pretence to part your compa­nies?—T'is rather hate that doth diuision moue; Loue still de­sires the presence of his Loue.—Verily, hee is not of the Familie of Loue.

Sweet wife! Thy ioyfull husband thus salutes Thy cheeke.

A rape, a rape, a rape!

How now?

What's that?

Why what is't but a Rape to force a wench to marry, since it forces her to lie with him she would not?

Verily, his Tongue is an vnsanctified member.

Verily, your grauitie becomes your perish'd soule, as hoary mouldinesse does rotten fruit.

Couzen, y'are both vnciuill and prophane.

Thou disobedient villaine; get thee out of my sight. Now by my Soule Ile plague thee for this rudenesse.

Come; set forward to the Church.

And verifie the Prouerbe. The nearer the Church; the further from God.—Poore wench. For thy sake, may his habilitie die in his appetite; that thou beest not troubled [Page] with him thou louest not. May his appetite moue thy desire to another man: so hee shall helpe to make himselfe Cuckold. And let that man be one that he payes wages too: so thou shalt profit by him thou hatest. Let the Chambers be matted, the hinges oyl'd, the curtaine rings silenced, and the chamber-maid hold her peace at his owne request, that he may sleepe the qui­etlier. And in that sleepe let him be soundly cuckolded. And when hee knowes it, and seekes to sue a diuorce; let him haue no other satisfaction then this: Hee lay by and slept: the Law will take no hold of her, because he wink'd at it.

MIstresse Cataplasma! I expected you an houre since.

Certaine Ladies at my house (Madame) detain'd mee; otherwise I had attended your Ladiship sooner.

Wee are beholding to you for you companie. My Lord; I pray you bid these Gentlewomen welcome: th'are my inuited friends.

Gentlewomen, y'are welcome, pray sit downe.

Frisco! by my Lord D'amville's leaue I prith [...] goe into the Buttry. Thou sha't finde some o'my men there; if they bid thee not welcome, they are very Loggerheads.

If your Logger heads will not, your Hoggesheads shall Madame, if I get into the Buttry.

That fellowes disposition to mirth should be our pre­sent example. Let's be graue and meditate, when our affaires re­quire our seriousnes. T'is out of season to be heauily disposed.

We should be all wound vp into the key of Mirth.

The Musicke there.

Where's my Lord Montferrers? Tell him here's a roome attends him.

Heauen giue your marriage that I am depriu'd of, ioy.

My Lord Belforest! Castabella's health.

Set ope' the Sellar dores, and let this health goe freely round the house.—Another to your Sonne, my Lord; To noble Charl. mont. Hee is a Souldier. Let the Instruments of warie congratulate his memorie.—

My Lord, here's one i'th'habite of a Souldier saies hee is newly return'd from Ostend, and has some businesse of im­port to speake.

Ostend! let him come in. My soule fore-tels hee brings the newes will make our Musicke full. My brothers ioy would doe't: and here comes hee will raise it.

O my spirit, it does disswade my tongue to question him, as if it knew his answere would displease.

Souldier! what newes? wee heard a rumour of a blow you gaue the enemie.

T'is very true my Lord.

Canst thou relate it.

Yes.

I Prithee doe.

O God.

Charlemont drown'd? Why how could that be? since it was the aduerse partie that receiued the ouerthrow.

All men are mortall. The houre of death is vncer­taine. Age makes sicknesse the more dangerous. And griefe is subiect to distraction. You know not how soone you may be depriu'd of the benefit of sense. In my vnderstanding (there­fore) you shall doe well if you be sicke to set your state in pre­sent order. Make your Will.

I haue my wish.—Lights for my Borther.

My Daughter's gone. Come Sonne. Mistresse Cata­plasma, come; wee'l vp into her chamber. I'de faine see how she entertaines the expectation of her husbands bedfellowship.

'Faith howsoeuer shee entertaines it; I shall hardly please her; therefore let her rest.

Boy! fill some drinke Boy.

Enough good Sir; not a drop more by this light.

Not by this light? Why then put out the candles and wee'l drinke i'the darke and t'wut old Boy.

No [...] no, no, no, no.

Why then take thy liquour. A health Fresco.

Your health will make me sicke sir.

Then t'will bring you o'your knees I hope sir.

May I not stand and pledge it sir?

I hope you will doe as wee doe.

Nay then indeed I must not stand, for you cannot.

Well said old boy.

Old boy, you'l make me a young childe anon: for if I continue this, I shall scarce be able to goe alone.

My body is as weake as water, Fresco.

Good reason sir, the beere has sent all the malt vp into your braine, and left nothing but the water in your body.

Borachio! seest those fellowes?

Yes my Lord.

I am prepar'd for th'execution, sir.

Cast off this habite, and about it straight.

Let them drinke healthes, & drowne their braines i'the floud; Ile promise them they shall be pledg'd in bloud.

You ha'left a damnable snuffe here.

Doe you take that in snuffe Sir?

You are a damnable rogue then.—

Fortune I honour thee. My plot still rises, According to the modell of mine owne desires.— Lights for my Brother.—What ha'you drunke your selues mad you knaues.

My Lord the Iackes abus'd mee.

I thinke they are the Iackes indeed that haue abus'd thee, Dost heare? that fellow is a proud knaue. Hee has abus'd thee. As thou goest ouer the fields by and by, in lighting my brother home, Ile tell thee what'sha't doe. Knocke him ouer the pate with thy torch, Ile beare the out in't.

I will sindge the goose by this torch.

Doest heare; fellow. Seest thou that proud knaue, I haue giuen him a lesson for his sawcinesse. H'as wrong'd thee. Ile tell thee what'sha't doe: As we goe ouer the fields by and by, clap him sodainely o'er the coxe-combe with thy torch, Ile beare thee out in't.

I will make him vnderstand as much.

Now Mounsieur Snuffe! What has my brother done?

Made his Will; and by that Will made you his heyre; with this prouiso, that as occasion shall hereafter moue him; hee may reuoke or alter it when he pleases.

Yes. Let him if he can.—Ile make it sure from his reuoking.

Brother now good night.

Mistresse Cataplasma, good night. I pray when your Man has brought you home, let him returne and light me to my house.

He shall instantly waite on your Ladiship.

Good Mistresse Cataplasma; for my seruants are all drunke; I cannot be beholding to'em for their attendance.

O here's your Bride.

And melancholique too, me thinkes.

Or within this whole houre. When you will.— A lusty bloud! has both the presence and the spirit of a man. I like the freedome of his behauiour.—Ho— Sebastian! Gone?—Has set my bloud o'boyling i'my veynes And now (like water pour'd vpon the ground, that mixes it selfe with eu'ry moysture it meetes) I could claspe with any man.

O Fresco! Art thou come? If tother faile, then thou art enter­taind.

Passion o'me you drunken knaues: you'l put the lights out.

No my Lord; th'are but in ieast.

Mine's out.

Then light it at his head, that's light enough.— Foregod, th'are out. You drunken Rascals backe and light'em.

T'is exceeding darke.

No matter. I am acquainted with the way. Your hand. Let's easily walke. Ile lead you till they come.

My soule's opprest with griefe [...] T'lies heauie at my heart, O my departed Sonne! ere long I shall be with [...]

Marry God forbid.

O, o, o.

Now all the hoste of heauen forbid. Knaues, Rogues.

Pray God hee be not hurt! her's falne into the gra­uell pit.

Brother! deare Brother! Rascals, villaines, knaues.

Eternall darkenesse damne you; come away. Goe round about into the grauell pit, and helpe my Brother vp. Why what a strange vnlucky night [...] this? Is't not my Lord? I thinke that Dogge that ho [...]l'd the newes of griefe, that fatall Scrichowle vsherd on this mischiefs.

Mischeife indeed my Lord. Your Brother's dead.

Hee's dead.

Hee's dead.

Dead be your tongues. Drop out mine eye-bals, and let enuious Fortune play at tennis with'em. Haue I liu'd to this? Malicious Nature! hadst thou borne me blinde; th'adst yet been something fauourable to me. No breath? No motion? 'prithee tell me heauen! hast shut thine eye to winke at murther; or hast put this sable garment on, to mourne at's death? Not one poore sparke in the whole spatious skye, of all that endlesse number would vouchsafe to shine? You vize-royes to the King of na­ture! whose constellations gouerne mortall births; where is that fatall Planet rul'd at his Natiu [...]tie? That might ha'pleas'd to light him out, as well into th'world; vnlesse it be asham'd [Page] T [...]haue beene the instrument of such a good mans cursed de­st [...]nie.—

I. Tis an easie thing for him that has no paine to talke of patience. Doe you thinke that Nature has no feeling?

Feeling? Yes. But has she purpos'd any thing for no­thing? What good receiues this body by your griefe? Whe­ther is't more vnnaturall not to grieue for him you cannot helpe with it; or hurt your selfe with grieuing and yet grieue in vaine?

Indeede had hee beene taken from mee like a piece o'dead flesh, I should neither ha' felt it, nor grieued for't. But come hether, 'pray looke heere. Behold the liuely tincture of his bloud! Neither the Dropsie nor the Iaundies in't. But the true freshnesse of a sanguine red; for all the fogge of this blacke murdrous night has mix'd with it. For any thing I know, hee might ha' liu'd till doomesday, and ha' done more good then ei­ther you or I. O Brother [...] He was a man of such a natiue good­nesse; as if Regeneration had beene giuen him in his mothers wombe. So harmeles, that rather then ha' trod vpon a worme, hee would ha' shun'd the way. So deerely pittifull, that e're the poore could aske his charity with dry eyes, hee gaue' em reliefe wi'teares—with teares—yes faith with teares.

Take vp the Corps. For wisedom's sake let reason for­tifie this weakenesse.

Why what would you ha' mee doe? Foolish Nature will haue her course in spight o'wisedome. But I haue e'en done. All these wordes were but a great winde, and now this showre of teares has layd it, I am calme againe. You may set for­ward when you will. Ile follow you, like one that must and would not.

Our opposition will but trouble him.

The griefe that melts to teares, by it selfe is spent, Passion resisted, growes more violent.

Here's a sweete Comedie. T'begins with O dolentis, and concludes with ha, ha, he.

Ha, ha, he.

O my eccho! I could stand reuerberating this sweete musicall ayre of ioy, till I had perish'd my sound lungs with violent laughter. Louely Night-Rauen! th'ast seaz'd a carkasse.

Put him out on's paine. I lay so fitly vnderneath the bancke from whence he fell; that e'er his faltring tongue could vtter double Oo; I knock'd out's braines with this fai [...]e Rubie. And had another stone iust of this forme and bignesse ready: that I laid i'the broken skull vpo'the ground for's pil­low; against the which they thought he fell and perish'd.

What! Doest start at thunder? Credit my beliefe, t'is a meere effect of nature. An exhalation hot and dry, inuolu'd within a watrie vapour i'the middle religion of the ayre. Whose cold­nesse congealing that thicke moysture to a cloud: the angry exhalation shut within a prison of contrary qualitie, striues to be free; and with the violent eruption through the grossenesse of that cloud; makes this noyse we heare.

T'is a fearefull noyse.

T'is a braue noyse. And mee thinkes graces our ac­complishid proiect, as a peale of Ordnance does a triumph. It speakes encouragement. Now Nature showes thee how it sa­uour'd our performance; to forbeare this noyse when wee set forth, because it should not terrifie my brothers going home; which would haue dash'd our purpose: To forbeare this light­ning in our passage, least it should ha'warn'd him o'the pitfall. Then propitious Nature winck'd at our proceedings; [Page] now it doth expresse, how that forbearance fauour'd our suc­cesse.

Our next endeauour is; since on the false report that Charlemont is dead, depends the fabrique of the worke; to cre­dit that with all the countenance wee can.

Faith Sir, euen let his owne inheritance, whereof y'aue dispossess'd him, countenance the act. Spare so much out of that, to giue him a solempnitie of funerall. T'will quit the cost; and make your apprehension of his death appeare more confi­dent and true.

Th'art welcome into my chamber; Fresco. Prithee shut the dore.—Nay thou mistakest me. Come in and shut it.

T'is somewhat late Madame.

No matter. I haue somewhat to say to thee. What? is not thy mistresse towards a husband yet?

Faith Madame, shee has suitors. But they will not suite her me thinkes. They will not come off lustily it seemes.

They will not come on lustily, thou wouldst say.

I meane (Madame) they are not rich enough.

But I ( Fresco) they are not bold enough. Thy Mi­stresse is of a liuely attractiue bloud Fr [...] sco. And in troth shee's o'my minde for that. A poore spirit is poorer then a poore purse. Give me a fellow that brings not onely temptation with him, but has the actiuitie of wit, and audacitie of spirit to apply euery word and gesture of a womans speech and behauiour to his owne desire; and make her beleeue shee's the suitor her selfe. Neuer giue backe till he has made her yeeld to 'it.

Indeede among our equals Madame; but otherwise we shall be put horribly out o'countenance.

Thou art deceiu'd, Fresco. Ladyes are as cou [...]teous as Yeomens wiue [...], and me thinkes they should be more gentle. Hot diet and soft ease makes em (like waxe alwaies kept warme) more easie to take impression.—Prithee vntie my shooe. —What? art thou shamefac'd too? Goe roundly to worke man. My legge is not goutie: t'will endure the feeling I warrant thee Come hither Fresco; thine eare.—S'daintie; I mis­tooke the place. I miss'd thine eare and hit thy lip.

Your Lad [...]ship has made me blush.

That showes th'art full o'lustie bloud [...] and thou know­est not how to vse it. Let mee see thy hand. Thou shouldst not be shamefac'd by thy hand, Fresco. Here's a brawny flesh and a hairy skinne: both signes of an able body. I doe not like these flegmaticke, smooth-skinn'd, soft-flesh'd fellowes. They are like candied Suckets, when they begin to perish; which I would alwayes emptie my Closet off, and giue'em my chamber-maid. —I haue some skill in Palmestry: by this line that stands di­rectly against mee; thou shouldst be neare a good fortune. Fresco, if thou hadst the grace to entertaine it.

O what is that Madame? I pray!

No lesse then the loue of a faire Lady, if thou doest not lose her with faint-heartednesse.

A Lady, Madame? alas a Lady is a great thing, I cannot compasse her.

No? Why? I am a Lady, Am I so great I cannot be com­passed? Claspe my wast and try.

I could finde i'my heart Madame.

Vds body; my Husband! Faint-hearted foole! I thinke thou wert begotten betweene the North-pole, and the con­geal'd passage. Now like an ambitious Coward that betrayes himselfe with fearefull delay: you must suffer for the treason you neuer committed. Goe hide thy selfe behind yound'arras, instantly.

Sebastian! What doe you here so late?

Nothing yet; but I hope I shall.—

Y'are very bold.

And you very valiant; for you met mee at full Ca­riere.

You come to ha'me moue your fathers reconciliation. Ile write a word or two i'your behalfe.

A word or two, Madame? that you doe for mee, will not be contain'd in lesse then the compasse of two sheetes. But in plaine termes, shall wee take the opportunitie of priuate­nesse?

What to doe?

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

Why not after the French or Italian?

Fie. They dance it preposterously; backward.

Are you so actiue to dance?

I can shake my heeles.

Y'are well made for't.

Measure me from top to toe; you shall not finde mee differ much from the true standard of proportion.

I thinke I am accurs'd. Sebastian! There's one at the doore has beaten opportunitie away from vs. In briefe, I loue thee. And it shall not be long before I giue thee a testimony of it. To saue thee now from suspition; doe no more but draw thy Rapier; chase thy selfe; and when hee comes in, rush by with­out taking notice of him. Onely seeme to be angry, and let me alone for the rest.

Now by the hand of M [...]rcurie.

What's the matter wife?

Ooh, Ooh, Husband!

Prithee what ail'st thou woman?

O feele my pulse. It beates I warrant you. Be patient a little sweet Husband; tarry but till my breath come to me a­gaine, and Ile satisfie you.

What a [...]les Sebastian, he lookes so distractedly?

The poore Gentleman's almost out on's wits I thinke. You remember the displeasure his Father tooke against him about the liberty of speech he vs'd euen now when your daugh­ter went to be marryed.

Yes, what of that?

T'has craz'd him sure: he met a poore man i'the street euen now. Vpou what quarrell I know not: but hee pursued him so violently, that if my house had not beene his rescue; he had surely ki [...]d him.

What a strange desperate young man is that!

Nay husband, hee grew so in rage when hee saw the man was conueyed from him, that he was ready euen to haue drawne his naked weapon vpon mee. And had not your knock­ing at the doore preuented him; surely h'ad done something to mee.

Where's the man?

Alas here. I warrant you the poore fearefull soule is scarce come to himselfe againe yet.—If the foole haue any wit hee will apprehend mee.—Doe you heare sir [...] You may be bold to come forth; the Fury that haunted you is gone.

Are you sure hee is gone?

Hee's gone; hee's gone, I warrant thee.

I would I were gone too. Has shooke mee almost into a dead palsie.

How fell the difference betweene you?

I would I were out at the backe doore.

Th'art safe enough. Prithee tell's the falling out.

Yes sir, when I haue recouered my spirits. My me­mory is almost frighted from mee.—Oh so, so, so.— Why Sir, as I came along the streete Sir;—this same Gentle­man came stumbling after mee, and trod o'my hecle,— [Page] I cryed O. Doe you cry sirrah? saies hee. Let mee see your heele; if it be not hurt, Ile make you cry for something. So he claps my head betweene his legges, and pulles off my shooe. I hauing shifted no sockes in a sea' night, the Gentleman cryed foh; and said my feete were base and cowardly feete, they stuncke for feare. Then hee knock'd my shooe about my pate, and I cryed O, once more. In the meane time comes a shag. hair'd dogge by, and rubbes against his shinnes. The Gentle­man tooke the dog in shagge-haire to be some Watch-man in a rugge gowne; and swore hee would hang mee vp at the next doore with my lanthorne in my hand, th [...]t passengers might see their way as they went without rubbing against Gentle­mens shinnes. So, for want of a Cord. hee tooke his owne garters off; and as he was going to make a nooze, I watch'd my time and ranne away. And as I ranne (indeede) I bid him hang himselfe in his owne gatters. So hee in choler, puisued mee hi­ther as you see.

Why this sauours of distraction.

Of meere distraction.

How soeuer it sauours, I am sure it smels like a lye.

Thou maist goe forth at the backe doore (honest fel­low) the way is priuate and safe.

So it had neede, for your fore-doore (here) is both common and dangerous.

Good night honest Fresco.

Good night Madame; if you get mee kissing o'Ladies againe.—

For God's sake Serieant relieue me, aboue fiue houres together in so foule a stormy night as this?

Why t'isa musique Souldier. Heauen and earth are now in consort, when the Thunder and the Canon play one to ano­ther.

I know not why I should be thus inclin'd to sleepe, I feele my disposition press'd with a necessitie of heauines. Soul­dier! if thou hast any better eyes, I prithee wake mee when the Serieant comes.

Sir, t'is so darke and stormy that I shall scarce eyther see or heare him e'er he comes vpon mee.

I cannot [...]orce my selfe to wake.—

You dreame Sir; I saw nothing.

Stand. Stand, I say. No? Why then haue at thee. Sir, if you will not stand, Ile make you fall? Nor stand, nor fall? Nay then the Diuel's damme has broke her husbands head: for sure it is a Spirit, I shot it through, and yet it will not fall.

Sir, I confesse in particular respect to your selfe, I was somewhat forgetfull. Gen'rall honestie possess'd me.

Goe, th'art the base corruption of my bloud; And like a Tetter growes't vnto my flesh.

Inflict any punishment vpon me. The seueritie shall not discourage me, if it be not shamefull; so you'l but put mo­ney i'my purse. The want of money makes a free spirit more mad then the possession does an Vsurer.

Not a farthing.

Would you ha'me turne purse-taker? T'is the next way to doe't. For want is like the Racque; it drawes a man to endanger himselfe to the gallowes rather then endure it.

What art thou? Stay. Assist my troubled sence. My apprehension will distract me. Stay.

What art thou? speake.

The spirit of Charlemont.

O stay! compose me. I dissolue.

No. T'is prophane. Spirits are inuisible. T'is the fiend i'the likenesse of Charlemont. I will haue no conuersation with Sathan.

You torture me betweene the passion of my bloud, and the religion of my soule,

A good honest fellow.

What? wounded? apprehend him. Sir; is this your salutation for the courtesie I did you when wee parted last? You ha'forgot I lent you a thousand Crownes. First, let him aunswere for this riot. When the Law is satisfied for that; an an action for his debt shall clap him vp againe. I tooke you for a Spirit; and Ile coniure you before I ha'done.

No. Ile turne Coniurer. Diuell! within this Circle, in the midst of all thy force and malice I coniure thee doe thy worst.

Away with him.

Sir, I haue got a scratch or two here for your sake. I hope you'l giue mee money to pay the Surgeon.

Borachio! fetch me a thousand Crownes. I am con­tent to countenance the freedome of your spirit when t'is wor­thily imployed. A Gods name giue behauiour the full scope of gen'rous libertie; but let it not disperse and spend it selfe in courses of vnbounded licence. Here, pay for your hurts.

I thanke you sir.—Gen'rous libertie.—that is to say, freely to bestow my habilities to honest purposes. Me thinkes I should not follow that instruction now; if hauing the [Page] meanes to doe an honest office for an honest fellow, I should neglect it. Charlemont lyes in prison for a thousand Crownes. And here I haue a thousand Crownes. Honestie tels meet'were well done to release Charlemont. But discretion sayes I had much a doe to come by this; and when this shall be gone I know not where to singer any more: especially if I employ it to this vse, which is like to endanger mee into my Fathers per­petuall displeasure. And then I may goe hang my selfe, or be forc'd to doe that, will make another saue mee the labour. No matter. Charlemont! Thou gau'st mee my life and that's some­what of a purer earth then gold as fine as it is. T'is no courte­sie I doe thee but thankefulnesse. I owe thee it and Ile pay it. Hee sought brauely, but the Officers drag'd him villanously. Arrant knaues! for vsing him so discourtcously; may the sins o'the poore people be so few, that you sha'not be able to spare so much out o'your gettings, as will pay for the hyre of a lame staru'd hackney to ride to an execution. But goe a foote to the gallowes, and be hang'd. May elder brothers turne good hus­bands, and younger brothers get good wiues; that there be no neede of debt-bookes, nor vse of Serieants. May there be all peace but i'the warre, and all charitie but i'the Diuell; so that prisons may be turn'd to Hospitals, though the Officers liue othe beneuolence. If this curse might come to passe, the world would say, Blessed be he that curseth.

Here. Take my sword.—How now my wilde Swag'rer? y'are tame enough now; are you not? The penurie of a prison is like a soft consumption. T'will humble the pride o' your mortalitie; and arme your soule in compleate patience to endure the waight of affliction without feeling it. What? Hast no musicke in thee? Th'hast trebles and bases enough. Treble iniurie; and base vsage. But trebles and bases make poore musick without meanes. Thou want'st Meanes; Doest? what? Doest droope? art deiected?

T'is brauely spoken; and I loue thee for't. Thou liest here for a thousand crownes. Here are a thousand to re­deeme thee. Not for the ransome o'my life thou gau'st mee. That I value not at one crowne. T'is none o'my deed. Thanke my Father for't. T'is his goodnesse. Yet hee lookes not for thankes. For he does it vnder hand; out of a reseru'd dispo­sition to doe thee good without ostentation.—Out o' great heart you'l refus't now; will you?

No. Since I must submit my selfe to Fate; I neuer will neglect the offer of one benefit; but entertaine them as her fauours; and th'inductions to some end of better fortune. As whose instrument; I thanke thy courtesie.

Well, come along.

COme Soquette; your worke! let's examine your worke. What's here? a Medlar with a Plum-tree growing hard by it; The leaues o' the Plum-tree falling off; the gumme issuing out o' the perish'd ioynts; and the branches some of 'em dead, and some rotten; and yet but a young Plum-tree. In good sooth, very prettie.

The Plum-tree (forsooth) growes so neare the Med­lar, that the Medlar suckes and drawes all the sap from it; and the naturall strength o' the ground, so that it cannot pros­per.

How conceipted you are! But heere th'ast made a Tree to beare no fruit. Why's that?

There growes a Sauin-tree next it forsooth.

Forsooth you are a little too wittie in that.

But this Honisuckle windes about this white-thorne very prettily and louingly; sweet Mistresse Cataplasma.

Monsieur Sebastian! in good sooth very vprightly welcome this euening.

What? moralizing vpon this Gentlewomans needle­worke? let's see.

No Sir. Onely examining whether it be done to the true nature and life o' the thing?

Heere y'haue set a Medlar with a Batchelers-button o' one side; and a Snaile o' th'tother. The Batchelers-button should haue held his head vp more pertly towards the Med­lar; [Page] the Snaile o'th'tother side, should ha'beene wrought with an artificiall lazinesse, doubling his taile, and putting out his horne but halfe the length. And then the Medlar falling (as it were) from the lazie Snaile, and enclining towards the pert Batchelers-button; their branches spreading and winding one within another as if they did embrace. But heere's a morall. A poppring Peare-tree growing vpon the banke of a Riuer; seeming continually to looke downewards into the water, as if it were enamour'd of it; and euer as the fruit ripens, lets it fall for loue (as it were) into her lap. Which the wanton Streame, like a Strumpet, no sooner receiues, but she carries it away, and bestowes it vpon some other creature she maintaines: still see­ming to play and dally vnder the Poppring, so long, that it has almost wash'd away the earth from the roote; and now the poore Tree stands as if it were readie to fall and perish by that whereon it spent all the substance it had.

Morall for you that loue those wanton running wa­ters.

But is not my Lady Leuidulcia come yet?

Her purpose promis'd vs her companie ere this. Lirie! your Lute and your Booke.

Well said. A lesson o' th'Lute to entertaine the time with till she comes.

Sol, fa, mi, la.—Mi, mi mi.—Precious! Doest not see mi betweene the two Crochets? Strike mee full there.—So—forward.—This is a sweet straine, and thou finger'st it beastly. Mi is a laerg there; and the prick that stands before mi, a long; alwaies halfe your note.— Now—Runne your diuision pleasingly with those qua­uers. Obserue all your graces i'the touch.—Heere's a sweet cloze—strike it full, it sets off your musicke deli­cately.

Puritie be in this House.

T'is now enter'd; and welcome with your good La­diship.

Cease that musicke. Here's a sweeter instrument.

Restraine your libertie. See you not Snuffe?

What does the Stinkard here? put Snuffe out. He's offensiue.

No. The credit of his companie defends my being abroad from the eye of Suspition.

Wil't please your Ladiship goe vp into the Closet? There are those Falles and Tyres I tolde you of.

Monsieur Snuffe, I shall request your patience. My stay will not be long.

My duty Madame.—Falles and Tyres? I begin to suspect what Falles and Tyres you meane. My Lady and Sebastian the Fall and the Tyre, and I the Shadow. I perceiue the puritie of my conuersation is vs'd but for a propertie to co­uer the vncleanenesse of their purposes. The very contempla­tion o' the thing, makes the spirit of the flesh begin to wriggle in my bloud. And heere my desire has met with an obiect al­readie. This Gentlewoman (me thinkes) should be swayed with the motion; liuing in a house where mouing example is so common. Temptation has preuail'd ouer mee; and I will at­tempt to make it ouercome her.—Mistresse Cataplasma! My Lady (it seemes) has some businesse that requires her stay. The fairenesse o' the euening inuites me into the ayre; will it please you giue this Gentlewoman leaue to leaue her worke, and walke a turne or two with me for honest recreation?

With all my heart Sir. Goe Soqu [...]ite; giue eare to his instructions; you may get vnderstanding by his companie I can tell you.

In the way of holinesse; Mistresse Cataplasma.

Good Monsieur Snuffe!—I will attend your returne.

Twelue.

T'is a good houre, t'will strike one anon.

How fit a place for contemplation is this dead of night, among the dwellings of the dead.—This graue.— Perhappes th'inhabitant vvas in his life time the possessour of his owne desires. Yet in the midd'st of all his greatnesse and his wealth; he was lesse rich and lesse contented, then in [Page] this poore piece of earth, lower and lesser then a Cottage. For heere he neither wants nor cares. Now that his body fauours of corruption; Hee enioyes a sweeter rest then e'er hee did a­mongst the sweetest pleasures of this life. For heere, there's nothing troubles him.—And there.—In that graue lies another. He (perhaps) was in his life as full of miserie as this of happinesse. And here's an end of both. Now both their states are equall. O that Man, with so much labour should a­spire to wordly height; when in the humble earth, the world's condition's at the best! Or scorne inferiour men; since to be lower then a worme, is to be higher then a King!

Then fall and rise.

What villaines hand was that? saue thee or thou shalt perish.

Zownes vnsau'd I thinke.

What? Haue I kill'd him? whatsoe'er thou beest I would thy hand had prosper'd. For I was vnfit to liue, and well prepar'd to die. What shall I doe? accuse my selfe. Submit me to the law, and that will quickly end this violent encrease of miserie. But t'is a murther to be accessarie to mine owne death. I will not. I will take this opportunitie to scape. It may be Heau'n reserues me to some better end.

Nay good Sir; I dare not. In good sooth I come of a generation both by Father and Mother, that were all as fruit­full as Costard-mongers wiues.

Tush then, a Timpanie is the greatest danger can be fear'd. Their fruitfulnesse turnes but to a certaine kind of fleg­matique windie disease.

I must put my vnderstanding to your trust Sir. I would be loath to be deceiu'd.

No, conceiue; thou sha't not. Yet thou shalt profit by my instruction too. My bodie is not euery day drawne dry wench.

Yet mee thinkes Sir, your want of vse should rather make your body like a Well, the lesser t'is drawne, the sooner it growes dry.

Thou shalt try that instantly.

But we want place and opportunity.

We haue both. This is the backe side of the House which the superstitious call Saint Winifrea', Church; and is ve­rily a conuenient vnfrequented place.—Where vnder the close Curtaines of the night;

You purpose i'the darke to make me light.

But what ha' you there?

This disguise is for securitie sake wench. There's a talke thou know'st, that the Ghoast of olde Mon ferrers walks. In this Church he was buried. Now if any stranger fall vpon vs before our businesse be ended; in this disguise I shall be taken for that Ghoast; and neuer be call'd to examination I warrant thee. Thus wee shall scape both preuention and discouerie. How doe I looke in this habite wench?

So like a Ghost that notwithstanding I haue som fore­knowledge of you, you make my haire stand almost an end.

I will try how I can kisse in this beard.—O fie, fie, fie. I will put it off; and then kisse; and then put it on. I can doe the rest without kissing.

What ha' wee heere? a Sheete? a haire? a beard? What end was this disguise intended for? No matter what. I'le not expostulate the purpose of a friendly accident. Perhaps it may accommodate my scape.—I feare I am pursued. For more assurance, I'le hide mee heere i'th Charnell house; this conuccation-house of dead mens sculles.—

Death's head! deceiu'st my hold? Such is the trust to all mor­talitic.—

My Lord! The night growes late. Your Lordship spake of something you desir'd to moue in priuate.

Yes. Now I'le speake it. Th'argument is loue. The smallest ornament of thy sweet forme (that abstract of all plea­sure) can command the sences into passion; and thy entire per­fection is my obiect; yet I loue thee with the freedome of my reason. I can giue thee reason for my loue.

Loue me; my Lord? I doe beleeue it, for I am the wife of him you loue.

T'is true. By my perswasion thou wert forc'd to marrie one, vnable to performe the office of a Husband. I was author of the wrong. My conscience suffers vnder't; and I would disburthen it by satisfaction.

How?

I will supply that pleasure to thee which he cannot.

Are y'a diuell or a man?

A man; and such a man, as can returne thy enter­tainment with as prodigall a body, as the couetous desire of woman euer was delighted with. So, that besides the full per­formance of thy empty Husbands dutie; thou shalt haue the ioy of children to continue the succession of thy bloud. For the appetite that steales her pleasure; drawes the forces of the body to an vnited strength; and puts 'em altogether into acti­on; neuer failes of procreation. All the purposes of Man aime but at one of these two ends; pleasure or profit: And in this one sweet coniunction of our loues. they both will meete. Would it not grieue thee, that a Stranger to thy bloud, should lay the first foundation of his house vpon the ruines of thy family?

Now Heau'n defend me! May my memorie be vt­terly extinguish'd; and the heire of him that was my Fathers enemie, raise his eternall monument vpon our ruines; ere the greatest pleasure or the greatest profit, euer tempt me to con­tinue it by incest.

Incest? Tush. These distances affinitie obserues; are articles of bondage cast vpon our freedomes by our owne sub­iections. Nature allowes a gen'rall libertie of generation to all [Page] creatures else. Shall Man to whose command and vse all crea­tures were made subiect be lesse free then they?

O God! is thy vnlimited and infinite omnipotence lesse free because thou doest no ill? or if you argue meerely out of Nature; doe you not degenerate from that; and are you not vnworthie the prerogatiue of Natures Maister-piece, when basely you prescribe your selfe authoritie and law from their examples whom you should command? I could confute you; but the horrour of the argument confounds my vnderstand­ing. —Sir, I know, you doe but try me in your Sonnes be­halfe; suspecting that my strength and youth of bloud can­not containe themselues with impotence.—Beleeue me (Sir) I neuer wrong'd him. If it be your lust; O quench it on their prostituted flesh, whose trade of sinne can please desire with more delight, and lesse offence.—The poyson of your breath; euaporated from so foule a soule; infects the ayre more then the dampes that rise from bodies but halfe rotten in their graues.

Kisse me, I warrant thee my breath is sweet. These dead mens bones lie heere of purpose to inuite vs to supply the number of the liuing. Come; we'l get young bones and doe't. I will enioy thee. No? Nay then inuoke your great suppos'd protectour; I will doe't.

Suppos'd protectour? Are y'an Athiest? Then, I know my prayers and teares are spent in vaine. O patient Heau'n! Why doest thou not expresse thy wrath in thunder­bolts; to teare the frame of man in pieces? How can earth en­dure the burthen of this wickednesse without an earthquake? Or the angry face of Heau'n be not enflam'd with ligh­ning.

Coniure vp the Diuell and his Dam; Crie to the graues; the dead can heare thee; inuocate their helpe.

O would this graue might open, and my body were bound to the dead carkasse of a man for euer, e're it entertaine the lust of this detested villaine.

Tereas-like, thus I will force my passage to—

The Diuell.

[Page]Charlemont [...] the disguise and frights D'amville away. Now Lady! with the hand of Charlemont, I thus redeeme you from the arme of lust.—My Castabella!

My deare Charlemont!

For all my wrongs I thanke thee gracious Heau'n; th'ast made me satisfaction; to reserue me for this blessed pur­pose. Now sweet Death, I'le bid thee welcome. Come. I'le guard thee home; and then I'le cast my selfe into the armes of apprehension, that the law may make this worthie worke, the crowne of all my actions being the best and last.

The last? The law? Now Heau'n forbid! what ha'you done?

Why, I haue kill'd a man; not murder'd him, my Castabella; He would ha'murder'd me.

Then Charlemont; the hand of Heau'n directed thy defence.

My life he seekes. I would he had it since he has de­priu'd mee of those blessings that should make mee loue it; Come; I'le giue it him.

You sha'not. I will first expose my selfe to certaine danger, then for my defence destroy the man that sau'd mee from destruction.

Thou canst not satisfie me better, then to be the instrument of my release from miserie.

Then worke it by escape. Leaue mee to this prote­ction that still guards the innocent; Or I will be a partner in your destinie.

Verily thou lyest in a fine premiditate readinesse for the pur­pose. Come kisse me sweet Soquette.—Now puritie de­fend me from the sinne of Sodom.—This is a creature of the [Page] ma [...]culine gender.—Verily the Man is blasted.— Yea? cold and stiffe?—Murder, murder, murder.

Why doest thou stare vpon me? Thou art not the scull of him I murder'd. What hast thou to doe to vexe my conscience? Sure thou wert the head of a most dogged V [...]urer, th'art so vncharitable. And that Bawde the skie, there; she could shut the windowes and the dores of this great chamber of the world; and draw the curtaines of the clouds betweene those lights and me about this bed of earth, when that same Stumpet Murder & my selfe committed sin together. Then she could leaue vs [...] the darke, till the close deed was done: But now, that I begin to feele the loathsome horrour of my sinne; and (like a Leacher emptied of his lust) desire to burie my face vn­der my eye-browes, and would steale from my shame vnseene; she meetes me i'th face with all her light corrupted eyes, to challenge payment o' mee.—O beholde. Yonder's the Gh [...]ast of olde Mon [...]ferrers in a long white sheete, climbing yo [...]d loftie mountaine to complaine to Heau'n of me.— Montferrers! 'pox o' fearefulnesse. T' is nothing but a fa [...]re white cloude. Why? was I borne a coward? He lies that sayes so. Yet the count'nance of a bloudlesse worme might ha' the courage now to turne my bloud to water. The trembling mo­tion of an Aspen leafe, would make me like the shadow of that leafe he shaking vnder't. I could now commit a murder', were it but to drinke the fresh warme bloud of him I murder'd; to supply the want and weakenesse o'mine owne; t'is growne so colde and f [...]egmaticke.

Murder, murder, murder.

Mountaines o'erwhelme mee, the Ghoast of olde Montferrers haunts me.

Murder, murder, murder.

O were my body circumuolu'd within that cloude; that when the thunder teares his passage open, it might scatter me to nothing in the ayre!

Here you shali finde the murder'd body.

Black Beelzebub, and all his hell-hounds come to apprehend me?

No my good Lord. Wee come to apprehend the murderer. The Ghoast (great Pluto) was a foole; vnfit to be imployed in any serious businesse for the state of hell. Why? could not he ha' suffer'd me to raise the mountaine o' my sinnes with one as damnable as all the rest; and then ha' tumbled me to ruine? But apprehend me e'en betweene the purpose and the act? before it was committed?

Is this the murderer? He speakes suspitiously.

No verily. This is my Lord D'amville. And his di­straction (I thinke) growes out of his griefe for the losse of a faithfull seruant. For surely I take him to be Borachio that is slaine.

Haah! Borachio slaine? Thou look'st like Snuffe, doest not.

Yes in sincerity my Lord.

Harke thee?—Sawest thou not a Ghoast?

A Ghoast? where my Lord?—I smell a Foxe.

Heere i' the Churchyard.

Tush, tush; their walking spirits are meere imagina­rie fables. There's no such thing in rerum natura. Heere is a man slaine. And with the Spirit of confideration, I rather think him to be the murderer got into that disguise, then any such phantastique toy.

My braines begin to put themselues in order. I ap­prehend thee now.—T'is e'en so.— Borachio! I will search the Center but I'le finde the murderer.

Heere, heere, heere.—

Stay. A sleepe? so soundly? and so sweetly vpon Deathes Heads? and in a place so full of feare and horrour? Sure there is some other happinesse within the freedome of the conscience, then my knowledge e'er attain'd too.—Ho, ho, ho!

'Precious! I was sent by his Lady to see if her Lord were in bed; I should ha' done't slily without discouery; and now I am blurted vpon 'em before I was aware.

Know not you the Gentlewoman my wise brought home?

By sight my Lord. Her man was here but now.

Her man? I pr'ithee runne and call him quickly.— This villaine. I suspect him euer since I found him hid behind the Tapestry.— Frisco! th'art welcome Frisco.—Leaue vs. Doest heare Frisco! is not my wife at thy Mistresses?

I know not my Lord.

I prithee tell me Frisco; we are priuate; tell me. Is not thy Mistresse a good wench?

How meanes your Lordship that? A wench o'the trade.

Yes faith Frisco; e'en a wench o'the trade.

O no my Lord. Those falling diseases cause baldnesse; and my Mistresse recouers the losse of haire, for she is a Peri­wig-maker.

And nothing else?

Sels Falls and Tyres, and Bodies for Ladies; or so.

So Sir: and she helpes my Lady to falles and bodies now and then; doe's she not?

At her Ladiships pleasure; my Lord.

Her pleasure; you Rogue? you are the Pandar to her pleasure you Varlet, are you not? you know the conueyances betweene Sebastian and my wife. Tell me the truth; or by this hand I'le naile thy bosome to the earth. Stirre not you Dogge; but quickly tell the truth.

O Yes!

Is not thy Mistresse a Bawde to my wife?

O yes!

And acquainted with her trickes, and her plots, and her deuises.

O yes! If any man, 'Court, Citie or Countrey, has found my Lady Leuidulcia in bed, but my Lord Beforest, it is Sebastian.

What doest thou proclaime it? Doest thou crie it thou villaine?

Can you laugh it my Lord? I thought you meant to proclaime your selfe Cuckold.

The Watch? Met with my wish. I must request th'as­sistance of your offices.

S'death; stay that villaine; pursue him.

Nay, if you get me any more into the Churchyard.

Why Soquette? I neuer got thee there yet.

Got me there? No. Not with childe.

I promis'd thee I would not; and I was as good as my word.

Yet your word was better then than your deede. But, steale vp into the little matted chamber o'the left hand.

I prithee let it be the right hand; thou left'st me before and I did not like that.

'Precious quickly; So soone as my Mistresse shall be in bed I'le come to you.

I wonder Frisco stayes so long.

Mistreffe Soquette, a word with you.—

If he brings word my Husband is i'bed; I will aduen­ture one nights liberty to lie abroad.—My strange affe­ction to this Man!—T'is like that naturall sympathie which e'en among the sencelesse creatures of the earth, commands a mutuall inclination and consent: For though it seemes to be the free effect of mine owne voluntarie loue; yet I can neither restraine it, nor giue reason for't. But now t'is done; and in your power it lies to saue my honour; or dishonour me.

Enioy your pleasure (Madame) without feare. I ne­uer will betray the trust you haue committed to me. And you wrong your selfe, to let consideration of the sinne; molest your conscience. Mc thinkes t'is vniust, that a reproach should be inflicted on a woman for offending but with one; when t'is a light offence in Husbands to commit with many.

So it seemes to me.—Why how now Sebastian? making loue to that Gentlewoman? How many mistresses ha' you [...]' [...]aith?

In faith; none. For I think none of 'em are faithfull, [Page] but otherwise as many as cleane Shirts. The loue of a woman is like a Mushrom; it growes in one night, and will serue som­what pleasingly, next morning to breakfast: but afterwards waxes fulsome and vnwholesome.

Nay by Saint Wi [...]fred; a woman's loue lasts as long as Winter fruit.

T'is true. Till new come in. By my experience no longer.

Some bodie's doing has vndone vs; and we are like pay dearely for't.

Pay deane? for what?

Wil't not be a chargeable reckoning, thinke you; when heere are halfe a dozen fellowes comming to callvs to accompt, with eu'rie man a seuerall bill in his hand, that wee are not able to discharge.

Passion o' me. What bouncing's that? Madame! withdraw your selfe.

Sebastian if you loue me, saue my honour.

What violence is this? What seeke you? Zownes! you shall not passe.

Pursue the Strumpet. Villaine giue mee way; or I will make my passage through thy bloud.

My bloud will make it slipperie my Lord. T'were bet­ter you would take another way. You may hap [...] fall else.

I ha't ifaith.

O God! my Husband! my Sebastian! Husband! Neither can spake; yet both report my shame. Is this the sauing of my Honour? when their bloud runnes out in riuers; and my lust the fountaine whence it flowes? Deare Husband [...] let not thy departed spirit be displeas'd; if with adult rate lips I kisse thy cheeke. Heere I behold the hatefulnesse of lust; which brings me kneeling to embrace him dead; whose body [Page] liuing I did loathe to touch. Now I can weepe. But what can teares doe good; when I weepe onely water, they weepe bloud? But could I make an Ocean with my teares; that on the [...]oud this broken vessell of my body, laden heauie with light lust might suffer shipwrack, and so drowne my shame: then wee­ping were to purpose; but alas! The Sea wants water enough to wash away the [...]oulenesse of my name. O [...] in their wounds; I feele my honour wounded to the death. Shall I out-liue my Honour? Must my life be made the worlds example? Since it must; then thus in detestation of my deede; to make th'eexam­ple moue more forceably to vertue; thus, I feale it with a death as full of horrour as my life of sinne.

Hold Madame! Lord what a strange night is this.

May not Snuffe be suffer'd to goe out of himselfe?

Whence comes this gold?

To bed. Leau [...] me my gold.

The body of your younger Sonne slaine by the Lord Belforest.

Slaine? you lie.— Sebastian. Speake, Seba­stian! H'as lost his hearing. A Phisi [...]ian presently. Goe call a Surgeon.

Ooh.

What groane was that? How does my elder Sonne? the sound came from his chamber.

He went sicke to bed my Lord.

Ooh.

The cries of Mandrakes neuer touch'd the eare, with more sad horrour then that voice does mine.

Neuer you will see your Sonne aliue.—

Me thinkes, he's ready to giue vp the ghoast.

Destruction take thee and thy fatall tongue. Death, where's the Doctor?—A [...] not thou the fact of that pro­digious apparition s [...]ar'd vpon me in my dreame?

The Doctor's come my Lord.

Doctor! Behold two Patients, in whose [...] thy [Page] skill may purchase an eternall fame. If thou hast any reading in Hipocrates, Galen, or A [...]ice [...]; if hearbs, or drugges, or mi­neralles haue any power to saue; Now let thy practise and their soueraigne vse, raise thee to wealth and honour.

If any roote of life remaines within'em capable of Phisicke; feare'em not, my Lord.

Ooh.

His gasping sighes are like the falling noise of some great building when the ground-worke breakes. On these two pillars stood the stately frame, and architecture of my lo [...]tie house. An Earthquake shakes'em. The foundation shrinkes. Deere Nature! in whose honour I haue rais'd a worke of glory to posteritie; O burie not the pride of that great action, vnder the fall and ruine of it selfe.

My Lord. These bodies are depriu'd of all the ra­dicall abilitie of Nature. The heat of life is vtterly extinguish'd. Nothing remaines within the power of man that can restore them.

Take this gold; extract the Spirit of it, and inspire new life into their bodies.

Nothing can my Lord.

You ha'not yet examin'd the true state and consti­tution of their bodies. Sure, you ha'not. I'le reserue their wa­ters till the morning. Questionlesse, their vrines will informe you better.

Ha, ha, ha.

Do'st laugh thou villaine! must my wisedome that has beene the obiect of mens admiration, now become the sub­iect of thy laughter?

Ooh.

Hee's dead.

O there expires the date of my posteritie! Can Na­ture be so simple or malicious to destroy the reputation of her proper memorie? Shee cannot. Sure there is some power a­boue her that con [...]roules her force.

A power aboue Nature? Doubt you that my Lord? Consider but whence Man receiues his body and his forme. [Page] Not from corruption like some wormes and Flies; but onely from the generation of a man. For Nature neuer did bring forth a man without a Man; Nor could the first Man being but the passiue Subiect not the actiue Mouer, be the maker of himselfe; So of necessitie there must be a Superiour power to Nature.

Now to my selfe I am ridiculous. Nature thou art a Traytour to my soule. Thou hast abus'd my trust. I will complaine to a superiour Court, toright my wrong I'le proue thee a forger of false assurances. In yond' Starre chamber thou shalt answere it. Withdraw the bodies. O the sence of death begins to trouble my distractedsoule.

My Lord; I am a Gentlewoman: yet I must con­fesse my pouertie compels my life to a condition lower then my birth or breeding.

Good my Lord her rent is great. The good Gen­tlewoman has no other thing to liue by but her lodgings: So, she's forc'd to let her fore-roomes out to others, and her selfe contented to lie backwards.

So.

Now Monsieur Snuffe! A man of your profession, found in a place of such impietie?

I grant you. The place is full of impuritie. So much the more neede of instruction and reformation. The purpose that caried me thither, was with the Spirit of conuersion to pu­rifie their vncleanenesse; and I hope your Lordship will say, the law cannot takehold o' me for that.

I am no Scholler my Lord. To speake the sincere truth, I am Snuffe the Tallow-Chandler.

How comes your habite to be alter'd thus?

My Lord Belforest taking a delight in the cleane­nesse of my conuersation; withdrew mee from that vncleane life, and put me in a garment fit for his societie and my pre­sent profession.

Thus the Snuffe is put out.

Iudgement; Iudgement.

Your Iudgements must resolue me in a case. Bring in the bodies. Nay; I will ha't tried. This is the case my Lord. My prouidence, eu'n in a moment; by the onely hurt of one, or two, or three, at most: and those put quickly out o' paine too, marke mee; I had wisely rais'd a competent estate to my posteritie. And is there not more wisedome and more charity in that; then for your Lordship, or your Father, or your Grand­sire, to prolong the torment, and the rack of rent from age to age, vpon your poore penurious Tenants? yet (perhaps) with­out a pennie profit to your heire. Is't not more wise [...] more cha­ritable? Speake.

How? distracted? Then you ha'no Iudgement. I can giue you sence and solide reason for the very least distinguish­able syllable I speake. Since my thrist was more iudicious then your Grandsires; why, I would faine know why your Lordship liues to make a second generation from your Father, and the [Page] your Father; and the whole frie of my posteritie extinguish'd in a moment. Not a Brat left to succeede me.—I would faine know that.

Vnciuill Boy! Thou want'st humanitie to smile at griefe. Why doest thou cast a chearefull eye vpon the obiect of my sorrow? my dead Sonnes?

Y'are all vnciuill. O! is't not enough that hee vn­iustly hath conspir'd with Fate, to cut off my posteritie for him to be the heire to my possessions; but he must pursue me with his presence; and in the ostentation of his ioy, laugh in my face, and glory in my griefe?

I haue bethought me of a better way.—Nephew; we must conferre.—Sir; I am growne a wondrous Studi­ent now o'late. My wit has reach'd beyond the scope of Na­ture; yet for all my learning I am still to seeke, from whence the peace of conscience should proceede.

The peace of conscience rises in it selfe.

Whether it be thy Art or Nature, I admire thee [Page] Charlemont. Why; thou hast taught a woman to be valiant. I will begge thy life.—My Lords! I begge my Nephewes life.—I'le make thee my Phisitian. Thou shalt read Phi­losophie to me. I will finde out th'efficient cause of a conten­ted minde. But if I cannot profit in't; then t'is no more being my Phisitian, but infuse a little poyson in a potion when thou giu'st me Phisick; vnawares to me. So I shall steale into my graue without the vnderstanding or the feare of death. And that's the end I aime at. For the thought of death is a most fearefull torment; is't not?

Your Lordship interrupts the course of law.

Prepare to die.

Freely. My Mediation for her life; and all my in­t'rest in the world to boote, let her but in exchange possesse me of the resolution that she dies withall.—The price of things is best knowne in their want. Had I her courage; So I va­lue it, the Indies should not buy't out o'my hands.

Giue me a glasse of water.

I must drinke vvine to vvarme mee, and dissolue the ob­struction, or an apoplexie will possesse mee.—Why [Page] thou vncharitable Knaue; Do'st bring mee bloud to drinke? The very glasse lookes pale and trembles at it.

T'is your hand my Lord.

Canst blame mee to be fearefull; bearing still the presence of a murderer about me?

Is this water?

Water Sir.

Braue Charlemont! at the reflexion of thy courage my cold fearefull bloud takes fire, and I begin to emulate thy death.—Is that thy executioner? My Lords; you wrong the honour of so high a bloud, to let him suffer by so base a hand.

He suffers by the forme of law my Lord.

I will reforme it. Downe you shagge-hair'd Curre. The instrument that strikes my Nephew's bloud, shall be as no­ble as his bloud. I'le be thy executioner my selfe.

Restraine his fury. Good my Lord forbeare.

What murderer was hee that lifted vp my hand a­gainst my head?

None but your selfe my Lord.

I thought he was a murderer that did it.

God forbid.

Forbid? You lie Iudge. He commanded it. To tell thee that mans wisedome is a foole. I came to thee for Iudge­ment; and thou think'st thy selfe a wise man. I outreach'd thy wit; and made thy Iustice Murders instrument, in Castabella's death and Charlemonts. To crowne my Murder of Mon [...]fer­rers with a safe possession of his wealthie state.—

I claime the iust aduantage of his words.

Descend the Scaffold and attend the rest.

There was the strength of naturall vnderstanding. But Nature is a foole. There is a power aboue her that hath ouerthrowne the pride of all my proiects and posteritie; (for whose suruiuing bloud, I had erected a proud monument) and strucke 'em dead before me. For whose deathes, I call'd to thee for Iudgement. Thou didst want discretion for the sen­tence. But yond' power that strucke me, knew the Iudgement I deseru'd; and gaue it.—O! the lust of Death commits a Rape vpon me as I would ha'done on Castabella.—